Bones of a Saint

by Grant Farley

  “You’ve been teaching me all about that for a whole long time already.”

  There’s hurt in her eyes and there’s something inside me that’s glad she hurts.

  “You should have told me Roxanne was my sister.”

  “Half sister.”

  She chews on the end of her thick hair. When she does that, she almost looks like a little girl. Except for the gray streaks. She don’t do colors in her hair since she gave up prospects. I won’t think about them.

  “Do you wish my dad was still alive?”

  The only sound is the click-click of her beads.

  “Every day.”

  “But if Dad was alive, then Amy and Charley and the twins and Peanut, they wouldn’t be here.”

  “I’d like to think your father and I could still have had them.”

  “No. Heredity don’t work that way. Wishing Dad back is the same as wishing them dead.”

  Click. Click.

  “If we had been enough for him,” I say, “then he wouldn’t have done what he did.”

  “You can’t think like that.”

  “Sure I can. I just did.”

  I lie against the beads as she runs her hand through my hair, the nightmare fading in her flowery smell.

  “I got to get ready for work, Kiddo. Got the swing tonight.” She grabs my face in her hands, lifting me away from her, and stares down at me. “I can’t make it without you. I’m counting on you.”

  Then she walks out on me.

  I put on my shoes and step out the screen door. The coop shimmers in the heat. The flying door is open. I’ve been letting the birds come and go when they want. A small lump lies in the dirt in front of the coop. The baby bird’s head is hanging by stringy red things to the body. Ants are crawling inside. The neck is the only thing chewed. No coyotes done this ’cause the only tracks in that dry dirt are the little prints of a cat. Peabody done this. It’s not the loss of income that gets me. I could maybe see it if that cat ate the bird. It’s the thought of Peabody killing just for the fun of it that frosts my ass. I wrap the bird in a rag. Then I take the Old Tumbler out of the coop and put him in the portable. Amazing Grace won’t leave her box, so I just let her be.

  “Where you taking him?” Charley watches me from the porch shade.

  “To a funeral. Want to come?”

  “I don’t like funerals.”

  I turn and study his face. “What do you know about funerals?”

  He shrugs. “It’s gonna rain, anyway.”

  “Rain? Man, it’s ninety degrees out here. Hasn’t rained all summer. What do you know?” I pick up the portable in one hand and the dead bird in the other and squeeze through the back fence and wander out onto the fields.

  Charley don’t follow.

  I bury the baby deep so no creatures will dig it up. It feels lame saying words over a dead bird, so I don’t. A warm drizzle hits my face, big slow drops that just plop on the dust, leaving this funky dirt smell. I pull out Old Tumbler and fling him into the sky. He’s got the real eulogy.

  He flies clear out of sight and I don’t blame him if he keeps going, but he don’t. He swoops out of that gray drizzle, flips into the tumble, and it looks so much like he died that even knowing how it goes I hold my breath until he arcs out and flaps up toward the sky to do it all over again.

  I carry the portable back home, letting Old Tumbler come back on his own if he feels like it. The wet is gone, leaving the air hotter and stickier than before. My rebuilt bike leans against the coop next to the Stingray. I run the polishing rag over the sweet curves of those high goosenecks. That warm chrome and waxy smell can almost make a guy forget.

  Amazing Grace coos. I look in and see she’s sitting in the nesting box with her feathers all fluffed and I know she’s got another egg. If I could keep Peabody away, maybe I could still make some bucks. But as soon as I think it, I see that cycle all over again—the hatching, the uglies, the growing, the flapping, the jumping.

  The killing.

  There’s only one thing I can do. Get rid of Peabody. Take him out in a field somewhere and leave him where he can’t come home.

  Charley watches as I kneel down and pull Peabody into my lap. I scratch the cat behind the ears and feel him purr. Then I stuff him in the portable. There’s something just right about that cat going out the same way the birds came in. I balance the portable between the high gooseneck handlebars. It’s kind of sad that the bike’s first ride is something messed up like this. I wanted to keep it pure.

  Charley must have figured out by now what I’m doing, but he just watches. I push off real easy, letting it coast down the trailer park drive, listening to the hum, gliding under the cante bury sign, turning onto the street, and for the first time pressing my feet against the pedals.

  Peabody howls ’cause he knows right away the score. There’s no noise like a cat howling from fear. I’m thinking of this old movie Zombie Cats from Outer Space and I’m seeing Peabody creeping his way back to our trailer, sneaking onto the porch in the middle of the night, creeping up to my couch, and chewing my neck.

  I reach the top of the Banzai Run and stop the bike by dragging my feet. The one thing that bike don’t got is good brakes. I check out the view clear across the fields and even to the brown hills way across the valley. My Buying Time plan is dead broke. I got only two choices left. Either steal something for real from the old man, or tell the Blackjacks where they can shove it. Only there’s no way I can do either one. What choices did they give Cesar Aguilar?

  My eyes do the Banzai Run, seven blocks straight downhill. There are three stop signs and two streetlights. It’s not so bad now, on a lazy afternoon. But at seven in the a-and-m, the official time, when the commuters are hurrying and the farm machinery is rumbling, Banzai-ing down that hill, running the stop signs, and praying for green lights . . . well, the Banzai is suicide.

  Suicide.

  I push off down the Run, just taking my sweet time. Peabody has stopped howling, and the quiet is even creepier than the howl.

  I’m doing slow, easy turns back and forth.

  I guess I been trying to avoid it for a long time, but as I do the turns, it comes to me and there’s no taking it back. I got to make a deal with the Blackjacks. One all-or-nothing scheme. One awesome, final Banzai Run to wipe out all of Buying Time. There’s no other way.

  This bike is big and clunky compared to the Stingray. But for a straight downhill run, the momentum of the big will work better than the nimble of the small. Getting down as fast as possible is my best chance. Even the Stingray won’t get me past a truck lumbering through one of the cross streets. Sure, it would be easier to lay it down on the asphalt, if it comes to that. But if it does come to that, it means the Run is lost. And if the Run is lost, then nothing else matters.

  The quiet is still coming at me from that portable as I reach the bottom and cruise onto Mr. Anderson’s tomato field. I lift the portable off the handlebars. Peabody is an amateur next to some of the things stalking around here at night. If I let him go, it’s as good as killing him. I walk along one of the furrows. Even if I get rid of this cat, Amy will just get another fuzz-ball kitten. And that one will grow up into another killer before you know it. I drop the portable but don’t unlatch the door. And then the whole cycle will start all over again. Nothing a guy can do about something like that.

  I’m beat.

  I lift the portable, lug Peabody back to the bike, and head home.

  Charley is still standing by the coop as I glide to a stop and drop the portable on the dirt. I kneel and unlatch the door, but Peabody stays crouched inside, like he thinks this is another trick. Finally, he bolts out and skitters under the trailer. I stand and squint at Charley, daring him to say something. Of course, he don’t. Why am I so pissed off at Charley? None of this is his fault. He’s just the watcher.

  I s
tomp across the dirt, grab the Stingray, and put it in front of Charley.

  “Take it.” He don’t move. I grab his hands and force him to hold it. “Take it, damn it.”

  I step back and take deep breaths.

  “Yeah, Charley, it’s the perfect size for you.” My breathing slows back to normal. “And with that long seat, you can move your foot any way you need it. Get on.”

  He swings the big foot over the seat and settles in.

  “You been practicing when I’m not here, haven’t you?”

  He grins and stares ahead to wherever he dreams of riding.

  “The chain will slip off when you least expect it. I been meaning to fix it, but never got around to it. You’re gonna have to do that. Anyway, fixing it will make the bike feel more like it’s yours.”

  He’s still staring ahead and not listening to me. I turn away, and I hear the bike crunching the gravel and then bumping onto the asphalt road before I’m even on the porch. I’m going to miss riding that bike. But more than that, I’m going to miss the places it took me.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Fresh Blood

  I’m cruising up to Leguin’s on the reborn bike I call the Banzai Flyer. The blood-crusty pack is flapping against my back.

  I step inside. He sits just like that first time in his suit with the cane across his lap, the bottle of sherry on the table, his melting blue eyes waiting for me.

  “I brought you food.”

  “I have no stomach for food these days.” There’s a stronger smell to the old man now.

  “This is something special.”

  “Indeed.”

  I walk into the kitchen and put on a pot of water and light the old stove. It’s funny how sounds have this slick way of coming at you. Like the sound of the bottle of Gerber Junior Chicken and Noodles with Peas clicking against the bottom of the pan of boiling water. That flavor was surefire for the sibs when they were finicky toddlers. Then there’s the sound of the old man’s breathing in the other room, sort of a clucking down in his throat like some kind of pinball on a machine gone tilt. As long as the old man clucks steady like that, I know he’s still in his chair and I’m safe for what I finally got the nerve to do. If I’m to make one all-out final deal with the Blackjacks, to pull it off I got to deliver something very real, very primo. Which is why I’m now listening to the mellow thunk of the silverware I’m sliding into my backpack. This is the real thing, heavy pieces wrapped in little velvet bags.

  I fix a fancy tray for the old man, figuring that way maybe he won’t notice that it’s baby food, with a crystal vase with a wildflower I plucked from the yard and a cloth napkin and a for real silver spoon. The Ace won’t miss one spoon.

  I carry the tray slowly so that the silverware won’t rattle in the backpack slung over my shoulder, and set the tray across the arms of the chair, making it into a wannabe high chair. He just sits there staring at the Gerber Junior Chicken and Noodles with Peas, the steam making his cheeks all wet.

  “Here,” I say, “let me put this other napkin around your neck.”

  “As though it were a bib.”

  “Just let me tie—”

  “Young man, do not come near me with that.”

  “But just look at your suit there. You got dried-up food hanging there like snot.” I can’t look at his eyes. “Sorry, but it’s true.”

  “Yes. Indeed.”

  I tie it around his neck. But he makes no move at the food.

  “Here, let me help.” I start to pick up the spoon.

  “Unhand that utensil.”

  “Okay, I was just trying to help.”

  “Then pour me some sherry.”

  “Right.”

  “Now sit,” he says.

  I ease the backpack down beside my chair, but two knives clunk together. I glance to see if he heard, but he’s slurping the Gerber Chicken and Noodles with Peas.

  “Something is disturbing you,” he says between slurps.

  Does he know about the silverware? Should I tell him about Roxanne? But why should I bother to share it with him? What does he care? He’ll have to settle for the news about the tumbler.

  “My sister’s cat killed the baby bird. Didn’t even eat it. Just killed for the hell of it.”

  “Ah. An old story.”

  “Not to me.”

  He stops slurping and stares at me. “Indeed.”

  It’s weird how Mr. Leguin has fallen apart this last month. Like he’s been holding on, waiting for something, and now his waiting is over and he’s just let go.

  “Take away the tray. I am finished.”

  I take the tray and put it on a side table.

  “Now tell me why you have stolen my silver and hidden it in that bloody backpack.”

  I fall back in the chair as an icy wave runs through me. Not fear. What could he do, anyway? He couldn’t stop me. He don’t even have a phone to call the sheriff. And what could he prove? I don’t even think it’s guilt I’m feeling. Then what?

  I open the backpack so he can see the loot. But I don’t take the silverware out.

  He is silent.

  I could tell him all about the Blackjacks and give reasons and excuses, but it wouldn’t mean a thing.

  “Take it,” he says. “I bequeath it to you. Just get out.”

  “When you first came here,” I say, “I imagined you might be a vampire looking for fresh blood. Maybe I wasn’t so far off.”

  “Maybe you were not.”

  I stand and shoulder the pack, but don’t make a move for the door. This is the end, but it’s not how it should be.

  “Get out.”

  “Not yet.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve tricked me into coming and telling you stories that I haven’t told no one.” I sit, dropping the backpack close beside me. “So now I’m going to make you listen to one last story, whether you want to hear it or not. And I don’t want no interruptions. Then it’s over. It’s about stealing.”

  The Tale of Shellfish Boogers and the Baby Jesus

  It was Christmas. I was eleven. I was standing in the Great Western Emporium down in San Luis when my mom was shopping. Standing in a store that back then was called the Orient Express. Standing in a corner of the Orient Express called Pearls from the Sea. Staring at this string of pearls just lying on a velvet tray on top of the counter. The saleslady had gone to answer the phone. I shouldn’t have even been in that store. I couldn’t afford one pearl from that thing. But there had been these great pictures at the entrance that showed these Japanese ladies diving for pearls. When I saw this one picture of a diver’s leg caught in this giant clamshell, I had to go in and check it out. I stood there staring and thinking about the two main presents I bought at Christmas. The first was for Baby Jesus, but He wouldn’t have no use for pearls. The second was for my mom, and they for sure would look awesome on her.

  A sign showed how the pearls were made by the oyster to protect it from grains of sand. I got to thinking that these fancy pearls weren’t no more than shellfish boogers. Well, I’d just about convinced myself that I didn’t want my mom wearing shellfish boogers around her neck when that necklace was sitting right in my pocket. I mean, my hand just reached out and snatched it without my okay. I took the necklace home and hid it under my mattress on the back porch.

  Wouldn’t you know it, that same week the teacher brought this huge bucket of little shells to class. We strung fishing line through the shells to make necklaces, and we painted our names to make them personal. When I got back to our trailer after school, I went straight to my mattress and took out the pearl necklace. I hid under the covers and just stared at the two necklaces. One I’d give to my mom and one I’d give to Baby Jesus. But which was which?

  I know all about how my mom would like the one that I made because of the sentimental
value, like they say. But a guy’s experience also tells him that in a couple years that shell necklace will be at the bottom of some drawer along with a clay handprint and a funky ashtray. But a pearl necklace, that wouldn’t end up at the bottom of no drawer. She’d wear that every time she went out on a fancy date with a prospect and she’d remember I gave it to her ’cause no prospect ever gave her nothing that awesome, except maybe a baby. But then, if I gave her the pearl necklace, she’d want to know where I got it.

  And then there was Baby Jesus to think about, too. Baby Jesus wouldn’t appreciate nothing that’d been stolen, that’s for sure. Then it came to me, a vision like a saint might get. If Jesus knew everything, why not leave it up to Him to do the right thing? Well, I found two little boxes exactly the same and put one necklace in each box and I wrapped them with the same paper and ribbon and all that so that even I couldn’t tell. And if I didn’t know which I was giving to my mom and which I was giving to Baby Jesus, then the blame was out of my hands. Jesus would do the choosing.

  So that night I sat at the children’s Christmas Eve Mass, one hand in each jacket pocket, fingering the small boxes wrapped in shiny gold paper with the mysteries inside. That grammar school chapel, with its white stucco and fake stained glass and squeaky portable pews, is about as different from the mission as . . . well, as all other girls are different from Manny’s sister Theresa. There’s a feel inside me when I’m near Theresa that’s stronger than around other girls. San Miguel is different from other chapels in sort of the same way. I guess that’s some kind of sin, comparing chapels to girls. But if you smelled the mission’s cool adobe walls and you felt that all-seeing eye of God with its 3-D rays of light shining over you and you knelt at those smooth oak pews, then you’d know how empty I felt sitting with the sibs at Christmas Eve in those squeaky pews under the fluorescent lights clutching the presents.

  The big show at the children’s Mass was a lame procession to the manger scene in front of the altar. A high school guy dressed in a dorky bathrobe led the way as Joseph. The wannabe Madonna followed with the Baby Jesus hidden in her robe. When they reached the altar, she took out the wooden Baby Jesus and put it in the manger. Then three more guys from the high school, dressed in bathrobes and crowns, walked up the aisle. They were the three wise guys, as Charley called them. As they passed each row, the kids pushed and shoved their way out of the pews, holding little presents in their hands, and followed the three wise guys.