Charnel House (20 page)

“And you got a whipping?” Bobby said. He tried to imagine his father hitting him with a belt five times and couldn’t.
Thank goodness.
He couldn’t even imagine getting
one
lick. The worst punishment he’d ever gotten was a week of no television when he got caught throwing spitballs in the fish tank in Mrs. Engel’s class in the fourth grade, and even that didn’t feel much like punishment because he’d had plenty of Hardy Boys books to read.

“Yup.” He thought on this for a moment, then added, “At least it was just the belt this time, and not the metal yardstick from his shop.”

With that, he bolted up the slope of the railroad bed, Joey and Bobby hot on his heels. At the top the dirt gave way to a thick layer of gravel and slag that crunched under their sneakers. Bobby stepped up onto a rail and balanced there, absorbing the view. He felt like he could see for miles in both directions along the tracks, the steel strands stretching away on either side to converge into single points far away. The air stunk of the creosote coating the ties.
Bet you could get all the way to Georgia on these.

“Not too much further,” Tanner said, and started walking.

Joey stooped and picked up a handful of rocks. As the boys worked their way along the track, stepping from tie to tie, he threw them at various targets they passed: trees, rusted tin cans, an old tire. Bobby wondered if the tire came from a car that had been hit by a train. Maybe someone was trying to beat it to the crossing and lost, and got turned into mush.
Yuck
. Ahead of them and to the left the forested hill he had seen from Tanner’s porch swelled from the flat farmland; to the right, water shimmered through the trees.

“Is that the river?” he asked, pointing.

“Nah, that’s just the slough,” Joey said. “Backwaters. My daddy takes me fishing in there sometimes. Have to watch out for gators when we go.”

“Gators in Alabama? Get out of here!”

“Shit you not. They brought a bunch up from Florida back in the fifties and let them loose in the wildlife refuge to kill beavers. My daddy told me.”

Bobby looked closely at the older boy, searching his face for signs of duplicity, but saw none. The profanity didn’t bother him as much this time. If God wasn’t judging, who was he to? “Anybody ever get hurt by one?”

“Naw, man, they’re scared of people unless you get right up on them. But then, watch out. They’ll snatch you up quicker’n shit and take you down to the bottom. Roll you over and over until you drown and then take you off to a hidey-hole to eat, just like Jeremiah Barlowe.”

“Who?”

Joey looked over at Tanner, his eyebrows raised. “I thought you said he was from Decatur.”

“He is.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” Bobby asked.

“How the hell can you not know about Jeremiah Barlowe and his horror house? You raised in a barn?”

“Lighten up, Joey,” Tanner said. “He’s still a kid.”

As though the year difference in their ages made his cousin a wise old sage. Bobby didn’t mind Tanner standing up for him. It was a lot nicer than earlier, when he was worried about getting his nipples twisted. Well worth the price of a candy bar, and made even better by the fact that he’d found out why his cousin had been acting like a jerk.

“We have
got
to tell you the story,” Joey said. He was beginning to get excited. “It’ll scare the shit out of you.”

Tanner snorted. “Not out here, dummy. Can’t tell a story like that in the daylight, it takes the fun out. Besides, we’re almost there.” He pointed down the tracks at another crossing less than a quarter mile ahead. To Bobby he said, “Crossen’s is just down that road a little ways. Let’s get our stuff first, and then I’ll tell you all about old Jeremiah.”

The road crossed the railroad tracks at an angle. It was wide, four lanes with almost as much traffic as there had been on the highway coming to Belleville. To the right—toward the Tennessee River and Decatur—the calm muddy waters of the wildlife refuge bordered the road, heavily wooded islands and fingers of land rising from it. They looked like they would be fun to explore, Bobby thought, as long as you had a boat and some waders. Not far from the boys, a series of concrete bridges allowed the water to flow under the road, into a narrower, more swamp-like slough. He saw an ancient strip of asphalt running across that side, gradually descending down into the murky depths. The sight bothered him on an instinctual level, but he didn’t know why.
Like a road to nothing.

“All kinds of good fishing out that way,” Joey said, pointing. “My daddy takes me sometimes. It’s pretty cool, but there are some scary places back in there.
Deep
water.”

“Pussy,” Tanner said.

They were close to the store, Bobby saw. The gravel lot wasn’t more than a hundred yards away on their left, an aluminum sign high atop a steel pole near the edge of the road announcing the place as Crossen’s Crossing. Tanner took point on the shoulder, and the boys began to trek single file against the traffic, their clothes whipping in the exhaust-laden breeze created by the passing cars and trucks.

“You haven’t been back there,” Joey said. “You’d be a pussy about it, too. We were in one of the little coves once and when I dropped anchor, it never hit bottom. The rope on that anchor was thirty feet long, daddy said.
Thirty feet.
The damn channel in the river isn’t even that deep!” He shivered, despite the warmth of the day. “Daddy said there must be a spring or cave or something down there. He said the limestone bedrock’s full of things like that. I don’t know what it was, but I didn’t like it. Felt like I was hanging over a tunnel to hell or something.”

“Does the widdle pussy need a hug?” Tanner taunted. You could tell he was grinning, Bobby thought. He wondered if his cousin had been waiting for the chance to use the baby talk back on his friend.

“Whatever, man. Suck my dick.” Joey cast one final worried look across the water, and then they were at the store.

A row of pickup trucks sat parked in the gravel lot in front of Crossen’s. Rusted metal signs advertising everything from RC Cola to Sweet Lassy Feeds to Pennzoil decorated the front of the aluminum-sided building, and through the plate glass windows on either side of the wooden door Bobby saw several overalled geezers gathered in cane chairs around a cast iron potbelly stove.

Bells stitched to a piece of felt hanging from the inside doorknob jangled when Tanner pushed the door open, and the lively conversation going on within paused for a moment as the group of old men looked to see who was coming in. Orange flames danced behind the vent holes in the stove’s door, and the store—this part of it, anyway—was as warm as August. Bobby was glad he wasn’t wearing a jacket; the place would have been stifling, though the heat didn’t seem to be bothering the old men.

“Morning Mr. Crossen,” Joey said to the bespectacled man behind the counter near the stove.

“Boys,” the man replied with a nod.

A glassed-in case stood next to the front counter, box after box of candy arranged inside it, and it was to this that Tanner and Joey were drawn. Bobby stood just inside the doorway for a moment, taking the place in. The store reminded him of the G. C. Murphy in Decatur, only smaller and more geared toward farmers. One end of the store had a small but well-stocked grocery section. Next to it, racks of hardware and farm tools, then great stacks of animal feed and medication. Toward the other end were clothing and boots, fishing supplies, books and magazines, and on the far wall pesticides and poisons. The place reeked of pipe smoke and Old Spice and tall tales, and Bobby loved it.

Mr. Crossen moved from his spot at the counter to the candy case, keeping an eye on things. He looked like he wanted to get back to his stories, Bobby thought, crossing the checkerboard tile floor to join the others. There was a wire rack of toys next to the candy, cheap plastic things coated in a layer of dust thick enough to write in. He picked up a cap gun for a closer look. Jeezit. The thing was so old the rolls of caps had faded from red to a washed-out pink. Probably all duds. He put it back and wiped his hands on his pants.

On the rack below it was another toy gun, this one called a Galaxy Blaster. It looked like something Captain Kirk might carry, curved blue and yellow plastic with red spinners that attached to the end to be wound up and fired.
Shoots Up To 50 Feet!
the package proclaimed in futuristic letters. The thing would be more up Dana’s alley, he thought, hanging the toy back on the wire arm, though he suspected the dried-out rubber band inside it would snap with the first use. Everything else on the rack was HotWheels, not really his thing, either.
Oh, well.
As he turned toward the candy display writing on one of the cardboard cards dangling from the bottom arm of the rack caught his eye.
Starsky and Hutch
.

Only the two greatest detectives on TV. Heck, those guys might even be better than the Hardy Boys.

Bobby dropped to his knees and pulled a handful of blister packs off the rack to get to the one he’d seen. David Soul and Paul Michael Glaser stared up at him through smoldering eyes, looking just as cool as they could be. The bubble of plastic held a die-cast metal red and white Ford Gran Torino. Quickly, he took the car off the rack and put the others back. He couldn’t believe his luck. And it was less than a dollar! When he stood, he realized the other two boys were watching him.

“What?”

“Whatcha got there?” Tanner asked. The sneer Bobby thought they’d left behind was back.

He held up the package. “The striped tomato. These guys are awesome. I’m gonna be a detective one day, same as them.”

“Yeah, they’re awesome, alright,” Tanner said. “Awesomely gay. You haven’t ever noticed how much they like to hug and touch on each other, Bobby?” He gave an exaggerated shudder.

Joey snickered.

“They’re just buddies!” Bobby said. Tanner was full of it, but he knew better than to tell him that. Not if he valued his life. “Not queer.”

“Fags.”

You sure seem to know a lot about it, Tanner. Is there something you’re hiding?
Once more he kept his mouth shut.

“You want to watch a good cop show, watch
Kojak
,” Joey offered. “He’d kick the crap out of anybody who called him a fag, and he wouldn’t even lose his lollipop. That’s the kind of detective you should be.”

“
Kojak
is good, too.” Bobby said.
But Starsky and Hutch are better
. When he grew up, he wanted to be a detective, for sure. He just hadn’t decided if he wanted to work for the police department like Starsky and Hutch, or if he wanted to be a private eye, like Fenton Hardy. It seemed like there was more money in going private, if the
Hardy Boys
books were to be believed, but carrying a badge would be pretty awe—

“Can I get you boys anything?” Mr. Crossen said, stepping closer to the enclosed case so that his belly rested on the glass top and he fairly towered over Tanner and Joey. Maybe he was a fan too, Bobby thought, and didn’t like to hear the good names of Starsky and Hutch disparaged. He joined the other boys at the display.

“Can I get a Whatchamacallit?” Tanner asked.

The proprietor slid a panel on the back of the case aside and reached in to pluck one of the off-white packages from a nearly full box. He set the candy bar atop the glass case and looked at Joey, eyebrows raised.

“Just a pack of Camels, Mr. Crossen. They’re for my dad.”

When the man turned away to get the cigarettes, Tanner threw an elbow into Bobby’s side and scowled at him, then cut his eyes toward Joey and back.
Get him something
, that look said. Why couldn’t Joey get his own dang candy? His cousin was certainly free with his money. Then he remembered the way Joey’s dad had pulled that single limp bill from his chained wallet and demanded the change. Now that he thought about it, the Chrysler out in Joey’s driveway had been pretty run-down, with plenty of rust and a peeling roof. His clothes looked practically worn out, and there was a hole in his shoe where the toe of his once-white sock peeked through. Brother Peavey always said you should show the poor some charity. Maybe that’s what Joey needed. A needle of guilt jabbed at his heart. He suspected he was practically rich compared to Joey, and he was complaining about a thirty-five cent candy bar?

“Go head and get something,” he said. “My treat.”

“Thanks!” A grin broke out on the older boy’s face and he quickly pointed at a Wonka Skrunch bar, as if he thought Bobby might change his mind. Brother Peavey would be proud, Bobby thought. He peered through the glass while Mr. Crossen got the candy, trying to decide what sounded best. So many choices!

“I’ll take a Marathon,” he said, pointing. As Mr. Crossen reached into the case a third time Bobby noticed a box he’d overlooked, nestled among the candy. Pale yellow, the thing held stacks of red wax-papered packets of stickers.
Holy cow, Wacky Packages!
He hadn’t seen any of those in
forever.
Did they even make them anymore? Between the striped tomato and the packets of hilarious stickers, he was beginning to think this out-of-the-way place might be the best store in Alabama, despite the dustiness. “How much are the Wacky Packages?”

“Ten cents.”

Bobby mulled it over. The stickers were worth it, no doubt about it, because the parodies of household products (“Ajerx—the do-nothing cleanser!”) cracked him up every time, but he was already spending almost half of his allowance on the candy and car. Mom would take him to the mall at least once, and there was always so much cool stuff there waiting to be bought. Suddenly he felt as poor as he imagined Joey Garraty to be. He looked down at the package in his hand. Would he
really
play with the striped tomato, when he’d never bought a single toy car like it? Probably not. He was being a dummy, he thought. The toy car was great... but for someone who would actually use it.

“I’ll take three Wacky Packages,” he said, and hung the blister pack on the wire rack with more than a little reluctance.
Maybe if it’s still here the next time I come visit.

“Came to your senses about those queerbaits, huh?” Tanner asked, smirking.

Bobby wanted to tell Mr. Crossen to put the Whatchamacallit back—if his cousin was going to act like a butt-munch he could buy his own stupid candy—but he held his tongue. He went to the counter to pay. While Mr. Crossen counted his change out of the till, Bobby saw Tanner casually pick up a pack of Diamond matches from a bowl next to the gum rack and palm it. Even though the index card taped to the bowl priced the matches at only two cents, Bobby was incensed. Stealing was stealing, no matter the cost.
If I were a police detective like Starsky or Hutch I could put him in jail and he couldn’t do anything about it.

“Come on,” Tanner said, once they were out of the store. “I know the
perfect
place to talk about Jeremiah Barlowe.”

Who?
Bobby almost asked, before he remembered. Tanner and Joey had been going on about him on the railroad tracks. Tanner led them across the road to the shoulder and took them back the way they’d come, chattering about how much the old town legend gave him the willies. They crossed the tracks and kept going down the road until the shoulder dropped away and the water moved in. The slope had been banked with chunks of limestone the color of bleached bones. There were stumps in this water too, Bobby saw, and once more he found himself thinking of rotting teeth. The things stretched out of sight in the dark water, and like the old road in the slough across the highway, inexplicably bothered him.

They came to a guard rail and Tanner went on the outside of it, where there ran a narrow worn path along the top of the bank. Single-file, the three boys walked to the first bridge, then a short drop got them down to the rocks that ran under the span and shored up the red clay. It was cool under there, almost chilly, and the wind—which had been pleasant out in the sun—had a bite to it when it gusted. Plump gray pigeons lined the massive concrete support pylons the bridge rested on, watching the boys with suspicion. The ledge where they perched was coated in thick layer of manure. Flotsam bobbed along the shoreline, bottles and cans and Styrofoam packaging in a stew of twigs, branches, and brown leaves that seemed to sigh against the rocks as it rose and fell with the movement of the water.

Joey cupped his hands around his mouth and called his own name. The sound rolled across the water to the shore at the other end of the bridge and echoed back to them an instant later with a metallic twang. Several of the pigeons took flight in a cloud of manure dust and loose feathers and the boys laughed.

“It’s up here,” Tanner said, climbing up the rocks to the spot where the bridge joined the land. At the top, a concrete footer rose up from the ground, chest high. The steel girders that held up the span of the bridge rested on the block and stretched to the first of two pylons. Between a pair of these girders was a cramped tunnel that reached ten feet into the hillside. Tanner climbed onto the footer and pulled the box of matches from his pocket, then struck one and held it out so he could peer into the darkness. “Perfect! Come on up.”