The Bighead (3 page)

Jerrica prattled on, “I’m
hoping this trip will give me time to get my head together. You
know, working in D.C., for the
Post,
it can weigh you down. Maybe
that’s my problem: I’m too caught up in work that I can’t see the
rest of my life.”

Charity fully understood, but there
was something…

What was it?

She’d sensed it many times
in the past, with many different people. Sometimes she thought she
could merely
feel
what was on other people’s minds. So that’s why she said what
she said next.

“
But you love him, don’t
you?”

Jerrica flicked her half-smoked
cigarette out the side. The beltway blurred past. “Am I that easy
to read?”

“
Well, yes, I think
so.”

Another pause, another cigarette.
“You’re right. I do love him. I just don’t know if I even know what
love is. And a lot of times I don’t think I’m worthy of being
loved.”

“
What a horrible thing to
say!” Charity objected. But, actually, how many times had she felt
that way herself? Sure, she’d sensed Jerrica’s feelings, but that
was all. She didn’t know the entire story, and it wasn’t right for
her to make judgments. Instead, she elected to say, “Well, once
this trip is over, maybe things will work out.”

Jerrica’s face seemed to harden behind
the wheel. She hadn’t once really looked at Charity, not full in
the face, and maybe there was a reason for that. Charity felt more
emotion wafting off the blond’s head. Guilt. Shame. Disgrace. And
more guilt.

Let it go,
she thought.

“
We’ll see,” Jerrica
somewhat agreed. “But, for now, I’m not even going to worry about
it. I’m headin’ down the highway, to write my story and see the
country.”

“
That’s good.”

“
But-what about you? I
didn’t even ask. Are you married, engaged, have a
boyfriend?”

“
No to all three,” Charity
glumly replied. “I don’t understand it, but—” It was there that she
chose to cut it off. The last thing Jerrica needed to hear was here
own romantic quandaries. What could she say? I go out with lots of
men, I even sleep with them—but they never call me back? “I guess I
just haven’t met the right guy yet,” she slipped in
instead.

“
Shit.” Jerrica, for the
first time now, looked over at Charity, and cast a big, bright
smile. “Maybe there isn’t any such thing as the right man. But do
you think I give a shit?”

They both laughed, then, as their hair
flurried over the car’s open top.

If anything, it looked like a
beautiful day.

(III)

“
What a fucked up day,”
Balls said.

“
Looks all right ta me,”
Dicky Caudill replied at the wheel. They was Dicky’s wheels,
and
nice
ones at
that: a a jet-black, 10-coat-lacquered ’69 El Camino, with a
tricked cam and a souped 427. Rock-crusher trans, a Hurst shifter,
Edelbrock manifold, oh, yeah, an’ open Thorley headers an’
chambered exhaust too. Took Dicky
years
to get it fixed back up nice,
an’ lookin’ at it now, you think it’d just been droved off the
showroom floor. Had a long bench seat with shiny ’polstery, not
buckets, which were fine ’cos—well, sometimes they had passengers.
And the Camino was fast, see, did a quarter mile in mid-elevens,
and those 450-plus-horses pumpin’ outa that big block gave ’er a
top end’a one-seventy easy. They’d out-runned plenty’a police cars
in their time, and once even a State Police Pursuit Car out on the
Route. Blowed his fuckin’ doors
right
off!

“
Yeah, well. Hail.
Ever-day’s a fucked-up day ya ask me.”

“
Whuh—why’s that
Balls?”

“
I likes the nights.” Balls
took a sip’a shine, then, an’ gazed out the passenger winder, as if
reflectin’ peaceful things. It was late afternoon now, an’ they was
just on their ways back from run up’n the north ridge just over the
line past Big Stone Gap. “Ya knows, Dicky,” he stated, “the way
I’se see it, we ain’t got it too bad. Yessir, we gots ourselfs a
pretty dandy life.”

Dicky down-shifted the Hurst ’round
the next bend’a Tick Neck Road, headin’ up fer Eads Hills. “I say,
you’re right ’bout that Balls, quite right,” surprised that his
best ruckin’ pal’d make a observation’a gratitude. “Coulds be a lot
worse, ya know, an’ we’se got a lot ta be grateful fer, what with
so many folks starvin’ in the world an’ dyin’ of genercide, an’ all
them poor folks livin’ in ghettos an all.”

“
Aw,
fuck
them, Dicky,” Balls winced.
“Hail. That ain’t’s what I’m talkin’ about. I’se could give a
booger ’bout a bunch’a buck porch monkeys in welfare ghettos, er
folks starvin’ an’ dyin’ in wars an’ all that. Let ’em starve, let
’em die, I say. They ain’t no good fer the proper world noways.
What I’se talkin’ ’bout is
our
lives, and the ways things are fer
us.
”

Dicky didn’t quite foller now. Well,
maybe he sorta did, ’cos Lord knew Tritt Balls Conner had some
pretty fierce ideas ’bout things. “Oh, yeah, I’se guess you mean
that we’se gots a lot ta be grateful fer, ’bout this fine life God
has given us.”

“
Aw, no, Dicky,” Balls
winced again. “That ain’t what I’se talkin’ ’bout neither. What God
ever do fer us anyways?”

“
Well—” Dicky paused to
thumb a booger. “He’s gave us this fine life, didn’t
He?”

“
Aw, He ain’t given us
nothin’ worth more’n’ two squirts’a piss out a dead dog’s dick,
Dicky! Shee-it, you don’t know nothin’. You don’t hear a word I’se
say.”

Dicky’s brow ticked a bit, in
confusion, as he took a slight swig off his own jar.
“Then—then…what’cha mean, Balls?”

“
What I’se mean, Dicky-Boy,
is we’se got ourselfs a fine an’ dandy life—not on account’a God
but on account’a
us.
Hail. Ever-thing we’se got, we’se made on our
owns.”

“
Uh…oh. Yeah,” Dicky agreed
and clammed up. He didn’t wanna get Balls goin’ on one’a his rants,
’cos he’d heard ’em too many times. So’s Dicky just sat back an’
drove and kept quiet. Tritt “Balls” Conner and Dicky Caudill were
local boys, both growed up just outside’a Luntville, nears Whiskey
Bottom’n Cotswold. They’d met back in seventh grade at Clintwood
Middle School, the grade they both dropped out’a. Mid-twennies they
both was now, Dicky bein’ kinda short an’ fat with a buzzcut, and
Tritt Balls bein’ a right tall an’ big-framed, long-hairt, with a
hard, mean face an’ chopburns an’ always wearin’ a John Deere hat
evens though he ain’t worked on his daddy’s farm in years. Dicky
knowed Balls wore the hat on account he had a bald spot that he
were real senser-tive about, so’s Dicky never mentioned it. And the
reason they needed fast wheels, see, was ’cos it gave ’em a fast
getaway when they was out on a run. Neithers of ’em hadda real job,
didn’t need one. What they did ’nstead was run hooch for Clyde
Nale, who had hisself a bunch’a stills up’n the woods just
outside’a Kimberlin. It was a right big set-up ol’ Clyde Nale had,
an’ he needed runners with balls, so’s that’s why Balls an’ Dicky
got the highest payin’ runs on account they had about the fastest
set’a wheels in the county and they knowed all the back roads so’s
the state cops and those BATF chumps hardly ever got a line on ’em,
an’ Balls Conner, well he had the balls not ta take no shit off
them hillbillies over the line, which were why he was called Balls
in the first place. What they did, see, was four or five times a
week, they drove over a two-hunnert-gallon load’a moonshine ’cross
the Kentucky line ta distribiters in Harlan. Clyde Nale, he played
it smart; Russell County was “wet” so’s that’s why he brewed his
hooch here—less cops—and then paid Dicky an’ Balls ta run over the
line ta Harlan, where they sold it to the “dry” counties over that
ways. And since this was a long an’ risky run, Nale paid ’em a
thousand per month, which Balls an’ Dicky split. They was hard
workin’ young men, was what they was in other words.

But like the sayin’ went:
all work an’ no play make Balls an’ Dicky a fairly dull pair’a
boys. So’s ’tween runs they had thereselfs
all kinda
play, doin’ what they
referred ta as “tear-assin’.” Rapin’ gals, runnin’ folks off the
road, hidin’ out behind the roadside bars an’ jackin’ fellas in the
noggins so’s ta take their scratch. An’ well—

Killin’ folks too, on
occasion.

Dead crackers tell no
tales,
were what Balls said that first
time. It was just after a run to Harlan, an’ on theirs way back
they spotted the
purdiest
li’l gal you ever did seed, a blondie wearin’
tight shorts’n almost nothin’ up top, hitchin’ along Furnace Branch
Road round about midnight. A hill gal she was, and whens they
pulled over ta offer her a ride, why she just up an’ smiled the
whitest, purdiest smile an’ says “Shore, boys, Thank ya much.” So’s
she slid right in next ta Balls on the bench seat, an’ Dicky pulls
off the shoulder figgurin’ they was gonna give her a ride home,
when he hears
SMACK! SMACK! SMACK!
and he looks over aghasted ta see that Balls had
’mediately cracked her upside the head with his homemade jack.
“What’cha goan do that fer!” Dicky wailed. “Pulls up the next dirt
road ya see,” was all Balls had answered, an’ when Dicky did…well
ain’t too purdy recitin’ what happened then, so’s let’s just say
that Tritt “Balls” Conner had hisself one hell of a romp. He laid
dick twice on that gal, he did, ’fore she even come to, right there
off the side’a the road. Yessir, she were a fine lookin’ thing but
probably weren’t but fourteen ’er so, an’ once she come to right in
the middle’a Balls’ second nut, she started screamin’ like ta wake
all the dead outa Beall Cemetery, but all Balls did was laugh out
loud like the devil hisself, continuin’ ta hump her poor young
pussy right inta the ground. Dicky hisself stood aside ta watch,
an’, well, seein’ this cute li’l gal with her clothes ripped off
her, an’ her li’l cupcakelike tittes bobbin’ an’ all that—it put a
stiffer on Dicky a might quick, so’s he’s couldn’t help but pull
that bad boy out and have hisself a good wank in the weeds. But
just ’cos he had a wank didn’t mean that he ’proved’a what Balls’d
done. Come on! Snatchin’ a local gal right off the road? Beatin’
her in the head and humpin’ her poon ’gainst her will? That were
rape was what that were, an’ if this here gal could ’dentify ’em,
why, Dicky and Balls’d be pullin’ ’bout fifteen years apiece in the
county detent, gettin’ cornholed by big an’ mostly black fellas
ever-night, an’ havin’ ta suck peter ’less they wanted ta wind up
with their guts on the floor from a some con’s prison shiv. So’s
after Dicky were finished shakin’ the last’a his snot out his dick,
he objectered, “Hey, Balls! What’s’re we gonna do now?”

“
I don’t knows ’bout you,
Dicky, but I’ll tells ya what
I’m
gonna do now. Hail. I’se gonna cornhole me this
bitch.” And just like that he up’n flips this poor screamin’ gal
over, takes a big hock ’tween her cheeks, an’ starts ta lay a
butt-fuckin’ on her somethin’ fierce, alls the while blood leakin’
out her pussy like a busted pipe.

“
That ain’t whats I mean,
Balls!” Dicky fairly cried out. “I mean what if she up’n tells the
cops what we looks like?”

“
Shut up whiles I’se have
me my nut,” Balls grunted aside, still humpin’ away. By now the
gal’s screamin’ fit had wound down an’ she were passin’ out again
after pukin’ once. Balls stepped up his humpin’, murmurin’, “Yeah,
oh daddy yeah! This is some cracker butt, I’ll’se tell ya! I’se
gonna squirt me a load’a the dicksnot right’n the middle’a her
shit!” An’, so, that’s just what Tritt “Balls” Conner done just
then, and when he were finished he pulled out an’ wiped his dirty
bone off on her purdy blond hair an’ then hocked a lunger on her
head.

“
Jesus Chrast, Balls!’
Dicky contin-yer’d ta object. “She’s gonna up an’ tell the
poe-leece what we’se look like!”

“
How’s that, Dicky?” Balls
inquired with that evil, cut grin’a his, an’ then he sat right
smack down onta the middle’a her back, pulled back on her head
until—

crack!

—
her neck up’n
broke.

“
She ain’t gonna tells no
one nothin’, ’cos dead crackers tell no tales,” Balls said,
sniffin’ the air. “Hail. Don’t’cha just hate the way yer dick
stinks after a cornholin’?”

Anyways, that were the first killin’
they done, an’ after that there was many more. A hitchhiker here, a
broke down motorist there, gals, fellas, it didn’t make much matter
ta Balls. Shee-it, coupla times they’d pulled over to some fella
broke down and Balls’d pop him—BAM! Just like that!—in the head
with that big rusty pistol his daddy’d left him. Then another time
they’se was drivin’ down Davidsonville Road an’ they seed this old
lady wheelin’ out ta the end’a her drive ta git her mail, an’
they’se just pulled over lickety-split an’ Balls plucked her outa
that chair an’ throwed her in the back. Put a fierce conrholin’ on
her too—didn’t bother with her poon on account it was old an’
shriveled an’ a might ugly—once Dicky pulled off on one’a the old
loggin’ roads ’fore the Boone Federal Game Reserve. “How’s that fer
a butt-dickin’ grandmammy?” Balls gusted laughter. “Bet’cha ain’t
had it like that in fifty years!” Then Balls took a pause, starin’
down, an’ Dicky seed it too, this strange kinda bag hangin’ off the
side’a the ol’ lady’s belly. “Wells don’t that beat all!” Balls
exclaimed.