A Swollen Red Sun (7 page)

Farther up the road, he came to the first of several ramshackle dwellings. Some looked to be lived in and others abandoned, but he was hard pressed to guess which was which. What Pogues still alive were on the hill or in Algoa, and it didn’t much matter to Jerry Dean, or anyone else, who was where.

To his right sat a combination of what was once a single mobile home but over time became three. What yard he could see was a burial ground for appliances. Old stoves. Washers and dryers. There were bullet-riddled barrels in the yard next to a heap of scrap metal. Off in the woods sat a graveyard of historic cars and a bundle of white PVC pipes that varied in length.

He swerved around a mountain of roofing shingles that looked to be new and was probably stolen. On the other side of the road was a small shack that caught fire long ago but had since been remodeled using mismatched sheets of tin and plywood that warped in the weather. A rusted Oldsmobile with the roof caved in and the windows busted out was parked in front.

He found more ruts and knotted humps of rock as he pulled through the hills and the hollers. Air cool and dank. Jerry Dean finished the doobie and put it out with slobber and swallowed it in a gulp. Wished he had a beer to enjoy but the preacher loathed beer. Said it was the devil’s piss and was quick to induce slothfulness and lethargy.

But Jerry Dean did not see how a man who made crank would care. How a man who beat his wife and ate horsemeat would have a problem with alcohol in the slightest. But he did. The Reverend had a big problem with alcohol.

Once Jerry Dean told Butch the disciples in the Bible drank wine, but Jesus never did no crank—and he saw right quick what a terrible mistake that had been. A fool of a thing to say to a man who believed he had a direct, undeviating pipeline to the Almighty.

Butch reacted swiftly and pulled a straight razor from the front of his bibs. Held the blade against Jerry Dean’s trembling Adam’s apple.

“You swine,” the preacher said.
“I demand a blood atonement for this blasphemy.” Jerry Dean saw the face of the devil that night. Saw two dead sockets with black pools of snake’s blood and breath that smelled like meat.

Jerry Dean reached up and felt the scar that ran five inches in length across his collarbone where that crazy son of a bitch had cut him.

Butch Pogue had assured him he was there to do God’s work, and Jerry Dean begged for forgiveness. Not from God, but from the man with a blade against his jugular. When Butch let him go with a flesh wound across his shoulder, he told Jerry Dean he was lucky, and Jerry Dean knew it to be true.

At the top of the ridge, the decaying old house came into view and gooseflesh broke loose under Jerry Dean’s tattoos. It was a two-story farmhouse made of wood and rock, and the roof slanted hard to the left, like it would fall to the ground if a man tossed a rock on it. The back of the dwelling butted up to a slope that ran steady up the ancient tree line to a crooked utility pole as old as the house.

There was an antique coal chute under the living room window surrounded by ranks of wood, some split, but most green and drying in the sun, waiting to burn.

Nothing grew in the soil but weeds, and the flowers were black and wilting. The grass was dead, scorched by the heat. Everything on Goat Hill was dead.

Banks drank eight beers, about four more than he should have, and Hastings got tanked as well. They’d spent the evening talking guns and car chases. The night before, another deputy, Scotty Winkler, had found himself in a good one. He clocked two guys on sport bikes going over 140 and decided to chase them down.

They tore out Highway 28 westbound. One rider pulled over, but the other guy ran—and instead of being happy with what he had, the deputy got greedy. Wanted the one who’d run. Winky gave the best chase he could give, but his sedan was no match for the motorcycle.

Winkler drove the Impala so hard the light bar blew off the roof and dangled by wires. Both riders got away and everybody laughed when Winky limped back to the station with his sirens secured by duct tape.

Once Bo and Becky had left and the kids were in bed, Dale made smooth with Jude in the kitchen. “C’mon, hot mama,” he whispered. Slid his hand around and got a handful of bottom.

“Dale Everett Banks. What in God’s name are you doin’?”

Jude had a nice smile under a small nose and her large brown eyes had a sparkle he had not seen in many a night. “C’mon, baby.” He reached for her tail end one more time and found another handful.

Now she giggled. A sweet sound he didn’t hear enough. She turned to face him. Tried to keep a straight face, but couldn’t. “You dirty old man, you.” But she could not hide the grin that spread across her face.

He moved in for a kiss, a rare moment that did not come often enough for her. Their lips touched, and she felt his mustache stubble tickle her nose the way it always did. Banks worked his magic with his free hand, and his whispers sent warm feelings to places that had not felt heat in a long while.

“OK, take me upstairs, you stud,” she said, and she turned and climbed up to the loft and waited. Banks pulled out his wad of chew and threw it in the sink. He rinsed his mouth and checked the locks on the doors. Turned off the lights and climbed the stairs and crawled in bed beside her.

Black night swallowed the day until the light was gone and a bedspread of darkness covered Goat Hill. Reverend Butch Pogue rocked back and forth with a slow rhythm that would either set you to sleep or keep you awake, and loose curtains swung in the musty air. Branches moved on the cottonwood outside the window, stained with film from a lifetime of heavy smoke and light cleaning.

Fall winds swooshed through the window behind him, and a broken wind chime crashed against the house. His chair rocked forward, and cobalt eyes radiated a malicious glow in the silhouette of darkness.

The rocking slowed as his dirty wife brought him a plate with two biscuits and a pile of burnt potatoes covered in onions.

The rocking stopped and the Reverend made a grumble in his throat. Hacked up a wad of slick yellow and turned his head and spat through the open window. Some phlegm chunks made it out, but most lay deposited on the ledge, where the sun from the east would find it come morning and bake it and sear it until it looked like crusted, scorched bird shit.

“What in the name of Almighty God is this?”

She pushed the round edge of the plate into his palm. “Take it.”

“But there ain’t no gravy, woman. I want gravy ’n’ biscuits, not taters ’n’ biscuits.”

“You best take it,” she said. “If you ain’t gonna eat it, give it ta the boy.”

Butch looked at the sturdy woman with shoulders too broad to hug and shook his head. Told her he’d eat it, but next time she best have gravy for those biscuits.

She let out what amounted to a snort, then stomped across the living room with heavy feet. Picked up where she’d left off in the kitchen. Before the old man started screaming for his fill.

Mama set the pig’s head on the cutting board and peeled cold meat from the bone. She used her grandmother’s knife and made soft easy sounds as shed peelings dropped into the blood-tarnished sink.

The head had thawed all morning but was still hard, the inside filled with ice.

Mama wrestled with it as best she could and cursed her husband for cutting through the muscle like he had and wasting good meat.

“That was Junior,” Butch yelled. “Wasn’t me that done it, woman. Now, you know better’n that. Y’know how I love pig brain.”

The big woman dropped the knife into the sink and looked up through the window. “Now, whatta we got here?”

Butch Pogue watched a black-and-white movie on television without sound. They got one of three channels on a good day but never a clean picture without snow. He shoved a forkful of potatoes into his face and lines of thin ketchup ran in dribbles from his mouth and hurried over his stubbly gray chin.

Reverend Pogue was deeply involved in the program when Mama came back in the room. Told him to get his ass up, they had company.

He set his plate down fast on an end table filled with magazines and it slid onto the floor. He stood. “Comp’ny?”

His wife of many years went to shove him when she saw the mess he’d made, but Butch sidestepped her and drove an uppercut into one of her big sagging tits. She screamed and hit the floor. The Reverend told her pick up those biscuits. He didn’t want them, but she was free to give what was left to the boy. He asked her if the boy had got that woodpile split. If there was company, there was work to be done.

Mama rolled onto her back. Her cheeks ripened as fresh blood pumped beneath the surface of her bulky jowls. She blew out a deep breath that brought tears to her eyes.

“You ought’n know better than try some shit like that on me, woman. We done been down this road before, and if my mind serves correct, you don’t like where this road goes.”

Mama pulled herself up and put her back to a tall stack of old newspapers. She held her tit with both hands and drew quick tight breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth. With every breath, her cheeks would puff and jiggle.

The preacher grabbed his rifle and walked to the front door like a man with purpose as headlights bounced up the rutted drive. Butch saw it was Jerry Dean bringing home the goods. Yelled out, “The prodigal son hath returned to his flock. Mercy me, we have been delivered. We have been blessed with this glorious bounty.” He rambled on. “Thank you, Lord Jesus. Amen.”

Jerry Dean shut the truck off and stepped out.

Butch Pogue approached with the rifle. Said, “We have been delivered, Brother.”

He gave Jerry Dean a hug.

Jerry Dean stood solid like a big stump. Wide in the hips and thick in the waist and shoulders. He had a tank that hung over his belt, which gravity seemed to have gotten the better of.

The preacher was of similar build. Stocky with a great chest and an ample gut that rubbed hard against Jerry Dean’s while Butch squeezed him and kissed his cheek.

“We have been delivered,” the Reverend repeated.

Jerry Dean said, “Praise the Lord,” uncomfortably, and Butch Pogue nodded.

The boy came around the corner with an ax.

Voices called his name in hushed whispers and warm breath washed over his face and neck. Sounds called to him in distant echoes. He saw his boys when they were young. Small faces and big eyes and fair hair untouched by a comb. They ran through tall yellow fields and waded through shallow creeks. He saw his wife, working in a flowerbed that had long ago sprouted weeds.

Olen Brandt saw his family in still pictures. Snapshots his mind forgot. The light was strong behind Arlene, it was evening, and in that moment her crown of golden curls became a halo.

“Look, Mom.” There was Gil, so young. Such a beautiful boy. “Mama, look, watch
.
” Gil shouted to her again, his kite taking to tall wind. Not just floating,
flying
, really flying. The wind pulled him hard across the yard.

She looked up, the halo illuminating her in a soft blonde glow.

“I wanna try, Gillie.” Olen saw Gil’s brother, Wade. So small and happy.
Before
prison. Before he was unrecognizable to the eyes of his father. Here, now, he was small and innocent and free.

Gil worked his kite and fought the wind, powerful gusts that jerked the string north, then south. Gil yelled with joy and beamed with pride. He’d saved for weeks to buy that kite.

“Here comes Dad,” Wade yelled, and there was Olen. Pulling through the field on a Ford 8N, a tough old tractor that refused to die but had long since retired and become a yard ornament.

His family was right there. Waiting for him. All of them together now. Smiling and waving. He saw Sandy, too, sprinting after a rabbit and jumping a two-strand fence. Gliding smooth. Her coat sleek and fresh.

They called and waved. Said come home. Told him they loved him and missed him.

“Mr. Brandt, can you hear me, sir?”

His wife smiled and tears stained her cheeks and he wanted to kiss them. He reached for her, and her lips came together and said, “I love you.” But then …

“Mr. Brandt, can you hear me? Mr. Brandt, come on, buddy, talk to me.”

They were gone. Replaced by bright lights and strange voices.

“Olen, can you hear me? My name’s Rayna. I’m a paramedic, and you’re in my ambulance.”

His eyes blinked and flickered, but the dark felt safe. Pulled him back.

“No … I don’t …”

She rubbed a hard tool across his chest that smarted and his eyes popped open.

“There you are, Olen. Stay with me, buddy, OK?”

His head hurt like he’d been kicked by a mule.

“What happened to you? Do you remember?”

The light was bright, and he was cold.

“Where … are they?” he asked.

He was strapped to a bed, arms pinned to his side. Suddenly, everything shook and moved and the girl had to catch herself.

Rayna laughed. “Sorry, these damn roads are rough.”

Olen came to, but struggled to make sense of what was happening. Was he dreaming? He thought about his family. Where was Sandy?

His throat was dry and it cracked when he tried to speak. “Where … are they?”

“I’m sorry, where’s
who
, Mr. Brandt?”

“Where’s my family?”

Rayna gave him a smile that showed her slight dimples and slipped a mask over his face. Said, “This’ll help you breathe, Olen. Just relax. We’re on our way to the hospital.”

He felt clean air inside the mask, and it relaxed him. He let his eyes close. He wanted to let go of everything. Wanted to go back. Disappear into the darkness and wake up back in time. When the world was small and his family was waiting.

So young and strong and
alive.

Banks met Hastings for breakfast at a Hardee’s south of town, and the two exchanged greetings. “How’s your head, boss?” Hastings asked.

Banks returned his grin. “Never you mind about my head, boy. How’s that shoulder?”

“Shit. Good as new, Pops.”

They’d started pitching horseshoes about ten o’clock the night before for what seemed like a good reason at the time but now neither could remember.