Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her

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Nothing Save the Bones Inside Her Page 26

by Clayton Lindemuth


  She studied Angus’s sweaty neck and the contour of his head, the flat spot on top, where a blade would be unlikely to glance aside. She inhaled. Squeezed the handle. Blood rushed in her ears.

  She looked away. Her shoulder ached as if she wielded a cement block.

  “What do you want with this?” she said.

  Angus looked over his shoulder and she indicated the cleaver.

  “We got to skin him an’ feed him to the others. Can’t waste game like that.”

  She dropped the blade. It stuck in a plank. She limped to the house.

  Thirty Six

  I look across the toes of my boots, leather permanently damp with accumulated layers of mud and oil, to a steam-like morning mist floating close to the lake. Seems like a long time since I come here for insight.

  Touching the tree calms me the way walnut whiskey does, but with a difference of magnitude. A sip of the drink is like kneeling in prayer while a storm rages above. Touching the tree the difference between communication and communion.

  The walnut provides images that mark the future with signposts, like an ancestor stands at each fork pointing the direction. I pour an offertory splotch from the jug on the trunk. Can’t sit where I used to ‘cause the whole limb is snapped and hanging, and it’s a minute ‘fore I get accustomed to the smell of a dead animal nearby.

  I rest against the walnut, arm propped on a comfortable fold of roots, head pressed against a familiar spot of flat bark. First: I ain’t yet retrieved the envelope Jacob took from the McClellan house the day it burned. That photo could be a legal claim against the McClellan property—if I want to argue I’m a bastard. Events come and go faster like there’s a purpose at hand. Long time ago I thought I did what I wanted for my own reasons.

  I close my eyes and see disjointed sequences: three men in a baby-blue convertible, whooping and hollering, spinning out on the dirt beside a macadam road. Rain looming in a grey sky. Wood smoke. I grip the root the way an electrocuted man clutches the current. The image grows strong and clear, and etches itself in my memory.

  You got me, Jonah. I got to do what makes sense. I drink more whiskey so I can see it.

  Walk away awkward; the leaves are slick with the weekend’s rain; once oak and maple leaves mat together, water holds them like glue and they’re slick as derrick mud. Only having one arm makes balance something to be mindful of. The going is rough along the lake bank, but a hundred yards ahead I’ll find a landing.

  Wind comes from the southeast all summer, across the lake and into a wick of forest so narrow, a couple hundred yards at most, that no one’ll ever suspect a distillery hides within. Come late autumn the winds reverse. The peculiar thing, said the walnut, is that the wind curls at Devil’s Elbow. It crosses the lake, swishes against the hill like against the side of a toilet bowl, and blows right back to the water.

  I scan Oniasont, the trail I struck to get here. No footpath will lead here from the road or house. I’ll mend the rowboat in the barn and float burlap sacks of corn to the still, and jugs of walnut whiskey back.

  A short walk uphill through the wood and I arrive at McClellan’s. As a boy I ran through these woods with Larry and though the paths are gone, the contours are familiar. I tromp along looking ahead for a startled turkey or deer. Might be a good idea to shoot a doe down by the orchard where they graze every night. I might mention it to Jacob, now he can shoot.

  I arrive at McClellan’s from behind. The house has caved in and charred timbers jut from the basement. Mostly it looks like a barbeque pit, with bent black metal mixed with the ashes. I stand at the corner where, in the space twenty feet above my head, the old woman breathed her last under a pillow. I look at the rubble. The bed frame should have survived.

  A car door slams. I don’t lift my eye ‘til Sheriff Heilbrun calls, “That’s where we found her.”

  “A damn shame,” I say. “I fixed her cupboard door less’n two weeks ago.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Good old woman, that widow.”

  “Stopped by the house. Thought you might be here. How you holdin’ up?” Sheriff Heilbrun clasps my right shoulder. “Need help making arrangements?”

  “Nah. Sendin’ him back to the dust tomorrow.” I put a hitch in my voice. “It’s fuckin hard, Heilbrun.”

  “Boy had a future.”

  “Know who did it?”

  “Did what?” Heilbrun says.

  “Burned this house.”

  “What makes you say that?” Heilbrun stuffs his hands in his pockets. “That someone did it?”

  It’s almost like Jonah’s in my head giving me the words. “This house weathered a few thousand thunderstorms, no problem. Shit, look at that—it sat on a barn foundation. Them stones is eighteen inches wide. Widow said lightning struck the place all the time, ‘fore the turn of the century, before they put up the rods. And I was over at the house the whole time. I’da heard a strike and boom. I’da felt it.”

  “I came by to ask. What brought you to the house so fast?”

  “‘Bout all I’ve done the last week is sit on the porch and try to figger how I’m gonna pull the ends together. Smelled smoke, and when I come down off the porch and looked around the spruce into the wind, there was black smoke over the trees. You stand at my driveway and look, there’s only one place on that vector ‘til you get to Cal Buzzard’s place, six mile off.”

  “You didn’t hear anything suspicious?”

  “Suspicious?”

  “Car door, shouts. Gunfire?”

  “Nah. Well, I shouldn’t say that; there mighta been. Hell, the wind picked up, and you know when it whistles sometimes you don’t know if you’re hearing voices or what.”

  “Male voices?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. What are we talkin’ ‘bout, here?”

  “Gunfire?”

  “Shit, I don’t think so. Though, I had one tied on pretty good.”

  Heibrun turns away, kicks a dandelion. “There’s been a few murders. Two in Jefferson, one in Clearfield, Venango, Butler, Mercer; Christ, all over. Same thing. Old people dead and their houses burned to the ground.”

  “I knew it.”

  Heilbrun looks at me.

  “Son of a bitch, I knew it. I came up the driveway and a car went tear assin’ by. A baby blue convertible, with three boys inside.”

  “Jigs?”

  “Nah. White boys. The one in back was blond. Couldn’t see nothing but the shapes of the two in front.”

  “You saw all that from your driveway?”

  “That’s right. You sayin’ that about the others jarred my memory.”

  “Gunshots?”

  “Not that I heard.”

  “What kind of convertible?”

  “Dunno. Like I said, that car was movin’ like a raped ape, and I only saw em a split second.”

  “You said three of them?”

  “That’s right. Two in the front, one kind of leaning forward, and that’s how I could see the driver. And one in the back seat.”

  “Well, the other reports say there’s only two suspects. You musta seen someone else. You sure there was three?”

  “Damn sure. The one in the front leaned forward. You look peaked, sheriff.”

  Heilbrun studies me and I hold my face flat. He sighs. “I tried to rattle you off a bit. You just confirmed the only thing we know about them—there’s three, all right, in a blue convertible.”

  “That so?”

  “You can’t guess the make?”

  “Big fins, took a bath in chrome.”

  “Appreciate the help.”

  I nod. Heilbrun leaves. I cross the lawn to the trail where I’d stood with Jacob, still shaking my head at the profundity of this latest act of walnut providence. The tree showed me the boys responsible for the killings.

  I halt, spot footprints in the earth—smaller than mine, larger than Jacob’s—and with a wide heel print. I measure it with my boot.

  “Five-eighths.”

&nb
sp; The footprints lead to the envelope resting against a hemlock.

  Five-eighths the size of mine.

  “Where were you this morning?” Emeline said, cognizant of the steak knife beside her plate. She’d passed the semi-delirious hours from last night to this morning sometimes asleep, other times, startled by groaning walls or rustling wind. She’d locked the bedroom and wondered that Angus had never beaten down the door. Never knocked or jiggled the knob.

  “Hunh?”

  “I didn’t see you,” she said. “Didn’t know when to start breakfast.”

  “Was out by the dogs.”

  “Didn’t see you by the kennel.”

  “Maybe I went to the lower corner and took a piss. That all right with you?”

  “I checked the pens; I’d have seen you. No matter, though.” She moved a piece of ham to her plate. “That new dog’s a demon.”

  “Don’t ever get close to that dog.”

  “I won’t love on him, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  Angus chewed with his mouth open. She carried her plate to the sink.

  “Love won’t touch that dog,” Angus said.

  She soaped away a spot of egg yolk and grease.

  “Dog’s name is Maul,” Angus said, “and he killed the toughest dog in the state last night. You want to lose your hand, reach for his head.”

  “Well, I don’t know anything about your dogs, and I don’t want to. Jacob’s the one you’d ought to warn.” She placed the plate on the drying rack and touched the skillet to see if it had cooled.

  “Goin’ out with Chambers today,” Angus said.

  “We need flour. The rain—”

  “Guess I’ll get some. Wasn’t doing nothin’ else.”

  “Leave me your keys. I’ll go myself.”

  “Don’t take a tone. Don’t even start.”

  “What tone? You don’t want to take the time out of your day. I’d love to have the chance.”

  “You’re riding my last nerve.”

  Out the window, Brad Chambers’ Fairlane glided up the driveway. “He’s here.”

  Angus walked to the sink and stood beside her. “Put your foot beside mine.”

  She studied his eye and placed her right foot beside his.

  “Five-eighths,” he said.

  “You can’t size a woman for shoes like that.”

  Angus shook his head and walked to the door. He turned. “You ain’t done laundry since Deet kicked off.”

  “I will.”

  Angus left. Emeline stood at the window. Chambers watched the house. Angus met him and they ambled toward the truck. Chambers shaded his eyes with his hand and his mouth worked up and down, while Angus looked the other way.

  Chambers’ baby weighed in her belly like a sack of stones. It would make demands over the ensuing months, and her body would yield. She’d fatten, endure the agony of labor and birth; her breasts would stretch like a cow’s teats and her nipples would be gnawed and scarred.

  All for the benefit of a baby whose first act in life was theft.

  She grabbed a fork at the bottom of the sink, rubbed the tines with her thumb. Lord, you put Destroyer on my white stone. You killed Deet, the best thing about this place. I guess you’ll want everyone dead. Is that it?

  A butter knife? No baby could survive a butter knife. Didn’t some girls use coat hangers? In her numbness she contemplated impossibly foreign thoughts.

  A week ago the baby was both burden and obligation. A child arrived naked and hungry and its mother was responsible. She’d adjusted her preferences to accommodate the reality in her womb. She could see a path forward—the Lord had said to have faith—and that prevented her from the unthinkable. As long as the Lord was with her she would raise Chambers’ child so that it had no possibility of growing into its father.

  But with Deet gone and the Lord silent her struggle had changed. Evil men surrounded her. Jonah McClellan orchestrated them. A more vital and primitive value system asserted itself. She alone must see to her survival and her only resources were wits and brutality.

  Chambers entered the truck on the driver’s side and when Angus closed his door, they drove away. Emeline sat on the porch. A cool lake breeze brought bumps to her arms. Jacob stood with a fishing pole by the lake. Maybe, with luck, the imp would slip on a rock and drown. Maybe Brad Chambers would wreck the Ford and both he and Angus would die upside down choking on blood.

  Seven weeks since her father had died? Two weeks since she’d escaped Brad Chambers by running to Angus Hardgrave? Only two weeks? She felt a dozen years older.

  Was she mad?

  Deet said Angus killed Lucy Mae and the others, and she believed him? Deet sought sexual advantage, like all men. What had she actually seen Angus do? He was a strong-willed man and rented out her house—but his resolve complemented her capriciousness. He corrected her when he saw the need—but never left a mark. He possessed her body—but hadn’t she sworn it to him before God? And didn’t the Bible tell her to submit to him?

  She was a fool. Deet had sensed her insecurities and fed them. Starving for affection or a hint of understanding, she teased him along though she promised God she’d cleave only to Angus.

  But she’d pleaded with the Lord to show her anything to love in Angus. The Lord showed her nothing. Angus wallowed in everything she despised. The foul smell of drink, his temper, his black teeth.

  Oh, and he’d murdered three wives.

  She’d prayed the Lord would show her she was wrong, but through Deet He warned her about Angus. Emeline prayed for Him to teach her to love Angus, but instead He aimed her love at Deet. And then took him away. Why? Was he a distraction from her terrible purpose?

  She paused; illumination shivered through her. Was that the Lord’s plan? Why Deet had to die?

  The Lord didn’t reveal His entire mind, just that small part He wanted her to see. Her duty was to find the context that made sense of it. But all these things weren’t accidents. These ruminations on Chambers, Angus, and Jacob were the consonants of a divine command, steeling her for brutal works.

  But if the Lord told a person to kill another—or two or three—wouldn’t He use a solar eclipse with a booming voice at the moment of darkness, or a discarnate hand scribing Hebrew letters on the horsehair plaster? Why not just kill them Himself? The cathead could have ripped off Angus’s head as easily as his arm. The barn roof could have landed on Jacob instead of beside him.

  But the Lord had spoken. He named her Destroyer. It was a miracle. Her failure to act was disobedience.

  Her faith felt like desperation.

  Belief meant trust. She had to know He wouldn’t abandon her. If she waited the Lord would deliver her. He tested her faith, her patience, her fealty—as was His divine right. His place was to command and hers was to act. She’d recognize His will by the opportunity He gave her to fulfill it.

  Upstairs now, Emeline knelt by her bed. She clasped her hands and brought the bridge of her nose to her crossed thumbs. “Lord, if I am not in your will, tell me.”

  She opened the closet door and unwound the wire top of a coat hanger. In the bathroom she peered into the mirror, studied her eyes. Placed her hands on the edge of the sink and leaned closer until her breath fogged the glass. She ran water until it steamed, dropped the plug and filled the basin. Soaped, rinsed, and dried the wire. Gathered her dress at her waist. Dropped her panties to her knees, sat on the commode, lifted her unbroken leg through. Elbows folded, the she guided the squiggle-tipped wire inward. She exhaled. It jabbed. She studied the floor. Saw Chambers. Felt him biting her lip. She heard him grunt.

  Emeline worked the coat hanger sideways, slowly, blindly, then forward until the point jabbed. Again. With each spike of pain, she withdrew the wire a fraction of an inch, moved sideways, and pressed deeper.

  Sweat gathered at her brow.

  The stabs came in places she didn’t think had senses. She paused, unwilling to retract the hanger and lose the careful progress she
’d made, but unwilling to continue stabbing blindly.

  Lord what do you want?

  She slipped the wire out and threw it, swabbed the bleeding with toilet paper. She made a pad, lined her panties and eased them on. Punched her belly while the dress was high; a new red mark joined the others.

  In the hall she whipped open the medicine closet door and rummaged. Rubbing alcohol, aspirin, Tylenol, Mercurochrome, Bag Balm, Epsom salts, and Gold Bond. No paregoric. Emeline recalled the De Ratter, De Mouser in the basement—with the white poison pills. She cold insert one next to the baby.

  Lord?

  No.

  She slammed the door. Pounded and limped down the stairs, crossed the porch and stopped at Chambers’ Ford Fairlane.

  She’d driven her father’s truck along the fields when she was thirteen. The Fairlane wouldn’t be much different. She eased behind the wheel and before dragging her broken leg inside, checked the sun visor, where Chambers had left the keys, before. They fell to her lap and she lifted her leg with her arms and jostled into position.

  Emeline pulled to the curb at Doctor Fleming’s, wrestled the steering wheel and limped quickly to the door. Her eyes were wet but she didn’t remember weeping. She crossed the waiting room and opened the door. Doctor Fleming rose from his desk.

  He took her hands. “You shouldn’t walk without your crutch.”

  “You have to cut it out.”

  “Emeline? What?”

  “My baby.”

  His forehead rumpled. “You’re misinformed. I don’t perform that kind of surgery.” Fleming released her hands. Touched her shoulder gently. “Every doctor must seek his conscience for these decisions, Emeline. I’ve sought mine. I don’t play god.”

  “God made His decision and entrusted it to me.”

  Fleming rested on the desktop. “If he made the decision the baby would terminate without our intervention. Have you considered giving the child for adoption. Someone else—”

  “You don’t understand. It’s not that I don’t want a baby. I don’t want this baby to live.”

 

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