Sunset and Sawdust (24 page)

“What do you want from me?”

“A few minutes.”

“You don’t owe him anything,” Marilyn said from the safety of the oak, “but it might be worth hearing.”

“You ran off,” Sunset said. “My mother ran off. Though at least she cared for me for a while and left me a nice pair of shoes. Long worn out, I might add. And now you show up. I’ve been beat and raped and I’ve shot my husband, found his girlfriend dead and dug up her baby, and now I got you. What the hell did you do, old man, put a curse on the entire family?”

“In a way, I have. That’s why I’m here. Was that my granddaughter?”

“I assume you’re referring to the girl with the black hair, not the dog?”

Lee sighed. “I know when I’m whipped. But listen to this, and nothing else. I want to know you. I don’t even know you and I love you—”

“Bull.”

“I know how it sounds.”

“You couldn’t.”

“But I do. You’re my own flesh and blood. Only flesh and blood I got—you and Karen, not the dog. And I love you because I think God brought me back here to make amends, to do right by you. To love you without condition.”

“That’s nice of you. And if God’s so smart, why did he let you run off in the first place? Answer me that.”

“It was me run off, not God.”

“Yeah. Well, I’m not that fond of either one of you.”

“Sunset,” Marilyn said, “when we’re young, we’re foolish. You and me, we should know something about that. Being foolish over certain men. Foolish in other ways.”

“I’ve been fooled by one man, and bad, and I don’t want to be fooled by another. Even if it’s my father.”

“We always get fooled,” Marilyn said. “Anybody can fool anybody, and for all kinds of reasons.”

Sunset studied Marilyn. Marilyn walked away. Sunset turned back to Lee, said, “Hell, I have your eyes.”

“Yes, you do,” Lee said. “And my hair. But you look like your mother.”

“I’m not a drunk, though.”

“She wasn’t a drunk when I knew her. She was young, like me, fresh and had hopes. Maybe I doused them.”

“Kids made fun of my hair when I was little. Better dead than red on the head, that kind of thing. Never got to go to school much. Never had much of anyone to help me do anything.”

“You seem to have turned out all right. And a constable. With a gun.”

“I wasn’t elected. Not really.”

“How many women do what you’re doing?”

“I don’t know of any—what’s your name again?”

“Lee. Last name Beck, same as yours. But I wish you’d call me Daddy.”

Lee and Sunset went for a drive. She drove where he suggested, trying to put it together, trying to decide how she felt and how she ought to feel.

She stopped where he said stop, near the creek, up beyond the sawmill at Camp Rapture. They got out and walked around, Lee going first this way, then that way, finally stopping at a spot on the edge of the creek.

“It wasn’t all washed away then. Used to be a piece stuck out over the creek here. Had some small trees on it. And it was private under them trees. Bushes and grass were grown up around it. There was red bugs, though. Plenty of them.”

“Storm took that piece of land away not long back. A storm I damn well remember. I shot my husband during it. I knew the place you’re talking about well. Used to come here to play.”

He smiled at her. “Did you?”

“I did.”

“You were conceived here, Sunset. Well, almost. You were conceived on that piece of land got washed away.”

“You and Mama . . . here?”

He nodded. “May not seem romantic to you, but it was to us. Came here often, and one time it was more than just holding hands. There was just that one time. I never knew that it took, so to speak. We used to lie here together and hear the water running below, and sleep in the heat of the day when we thought we wouldn’t be missed. You see, your mother, like you, was pretty much on her own. No family to speak of.”

“She might have been all right then. Later, she drank.”

“Let’s walk.”

Sunset and Lee strolled along the creek. Lee said, “It’s too late for me to find her. I know that now. But I’ve found a daughter, and that could be enough. That and a granddaughter. If you’ll let it be enough.”

“What about that boy? He a son of yours?”

“No. He’s a boy I met on the road. Got snakebit and your mother-in-law gave us a ride to Uncle Riley’s place. His wife saved him. He’s mostly well from it.”

“Karen says he stares at her.”

“Karen’s pretty, and Goose, well, he’s a little over developed. Or would like to be. He ain’t no real trouble, though.”

They were sitting now, on the edge of the creek, feet hanging over the bank.

Lee leaned back, looked at the sky, took in the trees, seemed to absorb it all through his skin.

“Marilyn—does she like you?” Sunset asked.

“Not the way you’re thinking. I guess it could be that way if we worked at it. I don’t know. She seems nice. But there’s a ghost in her smile.”

“What’s that mean?”

“She’s got her own burdens.”

“Reckon so,” Sunset said.

There was a smile on Lee’s face when he said, “I believe in God, Sunset, but to me, he’s not the God you were talking about, the one you don’t trust. And I don’t know he’s a he. Don’t know God’s anything. Not anymore. I don’t think God has to do with trust or lack of trust. Nothing we pray for or want. God just is. It all come to me in just this minute, sitting here on the bank, looking up at things, the sky so blue, the trees so green—”

“They look brown to me.”

“Yeah. You’re right. They’re dry. But you see the point?”

“No.”

“Way I was taught to believe, way I believed, it was all too simple, and in a way too complex. I see that now. I’ve had like a flash of light, a kind of understanding. There’s a pattern under the false patterns we build. A connection between everything. A gathering of parts that all snap together like some penny puzzle. We sit here along this creek in the hot sun with the bugs buzzing around, water running below our feet, the sky blue, the trees . . . brown, and if we’re still, if we lay back, we’ll feel the Earth turning. The Earth and you, everyone else on this big old ball of dirt, all of us together, a union of parts and thoughts and purpose, spinning around and around, each and the other part of the same.”

Sunset studied him, said, “Yeah. Me and them and it. Except for all of those assholes who hate me and want to see me go to jail for killing Pete, who was trying to kill me. Those assholes who want to say I killed a whore named Jimmie Jo, and now her baby. You bet I’m in union with all of them, spinning here on this ball of dirt. In union with all of them except those assholes who hate coloreds and lynch them, even after they’re supposed to get a fair trial. In union with everyone, except my daughter, who I don’t know how to deal with. Except for this man I thought I loved, who may have done me like you done Mama. Yeah, me and this world and this universe, we’re all just one big union.”

“Okay. We’ll cut those particular folks out of my moment of revelation.”

“You’re so full of it.”

“I am.”

“Are you conning me?” Sunset said. “You conned Mama. Are you conning me?”

“My conning days are over.”

“That’s just what a con man would say.”

“You’re right.”

“I been conned by one man, maybe two now, I’m thinking, and I don’t want to be conned by my own father. I had one more worry and one less friend, I’d be Job.”

“You can depend on me. Promise you that. I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be around. I’m going to make my stand here. Going to get to know you, and Karen. If you’ll let me. And Sunset, maybe I’m not the one to tell you, and maybe I shouldn’t know before you, but Marilyn, she told me. I’m not sure why, but she did.”

“Told you what?”

“Karen’s pregnant.”

“Oh, God. When could she have?”

“It’s worse.”

“How can it be worse?”

“Marilyn says the father is someone you know well, not a boy around here, a man. Guess the one you’re saying may have conned you, and I got to say probably did.”

“Hillbilly?”

“That’s the one.”

Sunset studied Lee for a lie. He smiled at her. A small smile, one that said, I’m friendly. Please don’t slap me.

“All right,” she said. “Now the worst has come.”

“You’ll handle it.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Bad as it is, you’ll do fine. And this Hillbilly, you don’t worry about him. He’s not worth it. We’ll do okay by Karen, the baby. You’ll see.”

Sunset shook her head. “You’re sure grabbing lots of problems and you haven’t known me but about an hour.”

“You seem to pack a lot into every minute.”

“Ain’t that the truth.”

“I owe you a lot of hours, Sunset. I just didn’t know it. Now I do. You going to let me do something about it? Be a father?”

“Is it too early to hug?”

“Probably. But we can try it anyway.”

They hugged, and she thought it would be touch and move away. Polite. But she found herself clutching him hard. Then she was crying and he was patting her back, saying, “Easy, baby. It’s okay. Daddy’s here.” She let out a single wail, like a wounded coyote, loud enough to startle birds into flight.

28

In search of Hillbilly, Clyde drove into Holiday, cruised the streets, saw him through a plate-glass window at the cafe, parked and went in.

Hillbilly sat at a table by himself drinking coffee, a saucer with a fork and pie crumbs on it at his elbow. He looked up as Clyde came in, stood over the table.

“Clyde,” Hillbilly said.

“Sonofabitch.”

“Damn, man. We’re in a public place.”

“Step outside, Mr. Song Bird. We won’t be public then.”

“We’ll be on the street, moron. That’s public too.”

“Yeah. Well, at least the furniture won’t get broken.”

Hillbilly sighed. “What’s the matter with you?”

Clyde looked around. Patrons were starting to stare. He sat down at the table, put his elbows on it, leaned forward, said, “Sunset didn’t tell me, just sent me to look for you, but I know what happened.”

“And what was that?”

“You charmed her. You gave her some line of bull—”

“I don’t do that.”

“Not with your mouth, but with your eyes, your ways. You got her to give herself to you because she thinks she loves you, and you probably did the same to her daughter. And now, you don’t show. What you doing in town, Hillbilly?”

“I quit.”

“Quit cause you got what you wanted.”

“A paycheck, Clyde. I got a paycheck. Now I can buy a guitar.”

“And you got them. Sunset and Karen.”

“She didn’t tell you that, I can bet that, so how would you know?”

“I can tell way she’s acting.”

“You’re jealous.”

“You’re right. You didn’t even tell her you quit. How come?”

“I was going to send word. Maybe drop by. Look, I got a place now.” Hillbilly gave the address. “Come see me when you cool down.”

“You sorry bastard. If a man could sell you for what you think you’re worth, he’d be a rich man.”

“I didn’t lie to anyone. I got what I wanted, but they wanted it too.”

“Sunset thought there was more to you than there is. Karen ain’t nothing but a little girl.”

“There’s an old saying, Clyde. Goes, If they’re old enough to bleed, they’re old enough to breed.”

“Step outside. Come on. Step outside.”

“You’re twice my size.”

“And I’m gonna give you twice the beating.”

Hillbilly sighed. He drank the last of his coffee, stood up, took coins out of his pocket, put them on the table.

They went outside. Hillbilly said, “I don’t want to make an ugly scene. Let’s go around back.”

“You don’t want to make a scene, all right. You like lying and doing your business in the dark.”

They went around back of the cafe. Clyde said, “You want a little bit at a time, or all at once?”

“Any way you want to dole it out will have to do.”

Clyde came at him then, kind of roared as he did, and he felt powerful as a bull, mad as a rabid dog, and Hillbilly wasn’t there. It was like the ground opened up and the sonofabitch was gone, because the next thing was Clyde found himself floundering at the air, felt a battering ram fall out of the sky and hit him in the ribs. By the time he realized Hillbilly had dodged and hit him with a left hook, it was too late, because now, behind it was a kick to the balls, and when he bent over, Hillbilly leaped in the air and brought his elbow down on the back of his head, hard and sharp enough to make stars leap to sight, then he was on the ground, face down, and Hillbilly was kicking him, the eye, the ribs, the arm, then the little bastard grabbed his hair, pulled his head back, and Clyde felt cold steel on his throat.

“I can cut your throat quicker than you can say that’s sharp, or I can let you go with just opening your mouth, putting it down on that rock in front of you. You get to choose.”

“You little—”

Hillbilly cut him. Not deep, but a little. All Clyde felt at first was pressure, then a sting, something wet running down his chest and inside his shirt.

“Next time, all the way across. No in-betweens. This is it. You get to choose. Cut throat. Mouth on the rock. Which is it? Answer.”

“The rock.”

“Put your mouth on it.”

Clyde did, and it tasted of dirt and there was a kind of copper taste in the back of his mouth to boot.

Hillbilly’s knife went away, and with all the force he could muster, he stamped down on the back of Clyde’s head, and Clyde’s teeth bit into the rock.

There was another kick, to the side of the head, and another, and Clyde went out.

When Clyde came to, Hillbilly was gone, and so was a piece of one of his front teeth. He stood up and felt the tooth and cussed. He couldn’t believe how easily he had gotten his ass whipped. Here he was, coming in like a knight on a charger, and the dragon, a miniature one at that, had whipped his ass, and handily.

He hurt all over, his neck was bleeding where the knife had cut him, and he was spitting blood. He limped out to his truck, started back to Sunset’s place. As he drove, he could hardly work the clutch, he ached so bad, and his vision was blurry, his eyes filled with tears. He felt like the biggest old donkey ass in creation.

Rooster left town about the time Clyde arrived, drove on out with the intention of seeing Sunset, lying to her, ready to try and get the maps back. But just before he came to her place, not really knowing he was going to do it, he veered onto a little hunting trail that went left. He bumped over it, stirred up a burst of quail, drove until there wasn’t anything to drive on, came to a thin line of thirsty trees growing on a long red-clay hill.

He parked and looked in the mirror. Under his hat was a thin, long-nosed, ghost face. He didn’t like that face, not only because it was ugly, but because it had all the character of a frog. He looked at the hill and the line of trees, thought the hill was most likely an old Indian mound. It had the looks of one. Back home in Mineola, he had plowed into them and found pots and arrowheads and bones.

He got out and leaned against the car, thinking, listening. He heard a train way off, its lonesome whistle calling, and he knew up beyond that line of trees was the track.

Rooster took off his gun belt, reached through the open window, laid it on the car seat, removed his badge, put it there too. He went walking up the rise, through the trees, came to a spread of gravel, then the tracks, glinting blue-black in the hot sun. He could hear the train rumbling toward him in the distance. He stuck his foot out, rested it on the rail. He could feel the train inside his shoe.

As it made the curve, it would slow, Rooster knew that, because not far up was a water fill, and it would stop there. That’s where hobos jumped on the train. He looked around in case he might see a hobo, but there were none.

Rooster squinted his eyes, looked down the track, saw the train coughing along, growing bigger as it came. He stepped back into the line of trees, and when the train was making the curve, it slowed considerable, almost to a crawl, and he began running. He frightened a couple of doves in the bush as he ran, and they scattered skyward, startling him, but he kept running, and he made the train, got on it with one leap, edged his way between the boxcars and rode there, jiggling with his feet on the boxcar connection. At the water stop he thought maybe he could slip down, find a car open, or open one himself. Then he could ride inside, lay back and travel right on out of this life. Ride until he wanted to get off. No set place to go. Just ride till he couldn’t take it anymore.

He thought about Sunset, her not knowing, not expecting what was coming, and he figured Plug and Tootie, they’d go along easy with whatever McBride wanted, same as him. Briefly, he considered jumping off, going back to warn her. But no. He didn’t even have the guts for that. He felt as if McBride would know he was running away, that somehow he would sense it, come looking for him, or most likely, send Two. He didn’t want to be near Holiday or Camp Rapture, or East Texas for that matter, when McBride found out he was gone. Louisiana might be too damn close. A guy like that, he could hold a grudge for most anything.

Rooster watched the trees speed by, saw the ground rise up on either side of the train, momentarily throwing shadow over him, then the hills were gone again and there was a speckle of pines, a scattering of houses. He took a deep breath. When he let it out again, he said, “Good luck, redhead.”

The train blew its whistle, rolled around the bend with a rumble and a squeak, then ducked out of sight, taking Rooster with it.

When Clyde drove up into the yard he sat behind the wheel of the truck, not wanting to get out. He noted Sunset’s car was gone, and he was glad of it.

A stocky man and Marilyn were sitting in chairs out front, shelling some peas Marilyn had brought with her. They were shelling them into sacks. A boy was sitting on the hood of Marilyn’s truck eyeing Karen, who was sitting beneath the oak shelling peas into a shallow pan. Clyde tried to figure who the hell the man and the boy were, but they seemed to fit, so he didn’t get out and ask. He never wanted to get out.

The stocky man saw him, got up and came over.

He stuck a hand through the window. “Lee Beck. Marilyn says you’re Clyde.”

Clyde shook the hand briefly, said, “I’m what’s left of him.”

“What happened to you?”

“I got beat up.”

“I can see that.”

Marilyn, Karen, and the boy came over.

“Clyde,” Karen said, “are you okay?”

“My pride is beat up the most,” Clyde said. “Well, actually, I think me and my pride got about an equal beating. I got a chipped tooth too.”

“Who did it?” Karen asked.

“That’s the worst part,” Clyde said, opening the truck door, getting out, feeling woozy. “That goddamned pretty boy. Hillbilly.”

Karen burst out crying and ran into the tent.

“I didn’t know she cared,” Clyde said.

“I think it’s Hillbilly she cares about,” Marilyn said.

“Well, she need not worry about him. He’s as perky as a goddamn guinea hen. Though he might have bruised a knuckle or two. Damn, I thought I was a tough sonofabitch, but he was something. I hope she doesn’t think I hurt him.”

“Karen just recently found out Hillbilly’s a turd,” Marilyn said. “She’s carrying his baby.”

“Damn,” Clyde said.

“Thanks, Grandma,” Karen said from the concealment of the tent. “Thanks a lot.”

“People are gonna know soon enough, dear. And this here is family and friends.”

“Feared as much,” Clyde said. “Thought it might be, but I didn’t say nothing cause I didn’t want to do no guesswork. I should have, though.”

“You’re talking about me,” Karen said. “I’m here, you know.”

“You want to get in on this,” Marilyn said, “come out of the tent.”

“You don’t fret none, baby,” Goose said. “I’ll take care of you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Karen said, and this time she poked her head out. “I don’t even know your name.”

“Goose,” said the boy. “And I know all of you I need to know. You’re the prettiest thing I ever seen.”

Karen made a sound that was unfriendly, pulled her head back inside.

Lee said, “Goose, that’s my granddaughter you’re talking to.”

“And I don’t mean nothing but respect,” Goose said.

“Where’s Sunset?” Clyde asked.

“She went to the town meeting,” Marilyn said. “They’re talking about removing her.”

“Ain’t this the perfect day?” Clyde said.