Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

by Clayton Lindemuth

  “What? Known what?”

  “Well, he calls his son Deet, doesn’t he?”

  “That’s right.”

  “It isn’t my place to tell you this. But I swear someone better. While he was off fighting the Hun, Adolfina gave his son a Nazi name.”

  “Oh.”

  “It wasn’t a year or two after he came home with his eye missing that she ran off. Of course, rumor was she’d had a paramour, and when she disappeared, Angus didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Where’d she go?”

  “Some say she went to her brother’s place in Arkansas.”

  “What did Angus do?”

  “I don’t know if he hit her. Not her. But the other two—”

  “I meant what did Angus do after she left?”

  Hannah raised her right hand. “Well that’s exactly what I was saying. He married two more women and beat them both. The one I saw myself. On Main Street, broad daylight, and he gave it no more mind than spitting on the grass. Big old Angus, stooped over, dragging Lucy Mae by the wrist like a dog on a leash. She traipsed away to cross the road, and he tugged hard, like that, and jerked her straight. He let go and she turned again, and he lashed out. She staggered back and kept walking from him. He was cussin’ mad, and looked around to see who was watching. I was alone or I’d have give him the what-for.”

  “I don’t believe it.”

  “Oh, I would have. Anyway, Lucy Mae disappeared shortly after. That’s why I needed to come see you myself.” Hannah patted Emeline’s forearm.

  Emeline shook her head. She spoke slowly. “You know Hannah, I accepted my husband’s proposal after consulting on bended knee with the Lord, and He’s never been more clear.”

  The older woman snorted. “Oh, you pathetic darling!”

  Emeline blinked.

  “You married a man and you got to stand by your decision. But that doesn’t mean you can’t make a second decision after the first. Things change. We mustn’t be afraid to make a new… precedent. You see how Charles waits on me like I’m a queen?”

  Emeline nodded.

  “Last time he struck me I waited until he passed out. I woke him up with his thirty-eight pistol in one hand in scissors in the other, and I told him if he ever hit me again I’d catch him sleeping, slice off his family jewels and nail them to his forehead. He still drinks himself stupid, but he hasn’t raised a hand toward me since. Now Emeline, is Angus hitting you?”

  “It was so nice of you to stop by, and thank you for the supper plates.”

  Hannah frowned, gulped. “You got some deciding to do. And I’m going to run along before the storm hits.”

  After returning Emeline to her chair on the porch, Deet had hauled the kennel frames outside and positioned them along the barn wall facing the orchard at the lower level entrance. The barn would protect the pens from harsh weather and they would be visible from the house. Deet tapped nails. The pen rooftop was narrower than the thirty-six inch tarpaper, and one sheet covered. Looking at the sky, it was a good thing. White clouds raced and in the last five minutes gusts had started blowing sawdust into his eyes.

  Emeline waved from the porch and he went to her.

  “Can you take me into the house?”

  He cradled her. Inside, she pointed to the sofa and he draped her there. As he extracted his arms from beneath her, she kissed his cheek. “You’ve been so dear.”

  He kissed her mouth. She withdrew, pushed his arms. He slipped his left arm underneath her and stroked her neck.

  “Deet, this is wrong!”

  “I know.” He kissed her again and she didn’t respond. “Don’t pretend it was just me.”

  “We’re wrong, so many ways.”

  Emeline wanted this to happen. Deet felt it in her fingernails and in her mouth. Yet her plaintive look checked his desire. He pulled away. Exhaled. “I’m going to the barn.”

  A tear fell to her cheek and hung there, and she crossed her arm to her breast.

  He squeezed his eyes closed. “Why did you come here?”

  “I married your father, Deet.”

  He turned, marched to the kennels. Her hair smelled like fruit or honey and lingered in his mind more than her lips or the small of her back. Her scent followed, somehow, and her hair still tickled his nose.

  “She won’t survive without you,” he said. “Jackass.”

  Twenty Four

  After a gulp of walnut whiskey I rest the uncapped gallon against the swell by the stick shift. I take a hard curve on Route 322 out of Brookville and headlights flash in the oncoming lane. I swerve and the whiskey tips. My fingers swat empty. The jug rolls into the foot well; I rattle to the curb, grab it by the neck. A half-inch of liquid swishes at the bottom. The rest drips through my rusted floorboard.

  The sun is gone from the sky before I pass Hazen, but it don’t matter ‘cause the sky is black with storm coming on. The wayward jug leans against my hip like a faithful dog, with my steadying hand across its shoulder, pinky through the loop. Through the day, despite the worst obstacles we’ve faced in months—two busted bits and a headache sent from hell just to fuck with me—I’ve found a steady nursing of walnut whiskey buoys optimism, almost like the clarity I get when I sit in the tree and meditate on things.

  And now I’m all but out.

  The Ford’s yellow headlamps creep along. I tip the jug high, coax the last swallow, then the last drops, and return it to my side.

  I thump the steering wheel. The air is rich from spilt walnut whiskey and my mind twinkles with insights. That bitch I got from the widow will be in heat within a month or two. I’ll keep the first batch of dogs—every one. I got a theory about why men bet on dogs, and I don’t need a winner to make dough. Fact is, a loser’s better. Victory is nothing without loss and in blood sport the loss is permanent. Men come to see the loser. The walnut showed me how to profit from it.

  That shop in my barn—I don’t have the time to work it, but Deet sure as hell does, and better, he has a Kraut’s way with tools. The cabinet door he fixed showed craftsmanship that’ll fetch a premium. I’ll get the word out, drop a hint at the barber shop. Or take Emeline to church and let her cluck some business from her society friends. Get some use out of religion.

  Something Deet said a week ago comes back. Excess corn isn’t worth jack shit at market, but a single good run of whiskey would pay for a still with profit left over. Didn’t the widow say Mitch used walnuts from my tree? Maybe to keep tongues from wagging I’ll buy tubing, barrels, yeast, and sugar in Franklin and Oil City, or at stores spread out along the way.

  Two hours after leaving the derrick I swerve onto my drive. Headlights catch a shadow by the barn; I push the clutch and lean to the windshield as the Ford drifts to a stop. Deet’s installed kennels on either side of the barn’s first floor entrance—where I’d imagined them. Motor running and headlamps on, I hop out. First pen I come to, Rebel beats the chicken wire with his tail. He stops when he sees me.

  The screen door at the house flaps closed and Deet joins me.

  I steady myself against the kennel. “Got the roof on ‘fore the rain. This ain’t a bad piece of work, entirely.”

  “Not a bad piece of work at all,” Deet says.

  I heave against the corner. The kennel don’t budge. “Where’s that bitch I brought last night?”

  “Thought you let her go. She was gone first thing.”

  “Why didn’t you fetch her?”

  “Didn’t know what kind of arrangement you made to get her.”

  I open Copenhagen, loose a preemptive spit, fill my lip. “I’ll visit the widow after supper.”

  At the F-100, I reach through the window and kill the engine. The scent of spilled whiskey wafts. I swipe the empty jug and upend it; not a drop falls. I probe inside the neck with my tongue.

  Deet walks away, that damn buck knife at his side.

  I open the passenger door and scoop whiskey-mud from the floor, hold it to my nose and inhale. Go to the house. Deet sits
on the porch and follows me inside.

  “Cows and hogs fed? Chickens?”

  “That’s right. Jacob’s doing real good.”

  “Not ‘til I straightened his shit out.” I stand in the entrance, look at Emeline stretched across the sofa, and back at Deet. I study Emeline. “You must feel better. Got down them steps aright.”

  “Deet carried me. He’s the only way I can get anywhere. Doc didn’t have any crutches.”

  “That so?”

  Deet nods.

  “You carried her?”

  “She can’t walk.” Deet stands beside the sofa.

  “Unh.” My eye falls to Deet’s chest, his arms, back to his eyes. “You got a new project in the shop. Set of crutches. You ain’t carrying my wife nowheres.” I jab Deet’s shoulder. “Clear?”

  “Angus!” Emeline says.

  “I said clear?” I shove Deet. Emeline shrieks and folds her legs. Deet falls against her cast and she wails. Deet regains his feet and grits his teeth and faces me.

  “Go ahead and bite your lip! I see you! Gonna take on the old man! This is my house. My house!”

  Deet squeezes his hands into balls.

  I reach to him, peer into the boy’s steady eyes. I wrap my fingers around his throat and squeeze ‘til his face turns red. The artery in his neck bulges. His hands hang limber at his side and Deet stares like he’s daring me to do the job. I stare back daring him to fetch his knife.

  “You build a fuckin crutch,” I finally say, and push him away. He falls to his ass and sits.

  I stand on the porch, my mind hot, then go to the truck. A minute later I cut onto Widow McClellan’s drive. The dog ain’t at her doorstep, and I wouldn’t be surprised if the old woman denies the bitch came home. That story won’t float tonight. I bang the door. It cracks open. I force my hand around the edge.

  “You liking the whiskey?” McClellan says.

  “Ain’t bad.”

  “Suspect you’re after the dog, then,” McClellan says. She opens the door and I fall inside with it. The pit bull growls at the entrance to the dining room.

  “Bitch snuck off. That how you raise a dog?”

  “What’d you do? Stick her in the barn?”

  “You got a piece of twine?”

  “Didn’t bring any tonight?” She says. “Maybe in the basement, if you fetch it. I don’t use the steps no more.”

  “Where’ll I find it?”

  “You got an edge, tonight. There’s a ground-level window. Bear left ‘til you see what you come for.”

  I step past the bitch pit bull, find the light switch by the cellar door and rattle down the stairs. Gulp the dank air and search the wall. See a bench below an open window. To the left, a stack of shelves supports a row of black, dusty jugs. I count twelve, and can feel the spit run in my mouth. I glance to the stairs, then up to the kitchen. The pit bull’s shadow looms on the wall.

  Standing on the bench, I hook my thumb through a jug loop and hold it to the light bulb. Black as tar. Gorgeous.

  And I happen to be out of walnut whiskey.

  Footsteps sound on the floor above. “Take another jug of that whiskey, if you like! I got a couple to spare.”

  “Mighty kind.” I poke the side of my fist to the screen tacked to the window frame, then push three jugs through. Nine more on the rack, and she’ll be dead without ever missing them. Slowly, avoiding the careless clank of glass, I push three more through.

  Fair pay for having to come back for an unmitigated cur. I cut a five-foot section of twine from the coil on the adjacent shelf and climb the stairs.

  “Dark as hell down there,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t know,” she says. “Why didn’t you take a jug of whiskey?”

  I tie the twine to the bitch’s collar. “Didn’t care for the bite. I’ll be off.”

  McClellan closes the door and leaves the porch light on, bathing the front yard in an amber glow. Six jugs of whiskey wait in darkness beside the house. I open the Ford and the smell of whiskey greets me. “Soon,” I say.

  The dog jumps in; I thump her ass and she scoots. On the stretch to my driveway I look over my shoulder. The light is still on.

  A minute later I lock the bitch in the kennel next to Rebel. “You two get real friendly.”

  Jacob rocked to the right. Bed springs twanged. Something was going on outside—he could feel it. He rolled over the mattress edge and forty seconds later jumped from the add-on roof to the ground. Crouching in moonlight, he scanned the forest, the lake, the field. He breathed in short gulps. Nerves taut, he crept to the corner and peered at the barn. Pap stood in front of the new kennels. It looked like there was another dog.

  Jacob crawled closer.

  Angus loped the ramp to the barn entrance and gawked across the cornfield to a faint yellow glow in the woods beyond. He grumbled something the wind didn’t carry.

  Jacob flattened against the earth as his father entered the truck and drove without lights. The truck pulled to the side of the road before reaching the forest by the Widow McClellan’s.

  Jacob slipped between corn stalks and watched.

  Through the window I watch the widow seek her maker’s council. Hands clasped on the book on her lap, eyes closed, she moves withered lips in prayer.

  Other side of the house, I tuck a gallon jug under my right elbow and carry one in each hand. At the Ford I prop two jugs against each other at the foot well and grip the third’s cap. Can’t wait for the taste. Cap’s rusted. I unbuckle my belt, whip the leather from my pant loops, coil it around the cap. With the jug braced between my knees I twist; the leather tightens until the cap breaks loose. I wipe rust from the threads and drink.

  Good like I don’t deserve.

  I drink again; my mind swims in the fluid. I replace the cap, leave the jug on the seat and creep along the forest wall. Approach a few steps toward the window. The seat is empty.

  McClellan prays no longer.

  Jacob stole across pine needles to the edge of the widow’s lawn and remained in the shadows. Something shiny reflected the porch light from the far side of the lawn. It was Angus, stalking the widow in the open. Jacob’s heart raced. The widow sat on the porch, her head low and her eyes lidded, and then she looked toward Angus. Jacob slipped to all fours and crawled forward. Angus walked as if he didn’t see her. Jacob’s voice climbed in his throat but he stifled a warning cry.

  Angus stopped. He’d seen her.

  My arm-hair tingles. The old bat rocks in a chair on the porch. With the light so bright beside her she can’t have made my shape against the forest, but her head swivels to me and an ugly smile crosses it.

  I advance a step. Dried leaves conspire against me, pin me. I consider the way I’ve come then look ahead along the trees. Onto the grass, to the dim edge of light. The old woman jumps.

  “Who’s there?”

  Closer.

  She stands from her rocking chair. “I got a gun inside!”

  Closer.

  She flings open the door, reaches across the threshold. I veer, leap around the corner. She spins with a shotgun at her hips and points at the empty lawn. I watch from around the corner, low.

  “I ain’t afear’d to use it!” she calls.

  I grab a fist-sized rock beside my foot and chuck it to the lawn. McClellan fires. In the yellow orange flash I make the Jacob’s face, over by the trees she’s fired into.

  The shotgun smoke tastes sharp.

  I leap. She twists, eyes bulging, and I drive my fist to her face. The old woman crumples. Moans and cries and it’s all the same sound. I carry her inside, up the stairs. She mumbles, coughs blood.

  “Where’s your room?”

  She ceases coughing and regards me with flat eyes.

  I push a door open. Elbow a light switch. Larry’s old room, unchanged in all these years since he died in Europe. I’d forgotten his room, somehow. I carry her farther down the hall, push open the last door, drop her on the bed. I wrench the pillow from beneath her head.<
br />
  “Dear God,” she says.

  “You’re mistaken.”

  I press the pillow to her face. Lightning flashes and booms so loud I jump and give her another gulp of air. She wriggles. Of all the things I’ve killed she’s most like a kitten. Minutes pass. I breathe and she don’t. I’ve never been so aware of my surroundings as right now. An ache accumulates at the back of my mind, an unfulfilled desire. Six jugs rest on a shelf in the basement, and the thought of all that walnut whiskey so close maddens me. I withdraw the pillow, press my palm to her sternum, nuzzle two fingers under her jaw.

  The widow is dead.

  At the front door I reload the single-shot Remington with another sixteen-gauge shell from a box by the door, wipe the stock and nestle the barrel at the corner by the wall. In the basement, I grab the remaining jugs of whiskey. Two minutes later I’m in the truck.

  The rain comes steady, not hard, but enough to get wet. Lightning flashes and I got that feeling creeping on me like it’s time to find the rope and pay my old lady a visit. I feel good.

  Better’n I got a right too. Yessir.

  Twenty Five

  Jacob sat with his hand wrapped around his arm, still watching McClellan’s house. Raindrops clung to his thin eyebrows. A long time had passed since Angus carried away the black jugs.

  His father had punched an old woman.

  Jacob wiped his fingers on the wet grass. His back was soaked in cold rain, but hunched, his belly was dry. A single bb had struck his arm and the rest of the radius of lead had blasted into the woods a foot to his side. He crawled onto the lawn and approached the house from the shadows behind. Each window was a still photo. He circled the house, climbed onto the porch. Hair stood on his neck and arms. He entered and smelled decay, musty baubles and trinkets, dusty photos and old breath; the faint odor of accumulated years’ papers and gifts and memories.

  With a start he turned back to the door. No one was there. His pulse pounded at his temples. He breathed carefully. Stepped slowly. The stagnant air was like a physical barrier resisting every step.