Corrosion (4 page)

When I spoke again, it sounded like somebody else’s voice, all cracked and distant: We could run away, I said. Just you and me. Leave all of this behind, you know? I have a little place in the mountains, not two hours from here, just a little mining cabin buried in a thatch of trees. Nobody within two miles in any direction. That’s where I was going when my car broke down. I was going to the Mountain. Just to get away from everything. Just to clear my mind. We could go there. We could be happy, maybe.

Lilith sucked down some more smoke, her eyes narrowing to a pair of gashes. Oh, that sounds nice, she said. I’ve never been to the mountains. But he’d find me. I know he would.

Not up there, I said. Not a person in the world would find you.

Then I pulled her close and kissed her, mashing my lips against hers. Lilith closed her eyes and covered her fluttering heart with the palm of her hand. But it was no good. A fellow can get so goddamn lonely sometimes…

* * *

Lilith was going to spend the day with an aunt in Rifle. Me, I had nothing planned. I figured what the hell. I’d go pay Nick McClellan a visit.

The McClellans lived a few miles outside of town. I walked part of the way. Then I stuck out my thumb and got lucky. An old blue Lincoln Continental pulled off the side of the road, kicking up dust. I jogged up to the car and the passenger-side door opened. Inside was an older man with thick gray muttonchops and friendly blue eyes. Where you headed, mister? No visible reaction to my face.

Just up the road a bit, I said.

Hop in.

His name was Big Ed. He chewed tobacco but never spat. His fingers tapped the steering wheel incessantly, keeping time with the wheels on the highway. And he must have been afraid of silence.

Me, I’m on my way to work, he said. Wanna know what I do? I shrugged my shoulders. He chuckled a bit. Then he said: I clean out Porta-Potties. Damn straight. Spend my days in them outhouses, sucking up shit with a wand. Fellow can’t complain, though. Gotta make a living, right? Beats living under the bridge. Done that too. Shit. And what about you? Got a trade?

No, I said. Not really.

A drifter, huh?

Veteran. Iraq.

Well, shit, I kinda figured, you know. Vietnam, myself. Got a bullet lodged in my ass. God’s honest truth. Nothing like your injury, though. That’s a hell of a thing. IED?

Yes, sir.

Say no more, soldier. You’ve probably relived it enough.

Yes. I guess I have.

He rolled down the window and the wind whipped in the car. You said Army, right? he said.

No, sir. Marines.

A big grin spread across his face. No shit? He pulled up his sleeve and showed me his skull-and-sword tattoo. Proud member myself, he said. Mind if I ask you a question?

No, sir.

Ed stuck his fingers in his mouth and pulled out the damp wad of chewing tobacco and threw it outside. How they been treating you?

Sir?

Since you got back to the States. You been treated with respect?

Yes, sir, I said. I have no complaints, sir.

Must have been tough on your family, though. What with your injuries and all.

My parents died a long time ago, I said. I got no friends, no family.

He nodded his head for so long I wasn’t sure he’d ever stop. When he spoke again, his words were drenched with bitterness: You know, they used to hold a parade for all of us soldiers in this here town. People lined Main Street, held their children on their shoulders, waved their American flags, played patriotic marches. But the years went by and the parades became smaller and smaller. Fewer veterans. Fewer townspeople. Finally, one year I noticed that it was just me. No more bands playing. No more children cheering. No more women weeping. Just me. I saw a fellow who I recognized from the war. He asked me what did I think I was doing still marching. And I said, It’s our duty. And he said, Nobody’s doing it anymore. And I said, As long as I’m doing it, somebody’s doing it.

Then Ed stopped talking. There was no moral to the story.

We finally came to the McClellan property, way out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dirt and dust and derricks and devils. Ed stopped the car and jerked it into park. He looked at me for a good long while, making me uncomfortable. I go to this group, he said. Once a week. Veterans. All kinds. Vietnam, Kuwait, Iraq, Afghanistan. Hell, we even got an old-timer from Korea. It’s good to be able to talk. Helps exorcise them demons, you know? If you keep it all inside of you…Anyway, we meet Wednesdays at seven. Down at the American Legion. The way I figure, ain’t nobody can understand a soldier like a soldier.

I nodded my head slowly. I sure do appreciate the offer, I said, but I’m not all that interested.

No?

It’s just that I don’t much like talking about the past. It always seems to be changing on me.

He looked at me some more. Then he stuck out his hand and I shook it. Been a pleasure, soldier, he said.

Thanks for the ride, I said. I’d just opened the door and stepped outside when he spoke again, a big grin spread across his face: Good night, Chesty Puller, wherever you are!

I didn’t know what he was talking about. Who’s Chesty Puller? I said.

Something set him off. His expression changed to a scowl and he started cursing at me. Before I could get an explanation, he jammed the truck into drive and sped off down the road.

* * *

Outside, it was cold and breezy and the ground was covered with frost. I gazed at the McClellans’ house, a little brick ranch, maybe 1,000 square feet big. An American flag hung out front, whipping in the wind. Behind the house were a bunch of cylindrical feed bins alongside a pair of wood barns, both bigger than the house. I peeked in the first barn. It was lined with narrow stalls made of concrete. Sows sat inside, pregnant, eating from the feeders that hung above the stalls.

I made my way to the house, not sure what I aimed to do. On the porch, the wind chimes were jingling, playing a madman’s orchestra. I rapped on the door a few times. No answer. I moved toward the window and peered in the house. Didn’t look like anybody was home. I tried the door. It was unlocked. I stepped inside.

The home was simple. In the living room there was a ratty couch and a television. There was an Oriental rug on the floor and a pair of boots by the door. The walls were bare except for a metal cross above the couch.

I made my way to the bedroom. The curtains were shut and everything was dark and drab. The bed was unmade. Clothes were strewn on the hardwood floor. There was another television sitting on a wooden crate. The white dresser looked antique. Some of the drawers were sticking out. On top of the dresser were a couple of bowling trophies.

Next, I wandered to the kitchen. Dishes were piling up in the sink. The floral wallpaper was peeling from the walls. I opened the refrigerator and grabbed a beer. I returned to the living room, sat down on the couch, and crossed my legs. Some time passed. I didn’t move. I just stared at the wall thinking about everything and nothing at all.

I slammed down the beer and crushed the can with my hand. Then I tossed it on the floor.

I stayed like that on the couch for another twenty minutes at least. Nick didn’t show up. I don’t know what I would have done if he had. I rose to my feet and walked out of the brick ranch, letting the screen door slam shut behind me.

Once outside, I met up with one of his pigs. And here’s what I did, here’s exactly what I did: I grabbed that hog from behind, pulled out my knife, and sliced its throat from one end to the other. Then I stood over him, watching him twitch and moan. I waited until he had bled out and dragged him back to the front porch. That would give ol’ Nick something to think about…

CHAPTER 5

The next morning I went back to Hal’s Auto. He was under the hood of an old VW Bug. Bob Miller was singing from a plastic radio. The air was cold and my hands were buried in my pockets.

I stood there tapping my feet and humming with the radio, but he just kept right on working. So I stood next to him, leaned under the hood and said, I’m looking for my pickup. She ready yet?

He looked up with that vaudeville face, flashed his milk-white teeth, and said, C30 with the blown engine, right?

Yes, sir.

He straightened up and wiped his hands on his jeans. Sure, I got her fixed, he said. Found a nice little engine at the junkyard. Got plenty of juice in her, too. Came from an old hearse. That doesn’t bother you now, does it?

No, sir. Not as long as my truck runs.

She runs like a dream. Course I can’t vouch for the longevity.

The pickup was parked next to Hal’s office. He’d washed and cleaned her, and she looked as good as new. He popped open the hood and pointed out various intricacies, but I wasn’t much interested.

How much do I owe you? I said.

He pulled out a pad and pencil and scribbled a few things down. 596 for the engine, he said. 480 for labor. I’ll give you the stranger’s discount, and we’ll make it an even grand.

Fine, I said. I’ll pay cash.

And pay cash I did. I got into the truck, hit the corpse engine and drove on out of the parking lot.

* * *

Broken-down cars, hotel rooms, booze—it was beginning to take its toll on me financially. The truth was, I was down to less than a hundred dollars. I sold blood and an old watch. Not enough to make a difference. Eventually I was forced to get a job. After a few days of searching, I found one at the local landfill. Twelve twenty-five an hour. The job wasn’t much, but at this particular time, as I dangled from a window ledge, it suited me just fine. I figured the Mountain could wait, and besides I liked Lilith more than plenty.

My boss’s name was Cash Hopkins and he was some slave driver. He was a little guy, couldn’t have been more than five foot six, with ashen gray hair and a complexion to match. He was fifty or sixty or seventy. He never stopped shouting. Move that goddamn refuse! he’d shout. There are a thousand wetbacks chomping at the bit to take your job!

The job was monotonous. Every thirty or so minutes a garbage truck would appear over the hill, perform a pirouette, and spill a load of crushed trash. Then the bulldozers would race toward the last dump, lower their blades, and shove all the waste toward the middle, a never-ending task of efficiency. They refused to train me on the bulldozer, despite my experience driving an M-1A1 Abrams tank. Instead they gave me a shovel. I did the best I could, moving trash and scaring away crows.

And so there I was this one particular morning, standing on top of the world, and all around me was trash and filth, and I knew there was some greater truth but I couldn’t figure out what it was. I stood there perfectly still just thinking, thinking, thinking. The moon was a silver disc in the pale blue sky. Everything was quiet; the bulldozers were on the other side of the hill. I waded through the sea of debris, sucking in the rotten air. The crows hovered cautiously overhead. Suddenly I was overcome with emotion. I fell to my knees, became engulfed in garbage. And I prayed with all my might. Jesus, I really need a hand. I’m afraid I’m ready to really fuck things up again…

And it was at that moment that the stranger appeared, his figure silhouetted by sunshine. I struggled to my feet, using my shovel as a cane. A crow landed on his shoulder, cocked its head and flew away. He walked toward me slowly, his left leg dragging behind his right.

He stood in front of me, just staring at me with contempt. His face was unshaven and his eyes were vengeful. There were spider veins crawling up his cheeks. His gray hair was greasy and unkempt. When he spoke, his voice was all full of pebbles: Who are you, he said, only it didn’t really seem to be a question.

I met his gaze. I think I should be asking you the same question.

I been following you around, he said, rocking back and forth, just watching you.

I’ve seen you. Should’ve called the cops. Didn’t.

Sometimes you’re not an easy man to keep track of. But I always find you. After a while.

He had a strange way of talking. He paused at odd times. His voice trembled slightly.

What do you want? I said. Why are you following me?

He took a couple of steps forward. My body tensed. I could feel my knife resting beneath my shirt. There was nobody else around…

My son saw terrible things, he said. Roadside bombs. Firing squads. The night sky on fire. Heads severed from torsos, staring back at him blinking slowly…

What are you talking about? I said.

His cheek twitched and his eyes narrowed. I searched his face, trying to recall a past life…

You claim to be a soldier, he said. Isn’t that right?

Yes, sir. 1st Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division. Honorable discharge.

He stared at me for a long time. Then he started laughing. Only it wasn’t a happy laughter. It was awful, terrified laughter.

I read about you, he said. In a newspaper. In Lubbock.

I know the article.

Said you were wounded in Mosul. Were you wounded in Mosul?