The Bighead

by Edward Lee

  God, I beg of thee, he thought, I’m so scared! Protect me!

  Perhaps God did, then, because the fear, which made the priest feel as though he were drowning in a hot tarn, subsided.

  But the vision…

  Christ…

  The aftervision didn’t subside just quite yet.

  The two nuns stood looking down, chuckling munchkin-like. In a patina of dim morning light, they grinned. Their eyes were dull as death, their mouths like thin slashes in gray meat. Then they lifted their black clerical skirts—

  God in Heaven…

  —and began to urinate.

  Right there on the rectory carpet, in hot, steady steams, their fingers forked against their pubic mounds, baring tender, tiny urethras…

  Their high, witchy chuckles faded, as so did their images, as the priest came fully awake.

  Fuck, the priest thought. Fuckin’-A…

  But there was something else, only for a split-second.

  An image lingering in the space of a blink.

  A black maw stretched wide as a garbage-can lid, full of teeth sharp as ice-picks…

  (II)

  “Well, it’s nice to meet you,” Charity said once she’d loaded her bags into the tiny trunk and got in.

  “Nice to meet you too,” the blond woman said. For some reason, Charity couldn’t remember her name. Jennifer? Jessica?

  “And I like your car,” Charity added, for lack of anything else. It was a bright-red Miata, a two-seat convertible. It was nice. Expensive too, probably. One day I’ll own a car like this, Charity swore to herself. Once I get my degree…

  “It was great that you put that ad in,” the blond woman said. “It was perfect. I mean, how many people need to take trips to the sticks?” Then she paused, her face tensed. “I’m sorry. You’re from around there, right? I didn’t mean to say that your home is the sticks. It’s just a figure of speech.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Charity said. The little car bolted off onto the beltway, and at once her long, curly dark hair lifted in the breeze. “It is the sticks. Simple people, simple ways. Actually, it has it’s advantages.”

  “Tell me about it!” The blond woman erupted, then honked at a black Fiero that cut her off on the exit. “I’ll bet they don’t have people who drive like that!”

  Charity smiled. High-strung, she determined very quickly. And… Jerrica! That’s her name! Jerrica Perry. “So… I don’t quite remember. You’re a writer?”

  “I’m a journalist for the Washington Post,” Jerrica corrected behind the padded steering wheel. “Local Section. Been there four years.”

  “Wow. A newspaper writer.”

  “It’s no big deal. But every now and then one of the senior editors’ll assign you a good, high-paying piece. That’s what happened to me. They gave me a three-part article on Rural Appalachia. Good money, too.”

  Charity wondered how much. Good money to Jerrica was probably outstanding money to Charity.

  “So what’s this about your aunt?” Jerrica asked, heading up the beltway toward the Richmond exit.

  “Well, she kind of raised me, up until I was eight. Then…” Why should she be embarrassed about the truth? “Her boarding house ran out of money, and I got put in an orphanage.”

  “Jesus, that’s tough.”

  “It wasn’t too bad,” Charity lied. Actually it had been quite tough. She felt like a misfit to the world. But why go over all that with a woman she’d just met today? She’d turned out all right.

  “I got out at eighteen, got two jobs, got my G.E.D. Now I’m working at the University, and I’m taking night classes, because they pay half of the tuition. I want to be an accountant.”

  “Sounds good. Good money.” Everything, for whatever reason, with Jerrica, was money.

  “Anyway,” Charity went on, “my aunt invited me up, and since I don’t have a car yet, I put the ad in the papers.”

  Jerrica lit a cigarette, it’s plume of smoke sailing away. “And your aunt, you say she runs a boarding house?”

  “That’s right. It went under for a while, but then she got it back on track.”

  “You think she’ll give us a good rate?”

  “Oh, I think so. I don’t think she’ll charge us at all.”

  “That sounds real good. The paper’s paying for me, but the more I save, the more I can spend on other things.”

  Charity couldn’t imagine what Jerrica expected to spend on “other things,” not in Luntville, not in Russell County. But something distracted her just then, a golden glint.

  A ring.

  Charity couldn’t help but notice the diamond ring on Jerrica’s finger as she steered up the long exit to I-95.

  “That’s beautiful,” she said. “You’re engaged?”

  Jerrica seemed to suck her cigarette hard at the question. “Sort of,” she answered. “I mean, I don’t really know now.”

  Charity felt captured, but she knew it was really envy. It wasn’t just Nate and all the other men—it was more conglomerated than that. She wanted someone to love her, and—

  Nobody even calls me back after a first date…

  It’s a beautiful ring,” she said. “I hope he’s a nice man.”

  “He is,” Jerrica said, though it seemed like she’d said it too quickly. “But… I guess the engagement is off.”

  “What went wrong?” Charity dared to ask.

  Jerrica didn’t flinch at the personal question. If there was one thing Charity could tell about Jerrica, it was that she liked personal questions. “Don’t really know. Me, probably. Maybe I’m just not ready for that scene. I want to be, but… It’s hard to explain. And you’re right, Micah is a good guy. He works for a big genetic company, makes good money. And—well, there’s nothing bad I can say about him. It’s all me, I guess.”

  Charity wilted a bit. All me. How much of her own failures in love had been—All me? How could she ever really know?

  Jerrica prattled on, “I’m hoping this trip will give me time to get my head together. You know, working in D.C., for the Post, it can weigh you down. Maybe that’s my problem: I’m too caught up in work that I can’t see the rest of my life.”

  Charity fully understood, but there was something…

  What was it?

  She’d sensed it many times in the past, with many different people. Sometimes she thought she could merely feel what was on other people’s minds. So that’s why she said what she said next.

  “But you love him, don’t you?”

  Jerrica flicked her half-smoked cigarette out the side. The beltway blurred past. “Am I that easy to read?”

  “Well, yes, I think so.”

  Another pause, another cigarette. “You’re right. I do love him. I just don’t know if I even know what love is. And a lot of times I don’t think I’m worthy of being loved.”

  “What a horrible thing to say!” Charity objected. But, actually, how many times had she felt that way herself? Sure, she’d sensed Jerrica’s feelings, but that was all. She didn’t know the entire story, and it wasn’t right for her to make judgments. Instead, she elected to say, “Well, once this trip is over, maybe things will work out.”

  Jerrica’s face seemed to harden behind the wheel. She hadn’t once really looked at Charity, not full in the face, and maybe there was a reason for that. Charity felt more emotion wafting off the blond’s head. Guilt. Shame. Disgrace. And more guilt.

  Let it go, she thought.

  “We’ll see,” Jerrica somewhat agreed. “But, for now, I’m not even going to worry about it. I’m headin’ down the highway, to write my story and see the country.”

  “That’s good.”

  “But-what about you? I didn’t even ask. Are you married, engaged, have a boyfriend?”

  “No to all three,” Charity glumly replied. “I don’t understand it, but—” It was there that she chose to cut it off. The last thing Jerrica needed to hear was here own romantic quandaries. What could she say? I go out with lots
of men, I even sleep with them—but they never call me back? “I guess I just haven’t met the right guy yet,” she slipped in instead.

  “Shit.” Jerrica, for the first time now, looked over at Charity, and cast a big, bright smile. “Maybe there isn’t any such thing as the right man. But do you think I give a shit?”

  They both laughed, then, as their hair flurried over the car’s open top.

  If anything, it looked like a beautiful day.

  (III)

  “What a fucked up day,” Balls said.

  “Looks all right ta me,” Dicky Caudill replied at the wheel. They was Dicky’s wheels, and nice ones at that: a a jet-black, 10-coat-lacquered ’69 El Camino, with a tricked cam and a souped 427. Rock-crusher trans, a Hurst shifter, Edelbrock manifold, oh, yeah, an’ open Thorley headers an’ chambered exhaust too. Took Dicky years to get it fixed back up nice, an’ lookin’ at it now, you think it’d just been droved off the showroom floor. Had a long bench seat with shiny ’polstery, not buckets, which were fine ’cos—well, sometimes they had passengers. And the Camino was fast, see, did a quarter mile in mid-elevens, and those 450-plus-horses pumpin’ outa that big block gave ’er a top end’a one-seventy easy. They’d out-runned plenty’a police cars in their time, and once even a State Police Pursuit Car out on the Route. Blowed his fuckin’ doors right off!

  “Yeah, well. Hail. Ever-day’s a fucked-up day ya ask me.”

  “Whuh—why’s that Balls?”

  “I likes the nights.” Balls took a sip’a shine, then, an’ gazed out the passenger winder, as if reflectin’ peaceful things. It was late afternoon now, an’ they was just on their ways back from run up’n the north ridge just over the line past Big Stone Gap. “Ya knows, Dicky,” he stated, “the way I’se see it, we ain’t got it too bad. Yessir, we gots ourselfs a pretty dandy life.”

  Dicky down-shifted the Hurst ’round the next bend’a Tick Neck Road, headin’ up fer Eads Hills. “I say, you’re right ’bout that Balls, quite right,” surprised that his best ruckin’ pal’d make a observation’a gratitude. “Coulds be a lot worse, ya know, an’ we’se got a lot ta be grateful fer, what with so many folks starvin’ in the world an’ dyin’ of genercide, an’ all them poor folks livin’ in ghettos an all.”

  “Aw, fuck them, Dicky,” Balls winced. “Hail. That ain’t’s what I’m talkin’ about. I’se could give a booger ’bout a bunch’a buck porch monkeys in welfare ghettos, er folks starvin’ an’ dyin’ in wars an’ all that. Let ’em starve, let ’em die, I say. They ain’t no good fer the proper world noways. What I’se talkin’ ’bout is our lives, and the ways things are fer us.”

  Dicky didn’t quite foller now. Well, maybe he sorta did, ’cos Lord knew Tritt Balls Conner had some pretty fierce ideas ’bout things. “Oh, yeah, I’se guess you mean that we’se gots a lot ta be grateful fer, ’bout this fine life God has given us.”

  “Aw, no, Dicky,” Balls winced again. “That ain’t what I’se talkin’ ’bout neither. What God ever do fer us anyways?”

  “Well—” Dicky paused to thumb a booger. “He’s gave us this fine life, didn’t He?”

  “Aw, He ain’t given us nothin’ worth more’n’ two squirts’a piss out a dead dog’s dick, Dicky! Shee-it, you don’t know nothin’. You don’t hear a word I’se say.”

  Dicky’s brow ticked a bit, in confusion, as he took a slight swig off his own jar. “Then—then…what’cha mean, Balls?”

  “What I’se mean, Dicky-Boy, is we’se got ourselfs a fine an’ dandy life—not on account’a God but on account’a us. Hail. Ever-thing we’se got, we’se made on our owns.”

  “Uh…oh. Yeah,” Dicky agreed and clammed up. He didn’t wanna get Balls goin’ on one’a his rants, ’cos he’d heard ’em too many times. So’s Dicky just sat back an’ drove and kept quiet. Tritt “Balls” Conner and Dicky Caudill were local boys, both growed up just outside’a Luntville, nears Whiskey Bottom’n Cotswold. They’d met back in seventh grade at Clintwood Middle School, the grade they both dropped out’a. Mid-twennies they both was now, Dicky bein’ kinda short an’ fat with a buzzcut, and Tritt Balls bein’ a right tall an’ big-framed, long-hairt, with a hard, mean face an’ chopburns an’ always wearin’ a John Deere hat evens though he ain’t worked on his daddy’s farm in years. Dicky knowed Balls wore the hat on account he had a bald spot that he were real senser-tive about, so’s Dicky never mentioned it. And the reason they needed fast wheels, see, was ’cos it gave ’em a fast getaway when they was out on a run. Neithers of ’em hadda real job, didn’t need one. What they did ’nstead was run hooch for Clyde Nale, who had hisself a bunch’a stills up’n the woods just outside’a Kimberlin. It was a right big set-up ol’ Clyde Nale had, an’ he needed runners with balls, so’s that’s why Balls an’ Dicky got the highest payin’ runs on account they had about the fastest set’a wheels in the county and they knowed all the back roads so’s the state cops and those BATF chumps hardly ever got a line on ’em, an’ Balls Conner, well he had the balls not ta take no shit off them hillbillies over the line, which were why he was called Balls in the first place. What they did, see, was four or five times a week, they drove over a two-hunnert-gallon load’a moonshine ’cross the Kentucky line ta distribiters in Harlan. Clyde Nale, he played it smart; Russell County was “wet” so’s that’s why he brewed his hooch here—less cops—and then paid Dicky an’ Balls ta run over the line ta Harlan, where they sold it to the “dry” counties over that ways. And since this was a long an’ risky run, Nale paid ’em a thousand per month, which Balls an’ Dicky split. They was hard workin’ young men, was what they was in other words.

  But like the sayin’ went: all work an’ no play make Balls an’ Dicky a fairly dull pair’a boys. So’s ’tween runs they had thereselfs all kinda play, doin’ what they referred ta as “tear-assin’.” Rapin’ gals, runnin’ folks off the road, hidin’ out behind the roadside bars an’ jackin’ fellas in the noggins so’s ta take their scratch. An’ well—

  Killin’ folks too, on occasion.

  Dead crackers tell no tales, were what Balls said that first time. It was just after a run to Harlan, an’ on theirs way back they spotted the purdiest li’l gal you ever did seed, a blondie wearin’ tight shorts’n almost nothin’ up top, hitchin’ along Furnace Branch Road round about midnight. A hill gal she was, and whens they pulled over ta offer her a ride, why she just up an’ smiled the whitest, purdiest smile an’ says “Shore, boys, Thank ya much.” So’s she slid right in next ta Balls on the bench seat, an’ Dicky pulls off the shoulder figgurin’ they was gonna give her a ride home, when he hears SMACK! SMACK! SMACK! and he looks over aghasted ta see that Balls had ’mediately cracked her upside the head with his homemade jack. “What’cha goan do that fer!” Dicky wailed. “Pulls up the next dirt road ya see,” was all Balls had answered, an’ when Dicky did…well ain’t too purdy recitin’ what happened then, so’s let’s just say that Tritt “Balls” Conner had hisself one hell of a romp. He laid dick twice on that gal, he did, ’fore she even come to, right there off the side’a the road. Yessir, she were a fine lookin’ thing but probably weren’t but fourteen ’er so, an’ once she come to right in the middle’a Balls’ second nut, she started screamin’ like ta wake all the dead outa Beall Cemetery, but all Balls did was laugh out loud like the devil hisself, continuin’ ta hump her poor young pussy right inta the ground. Dicky hisself stood aside ta watch, an’, well, seein’ this cute li’l gal with her clothes ripped off her, an’ her li’l cupcakelike tittes bobbin’ an’ all that—it put a stiffer on Dicky a might quick, so’s he’s couldn’t help but pull that bad boy out and have hisself a good wank in the weeds. But just ’cos he had a wank didn’t mean that he ’proved’a what Balls’d done. Come on! Snatchin’ a local gal right off the road? Beatin’ her in the head and humpin’ her poon ’gainst her will? That were rape was what that were, an’ if this here gal could ’dentify ’em, why, Dicky and Balls’d be pullin’ ’bout fifteen years apiece in the county detent, get
tin’ cornholed by big an’ mostly black fellas ever-night, an’ havin’ ta suck peter ’less they wanted ta wind up with their guts on the floor from a some con’s prison shiv. So’s after Dicky were finished shakin’ the last’a his snot out his dick, he objectered, “Hey, Balls! What’s’re we gonna do now?”

  “I don’t knows ’bout you, Dicky, but I’ll tells ya what I’m gonna do now. Hail. I’se gonna cornhole me this bitch.” And just like that he up’n flips this poor screamin’ gal over, takes a big hock ’tween her cheeks, an’ starts ta lay a butt-fuckin’ on her somethin’ fierce, alls the while blood leakin’ out her pussy like a busted pipe.

  “That ain’t whats I mean, Balls!” Dicky fairly cried out. “I mean what if she up’n tells the cops what we looks like?”

  “Shut up whiles I’se have me my nut,” Balls grunted aside, still humpin’ away. By now the gal’s screamin’ fit had wound down an’ she were passin’ out again after pukin’ once. Balls stepped up his humpin’, murmurin’, “Yeah, oh daddy yeah! This is some cracker butt, I’ll’se tell ya! I’se gonna squirt me a load’a the dicksnot right’n the middle’a her shit!” An’, so, that’s just what Tritt “Balls” Conner done just then, and when he were finished he pulled out an’ wiped his dirty bone off on her purdy blond hair an’ then hocked a lunger on her head.

  “Jesus Chrast, Balls!’ Dicky contin-yer’d ta object. “She’s gonna up an’ tell the poe-leece what we’se look like!”

  “How’s that, Dicky?” Balls inquired with that evil, cut grin’a his, an’ then he sat right smack down onta the middle’a her back, pulled back on her head until—

  crack!

  —her neck up’n broke.

  “She ain’t gonna tells no one nothin’, ’cos dead crackers tell no tales,” Balls said, sniffin’ the air. “Hail. Don’t’cha just hate the way yer dick stinks after a cornholin’?”

  Anyways, that were the first killin’ they done, an’ after that there was many more. A hitchhiker here, a broke down motorist there, gals, fellas, it didn’t make much matter ta Balls. Shee-it, coupla times they’d pulled over to some fella broke down and Balls’d pop him—BAM! Just like that!—in the head with that big rusty pistol his daddy’d left him. Then another time they’se was drivin’ down Davidsonville Road an’ they seed this old lady wheelin’ out ta the end’a her drive ta git her mail, an’ they’se just pulled over lickety-split an’ Balls plucked her outa that chair an’ throwed her in the back. Put a fierce conrholin’ on her too—didn’t bother with her poon on account it was old an’ shriveled an’ a might ugly—once Dicky pulled off on one’a the old loggin’ roads ’fore the Boone Federal Game Reserve. “How’s that fer a butt-dickin’ grandmammy?” Balls gusted laughter. “Bet’cha ain’t had it like that in fifty years!” Then Balls took a pause, starin’ down, an’ Dicky seed it too, this strange kinda bag hangin’ off the side’a the ol’ lady’s belly. “Wells don’t that beat all!” Balls exclaimed.