Chapter 25.
Inside his garage, Hank Murphy warmed his hands, rubbing them near the propane flame under a turkey fryer, on which sat a five-gallon brew pot of boiling water. "The rain makes me feel cold, Roy" Hank said, "even though it ain't cold. We got fifty degrees to drop yet, Roy. Ain't even cold and I'm shivery." A dead deer hung from the rafters of the garage, its torso spread with a stick, exposing every rib. Hank's hands were still red under the fingernails, with crimson in the skin of his knuckle folds from gutting the doe in the woods.
Roy said, "Feels cold."
"Summer skin," Hank said, pulling on a sweatshirt. "Glad you got that deer, Roy, because I wasn't going out again with my bow after today. Start getting real cold soon."
"I didn't shoot it," Roy said, handling a bag of ingredients, waiting for Hank's command to pour the mix into the water.
"Yeah, but I couldn't have shot it without you, Roy. Got those wort buckets washed out, Roy?"
"Yes," Roy said, pointing to the drying rack in the front of the garage.
"Good, good. Best way to grow mold in the beer is to have dirty buckets. Dirty buckets you get beer cheese. That last batch I made, nearly went blind in one eye."
"I washed the carboys, too."
"I appreciate that," said Hank, snapping a tin of Copenhagen snuff in his hand. "Don't need those today, Roy, but don't hurt to clean 'em, not one bit."
On the radio, the Minnesota Golden Gophers football team trailed the Indiana Hoosiers, on their way to another loss. While the announcer called the play, a car pulled into the driveway, a restored Monte Carlo, with shining rims and a flame painted on the side. Hank said, "Roy, ask Tommy to lend a hand when he comes in, see what he says about that."
Judy was driving. In the back seat, Judd Blanks did not move, did not get out of the car. When Tommy opened the car door, Hank yelled, "You should slide over in the middle, Tommy, when you're riding with your girl, let her put her arm around you. That way everyone would know you're in love. Slide over and put your head on her shoulder."
"I'll do that next time."
Roy said, "Tommy, can you lend us a hand?"
"I'm laughing," said Tommy, holding up his bandaged hand, walking into the garage, "laughing on the inside."
"Wait, don't tell me," Hank said. "I know how it all went down. Don't tell me. You were jumped by five skinheads, two brothers, three Chinamen, and Crazy Horse, all coming at you at once with knives and guns, throwing stars, pikes and pitchforks. Am I right? For no reason at all, three of them grabbed your arms – another started punching you. But you fought them all off, broke free with some flip move and headlock, spun a pool cue at them like a Ninja Turtle, and all this just to protect Judy. Took eight cops to take you down, and four cops are still in hospital beds, in the critical ward." Hank added, "I wasn't there, but I know the story, you don't have to tell me, Tommy." Hank put the snuff into his lip.
Roy shook the ingredient bag, trying to get Hank's attention.
"Not yet, Roy. Kid can't wait to make beer. Wife said I should teach him something, so this is arts and crafts day. Bonding, that's what she wanted. She said, 'don't just take him hunting or fishing again, why don't you take him out to the pumpkin patch and make a Jack-O-lantern?' But we slung garbage and went hunting. Then she finds us making beer out here and says 'I thought that turkey fryer was for making turkeys,' and I said, 'Have you ever seen me cook a turkey?' But sure enough," said Hank, slapping a Butterball that sat on the floor next to the propane tank, "we're going to make a turkey today, too, after we get the beer yeasted, aren't we Roy? Kill a deer and make beer and cook a dog-gone turkey all in the same day. Marriage got me domesticated. Didn't it, Roy? We're best friends already, we don't need a pumpkin to be pals, do we, Roy?"
Roy nodded.
"We'll try anything once. We'll boil a turkey in three gallons of oil, see if we can't burn the garage down. Roy don't give a hoot about pumpkins, or turkeys neither, all he wants to do is play guitar. That's all he wants to do. He's a natural. When you hear Roy play the scales, you'll think of your first love. Bends the strings and I want to give away my possessions. His G-chord, you'll feel forever young and cry about every Sally you lost along the way."
Roy said, "I know it ain't any good, but I'm working on it."
"You're great," Hank said. "You're the best, Roy. Did I tell you, Tommy? Roy's coming to work for us this year, Tommy, did I tell you?"
"Work?" Judy said. "How old are you, Roy?"
"Ten."
Hank spat. "More than old enough to sweep the floor of the plow shed and change oil and fix tires. Roy, did you tell Tommy about how you almost lost your eyebrows, Roy?"
"No."
"You should tell him," said Hank. "Tell him how we were changing that truck tire and how it nearly shot to the moon when we sealed the bead. Whoosh! We sprayed the sidewall with hair spray and threw the match, hit the air, and bang! A hundred pounds of rim and tire, airborne. Rim, tire, air hose, my stomach, everything. High as the mirrors on the truck. Bam! Flame went even higher. Roy got a bit singed, since he threw the match. Used a touch too much hair spray, didn't we Roy? The tire came back down to earth and sure as a cat lands on its feet it rolled straight at us. I'd be lying if I didn't tell you we ran like two girls flipped a rock and saw a sowbug. That tire and rim rolled right into the bench and knocked over the oxygen tank on the torch setup. Thank God that didn't explode, too. Boy, did we laugh, both laying tits up on the shop floor. Roy, you should tell Tommy about that day."
"How can he tell me the story," Tommy asked, "when you just told the whole thing?"
"There's more to it than that," said Hank. "He'd have his own version of it, you know, everybody has a version."
"Roy," Tommy said, "I think you should know – it's normal to hate your stepfather. Very normal. Hank is missing one of those, what's it called – chroma – chromatic – one of those science terms."
"Chromosomes?" said Judy.
"Thank you, sweetheart," said Tommy. "Can't say he's missing it because he never had it. The minute his drunk parents rolled off each other in conceiving him, that chromersome slipped away, somewhere in the sheets."
"Same joke, every time," said Hank. "To voluntarily be dumb, and not even know the words, it's exhausting to watch. Judy, if Tommy has seemed funny or cute or original – he's not. He's humorless. He will die ugly. He's like MASH episodes. All repeats. There aren't any new episodes coming out. Yes, he'll show you the old episodes until you're eighty years old, but you already laughed at the jokes once. After a while, you start to notice the sadness of the show more and more. The best part is over, I promise. From here on – should you get married, I mean – you'll be sitting in rocking chairs and through his false teeth he'll flap his gums about chromersomes while you change his diaper."
"So sensitive," said Tommy. "Must have hit close to home. Roy, part of your stepfather's affliction, is that he upsets easily, gets all balled up, constipated when he eats peanuts. He gets edgy, goes limp, gets chills without a sweater, his hair falls out – oops, already gone, isn't it? Sorry to bring that up, since it migrated from your head to your face and upper back. He puts his pants on backwards, if he can even find them since your mom took them away. He paints his toenails and wears pink underwear. He…"
Roy said, "Gophers scored."
"They did?" said Tommy.
"What's the score now?" asked Hank, turning up the radio. "We ahead?"
"No," said Roy. "Still down."
"Next year," said Hank, "mark my words, next year the Gophers won't suck as bad."
"We'll suck," said Tommy, "but not as hard. We got that linebacker, and that wide receiver."
"Yep."
"Yep."
Tommy and Hank stared at each other for a moment.
"Please don't agree with me," Hank said, turning off the propane tank so the flame extinguished in a puff.
"Ok, Roy, it's your time to shine. I can see you itching to make that beer. Pour that syrup into the water and start stirring." To Judy, Hank said, "All the kid thinks about is work, getting stuff done, like I do. Not like Tommy, who breaks his neck looking for a chair to set his ass down in."
Roy cut the top of the plastic bag with a scissors and dumped it into the brewpot, where the rolling boil had settled to a calm. The hanging deer swayed gently overhead, hooves turning slightly, its cavity open for inspection, a trickle of blood on the hide from where the arrow had done through.
With a long spoon, Roy started making circles in the water as the others watched in silence. Silence, for a moment.
"I should have played college football. I remember when I played football," said Hank. "I averaged twenty tackles a game."
"You only played in seventh grade," said Tommy.
"I didn't say I was playing for the Dallas Cowboys, just that I played."
Roy said, "I want to be like Jacob Marak."
"That's a ballplayer there," said Hank. "That's how I used to play, Roy. Like a champion. Keep stirring, Roy."
"You never played at all, Hank. You sat on the bench."
"Coach didn't like me," said Hank. "Otherwise, who knows what jersey I'd be wearing today. If I hadn't been ineligible for grades most of the time. And the dope incident in my locker – that really pushed me back a year in skill development. But if those things hadn't happened, if I could have got straight, I would have made it to the NFL. Should have seen me that one day…boy…three touchdowns. It was practice, but still…I was close to greatness."
"Close is only good in horseshoes and hand grenades," said Tommy.
"Tommy – please. Another cliché and I'll stick my head in that water," said Hank, nodding at the five gallon pot. He noticed Judd Blanks in the car, staring out the windshield.
"Tommy, let's talk, before I string myself up alongside that deer to ease the pain. Let's get this over with."
Judy said, "I'll stay out here with Roy."
The two owners of Immaculate Snowplow exited the back of the garage into a yard strewn with junk. An old Mustang with no rims kneeled on its tie-rods, windows busted out from a wayward party some seven years ago. It looked something like Hank, as his face started to show the years of hard living. They stepped over a puddle, skipped over a broken lawnmower and some dirt-crusted toys of Roy's younger days that never made it to a garage sale. Tommy offered a cigarette to Hank but he declined, already getting his nicotine fix orally. Hank shook his head and closed his eyes.
"I don't like it, Tommy."
Tommy lit the cigarette and put the lighter back in his pocket. "I don't either," he said, "but it's not like we didn't get a hand up when we started."
"Doc Parker co-signed for us. He didn't give us the down payment. Judd wants both."
Tommy said, "Parker stuck his neck out, didn't he?" He flicked the cigarette, a nervous habit, constantly ashing even without anything to ash. "On a couple of nobodies."
"The only problem I have," said Hank, "is Judd. I don't want to disrespect your family, but Judd, I don't know, what if he runs? How many times has he left town with a girl, left his jobs. Came back broke, tail between his legs. He's a surly prick, no offense."
"He came back after he ran. At least that tells you he's not going anywhere," said Tommy. "I know he's a mess, same as I was."
"It's different from you, Tommy."
"How?"
"Because as dumb as you and I are, at least we always knew enough to finish whatever we were working on. That's about the only thing I ever took seriously and it's served me well. But your cousin…"
"Who are you kidding?" said Tommy. "You skipped out on work plenty of times. That road trip to see Ozzy? Those girls from Illinois? Even when we did show up on Mondays, we might have better served the boss staying home, hungover as we were. Holier than thou, all of the sudden. Judd's no different from us. We all make mistakes, Hank. That's why pencils have erasers."
"My aunt Clovis says that. If you have to use a ridiculous saying that an old woman uses, at least add some four-letter words."
"Judd tells me that Josh Werther is willing to make the loan. But Judd ain't got no scratch to put down, not even five percent. All he needs is five percent."
''Werther's going to loan him the money?" Hank wiped the corner of his mouth.
"That's what Judd says. He said it's not a done deal, but it's close."
"Close to done? I don't believe it. For which farm."
"Boskie."
Hank shook his head. "No way. Are they quartering the land?"
"No, he's buying all of it."
"Talk him out of it. That's going to be a million dollars," Hank said, doing math in his head. "What's he going to do for machinery? John Deere don't do soup kitchen charity. Can't work three hundred acres with a three-bottom plow."
"Sure he can," Tommy said, "with a little help."
"Help from who, friends? Friends still charge by the hour," said Hank. "Or the acre."
Tommy said, "He can make it work. He's been farming his whole life."
"When somebody who I don't really trust, or even like, needs fifty thousand dollars, money that we saved from scraping by for ten years while we paid off those first six plows and dump trucks, I think I'm entitled to wonder if Judd Blanks can meet ends on a nine percent, million dollar loan."
"Half million. You think tightass Werther would allow it if he didn't think Judd could handle it?"
"That's right. I don't think Werther said yes. I think something's up. I can see the movement in your oversized ears, which usually means you ain't telling me everything."
"Well," Tommy hemmed and hawed, focusing on his cigarette. "There is something else."
"Yeah, thought so. Something else, like your cousin robbed a bank, or something else, like he's running kilos of drugs from Texas to St. Paul for cash. Just something like that, I can tell."
"Ain't nothing like that," said Tommy. "Werther's boffing Shannon Hoffman."
Hank put his hands on his hips. "That dog."
"Yeah, I know. I wish I'd have known she was a wildcat. I might have been inclined to pursue."
"What?" said Hank. "I'm not talking about trying to sleep with her. Jack Hoffman's my friend. I been drunk many times with Jack Hoffman. Can't go sleep with another man's wife."
"Hank, you've done it before."
"Not in this town. In the old days, not any more. And not since I myself was married. Yeah, before I was married, but then I wasn't doing nothing wrong cause I wasn't the married one."
"You know, that's interesting, because I've often wondered how the coveting rules work in that commandment. Can you still covet if you're not married, or only not covet if you are married? What if you covet someone who is coveting you, then do the covets cancel each other out?"
"How you didn't get sent to a group home, I'll never know. What's Werther sleeping around got to do with your cousin?"
"Here," said Tommy, handing over the sleeve of pictures, which Hank opened and whistled at, as the most risque photo of Shannon lay on top of the stack. "I may have to keep this one. Shoot. Not good, not good at all. Naughty." He turned to the next picture. "Naughty! Oh, I see what you mean, Tommy. I can see the Immaculate Herald headline now: Pig Farmer's Wife Makes Banker Squeal. Now just wait a minute, Tommy. What are you saying, Judd is trying to blackmail Josh?"
"I wouldn't use that word to describe it. But yes, I think that's the basic idea, yes. He'll still need a down payment."
"The money we saved, Tommy, we saved to buy more trucks, tires, plow blades, dumpsters, beer. And there's that new Chevy pickup with EFI that I want."
"What's EFI?"
"Electronic fuel injection."
"Why do you want electronic fuel injection?"
"I don't know. The advertisement on TV. Gas shooting into the cylinder. Pistons doin
g this and that, green and red lights flashing. It was like a spaceship."
"We can get another loan," said Tommy, shaking his head. "We're not underwater now, we can make payments. There may not be another time like this for Judd."
"I want that truck," said Hank, moving the chew in his lip from one spot to another. He looked at the heavens and then the earth. "Oh, Jesus. If it works out, I'll think about it. I'll drive my beater another five years, what the hell, I'll never move up in this world anyway. But I don't know anything about these pictures, if coppers come asking."
"Here's to hoping God's on Judd's side," said Tommy, stubbing out the cigarette on the hood of the weathered car.
"Not sure He cares about loans. Not sure about that guy. Never know what to make of Him. But I'm pretty sure you can't go praying for loans to get paid. Don't seem like a thing for prayers. Especially when there's blackmail involved."
Blanks shrugged. "It'd be mighty generous of us to help a guy like Judd."
"I ain't generous except when I feel guilty."
"Guilty for what, Hank?"
"Always been guilty of something. All you have to do is mention a name and it'll get me thinking of something I done. But with a guy like Judd - I just can't trust him."
"I can't trust people with beards," said Tommy, glancing at Hank's chin. "Moustaches, yes. Beards, no. Too much hair. Bearded folk are liable to sleep with the Anne Killarneys of the world, right when a guy thinks he might want to get married. So if it's guilt you need, then let me assure you – you're going to hell, without question."
Hank nodded and touched his beard. "So are you."
"Nope, I started going to that new church. That Evangelical one. Not so much stuff to memorize there. It's a different feeling there."
"Father Packard would still say you're going to hell."
"Why do you think I switched? I used up all my coupons in the Catholic church."
"Plus, you're dating an ex-stripper."
"She's not a stripper no more. Why does everyone have to say that about strippers? You were other things at one time, no one calls you an ex-mechanic or an ex-juvenile-delinquent."
"Stripper's noteworthy. Kind of like when a guy's been to prison. Like you."
"County jail ain't prison, it's county jail."
"Whatever."
"I'm tired of hearing your voice."
"And us usual, you've worn out your welcome."
"Good, let's go have a beer."
They walked back into the garage and Tommy grabbed two beers from a refrigerator. Hank pulled on his lip and tossed the snuff aside. Tommy touched one of the hooves that dangled near his shoulder. "How much did the deer weigh?"
"Well, look here," said Hank, ignoring Tommy's question when he noticed the car door open and Judd Blanks approaching the garage. "Here he comes, Blanks the Younger."
Judd had sat in the car for as long as he could stand, but became agitated and decided to ask Hank directly if he could borrow money. In the car, he worked up his happy face, but maintaining it proved impossible when he heard Hank needling him. The forced joy abandoned his cheeks.
"Why, Judd Blanks, what brings you here?" asked Hank, smiling, implicitly asking Judd to ask the question.
Judd abandoned niceness and turned to Tommy. "So is he good for it?"
The question and tone turned Hank sour. Before Tommy could speak, Hank replied, "How about a 'hello' first, Judd? How about a bit of small talk, or an acknowledgment that I'm here before you ask Tommy 'if he's good for it.' And just so you know – I'm not good for it. I was good for it, but now I'm not good for it. I'm bad for it. Do you know why I'm bad for it? Because I just remembered who you are. And I know that you ain't going to change whether you got nothing or whether you get everything you wanted in this world."
The response made Judd sullen. "Yeah, figured you'd say that. And truth is, I'd rather not owe you and be forced to listen to your stories for the rest of my life because you did me a favor. From the car I could see your jaw flapping a mile a minute."
"That's good," said Hank. "We're on the same page then."
Tommy said, "Hey, Hank, he's…"
"You can have a beer if you want, Judd," said Hank, "but that's it."
Turning to leave, Judd said, "I don't need you. I'll get this done my own way."
Tommy chased Judd out the door, leaving Judy behind to mingle with Hank and the hunters.
"Electronic fuel injection," Hank said, opening his can of beer.
The Plenty Page 28