The World Made Straight (2 page)

Travis waded on upstream, going farther than he'd ever been before. He caught more speckleds, and soon seven dollars' worth bulged the back of his fishing vest. Enough money
for gas and to help pay his insurance, and though it wasn't near the money he'd been making at Pay-Lo bagging groceries, at least he could do this alone, not fussed at by some old hag of a store manager with nothing better to do than watch his every move, then fire him just because he was late a few times.

He came to where the creek forked and it was there he saw a sudden high greening a few yards above him on the left. He stepped from the water and climbed the bank to make sure it was what he thought. The plants were staked like tomatoes and set in rows like tobacco or corn. They were worth money, a lot of money, because Travis knew how much his friend Shank paid for an ounce of good pot and this wasn't ounces but pounds.

He heard something behind him and turned, ready to drop the rod and reel and make a run for it. On the other side of the creek a gray squirrel scrambled up the thick bark of a black-jack oak. Travis told himself there was no reason to get all feather-legged, that nobody would have seen him coming up the creek.

He let his eyes scan what lay beyond the plants. A woodshed concealed the marijuana from anyone at the farmhouse or the dirt drive that petered out at the porch steps. Animal hides stalled mid-climb on the shed's graying boards. Coon and fox, in the center a bear, their limbs spread as though even in death they were still trying to escape. Nailed up there like a warning, Travis thought.

He looked past the shed and didn't see anything moving, not even a cow or chicken. Nothing but some open ground and then a stand of tulip poplar. He rubbed a pot leaf between his
finger and thumb, and it felt like money, a lot more money than he'd ever make at a grocery store. He looked around one more time before taking out his pocketknife and cutting down five plants. The stalks had a twiney toughness like rope.

That was the easy part. Dragging them a mile down the creek was a chore, especially while trying to keep the leaves and buds from being stripped off. When he got to the river he hid the marijuana in the underbrush and walked the trail to make sure no one was fishing. Then he carried the plants to the road edge, stashed them in the gully, and got the truck.

When the last plants lay in the truck bed, he wiped his face with his hand. Blood and sweat wet his palm. Travis looked in the side mirror and saw a thin red line where mountain laurel had slapped his cheek. The cut made him look tougher, more dangerous, and he wished it had slashed him deeper, enough to leave a scar. He dumped his catch into the ditch, the trout stiff and glaze-eyed. He wouldn't be delivering Old Man Jenkins any speckleds this evening.

Travis drove home with the plants hidden under willow branches and feed sacks. He planned to stay only long enough to get a shower and put on clean clothes, but as he was about to leave his father stopped him.

“We haven't ate yet.”

“I'll get something in town,” Travis replied.

“No. Your momma's fixing supper right now, and she's got the table set for three.”

“I ain't got time. Shank's expecting me.”

“You'll make time, boy,” his father said. “Else you and that truck can stay in for the evening.”

IT WAS SIX-THIRTY BEFORE TRAVIS TURNED INTO THE ABAN
doned Gulf station and parked window to window beside Shank's Plymouth Wildebeast.

“You won't believe what I got in the back of this truck.”

Shank grinned.

“It's not the old prune-faced bitch that fired you, is it?”

“No, this here is worth something. Get out and I'll show you.”

They walked around to the truck bed and Shank peered in.

“I didn't know there to be a big market for willow branches and feed sacks.”

Travis looked around to see if anyone was watching, then pulled back enough of a sack so Travis could see some leaves.

“I got five of them,” Travis said.

“Holy shit. Where'd that come from?”

“Found it when I was fishing.”

Travis pulled the sack back over the plant.

“Reckon I better start doing my fishing with you,” Shank said. “It's for sure I been going to the wrong places.” Shank leaned against the tailgate. “What are you going to do with it? I know you ain't about to smoke it yourself.”

“Sell it, if I can figure out who'll buy it.”

“I bet Leonard Shuler would,” Shank said. “Probably give you good money for it too.”

“He don't know me though. I'm not one of his potheads like you.”

“Well, we'll just have to go and get you all introduced,”
Shank said. “Let me lock my car and me and you will go pay him a visit.”

“How about we go over to Dink Shackleford's first and get some beer.”

“Leonard's got beer,” Shank said, “and his ain't piss-warm like what we got last time at Dink's.”

They drove out of Marshall, following 25 North. A pink, dreamy glow tinged the air. Rose-light evenings, Travis's mother had called them. The carburetor coughed and gasped as the pickup struggled up High Rock Ridge. Travis figured soon enough he'd have money for a carburetor kit, maybe even get the whole damn engine rebuilt.

“You're in for a treat, meeting Leonard,” Shank said. “There's not another like him, leastways in this county.”

“Wasn't he a teacher somewhere up north?”

“Yeah, but they kicked his ass out.”

“What for,” Travis asked, “taking money during homeroom for dope instead of lunch?”

Shank laughed.

“I wouldn't put it past him, but the way I heard it he shot some fellow.”

“Kill him?”

“No, but he wasn't trying to. If he had that man would have been dead before he hit the ground.”

“I heard tell he's a good shot.”

“He's way beyond good,” Shank said. “He can hit a chigger's ass with that pistol of his.”

After a mile they turned off the blacktop and onto a dirt road. On both sides what had once been pasture sprouted with
scrub pine and broom sedge. They passed a deserted farmhouse, and the road withered to no better than a logger's skid trail. Trees thickened, a few silver-trunked river birch like slats of caught light among the darker hardwoods. The land made a deep seesaw and the woods opened into a small meadow, at the center a battered green and white trailer, its back windows painted black. Parked beside the trailer was a Buick LeSabre, front fender crumpled, rusty tailpipe held in place with a clothes hanger. Two large big-shouldered dogs scrambled out from under the trailer, barking furiously, brindle hair hackled behind their necks.

“Those damn dogs are Plott hounds,” Travis said, rolling his window up higher.

Shank laughed.

“They're all bark and bristle,” Shank said. “Them two wouldn't fight a tomcat, much less a bear.”

The trailer door opened and a man wearing nothing but a frayed pair of khaki shorts stepped out, his brown eyes blinking like some creature unused to light. He yelled at the dogs and they slunk back under the trailer.

The man was no taller than Travis. Blond, stringy hair touched his shoulders, something not quite a beard and not quite stubble on his face. Older than Travis had figured, at least in his mid-thirties. But it was more than the creases in the brow that told Travis this. It was the way the man's shoulders drooped and arms hung—like taut, invisible ropes were attached to both his wrists and pulling toward the ground.

“That's Leonard?”

“Yeah,” Shank said. “The one and only.”

“He don't look like much.”

“Well, he'll fool you that way. There's a lot more to him than you'd think. Like I said, you ought to see that son-of-a-bitch shoot a gun. He shot both that yankee's shoulders in the exact same place. They say you could of put a level on those two holes and the bubble would of stayed plumb.”

“That sounds like a crock of shit to me,” Travis said. He lit a cigarette, felt the warm smoke fill his lungs. Smoking cigarettes was the one thing his old man didn't nag him about. Afraid it would cut into his sales profits, Travis figured.

“If you'd seen him shooting at the fair last year you'd not think so,” Shank said.

Leonard walked over to Travis's window, but he spoke to Shank.

“Who's this you got with you?”

“Travis Shelton.”

“Shelton,” Leonard said, pronouncing the name slowly as he looked at Travis. “You from the Laurel?”

Leonard's eyes were a deep gray, the same color as the birds old folks called mountain witch doves. Travis had once heard the best marksmen most always had gray eyes and wondered why that might be so.

“No,” Travis said. “But my daddy grew up there.”

Leonard nodded in a manner that seemed to say he'd figured as much. He stared at Travis a few moments before speaking, as though he'd seen Travis before and was trying to haul up in his mind exactly where.

“You vouch for this guy?” Leonard asked Shank.

“Hell, yeah,” Shank said. “Me and Travis been best buddies since first grade.”

Leonard stepped back from the car.

“I got beer and pills but just a few nickel bags if you've come for pot,” Leonard said. “Supplies are low until people start to harvest.”

“Well, we come at a good time then.” Shank turned to Travis. “Let's show Leonard what you brought him.”

Travis and Shank got out. Travis pulled back the branches and feed sacks.

“Where'd you get that?” Leonard asked.

“Found it,” Travis said.

“Found it, did you. And you figured finders keepers.”

“Yeah,” said Travis.

“Looks like you dragged it through every briar patch and laurel slick between here and the county line,” Leonard said.

“There's plenty of buds left,” Shank said, lifting one of the stalks so Leonard could see it better.

“What you give me for it?” Travis asked.

Leonard lifted a stalk himself, rubbed the leaves the same way Travis had seen tobacco buyers do before the market's opening bell rang.

“Fifty dollars.”

“You're trying to cheat me,” Travis said. “I'll find somebody else to buy it.”

As soon as he spoke he wished he hadn't. Travis was about to say that he reckoned fifty dollars would be fine but Leonard spoke first.

“I'll give you sixty dollars, and I'll give you even more if you bring me some that doesn't look like it's been run through a hay bine.”

“OK,” Travis said, surprised at Leonard but more surprised at himself, how tough he'd sounded. He tried not to smile as he thought of telling guys back in Marshall that he'd called Leonard Shuler a cheater to his face and Leonard hadn't done a damn thing about it but offer more money.

Leonard pulled a roll of bills from his pocket, peeled off three twenties, and handed them to Travis.

“I was figuring you might add a couple of beers, maybe some quaaludes or a joint,” Shank said.

Leonard nodded toward the meadow's far corner.

“Put them over there in those tall weeds next to my tomatoes. Then come inside if you've got a notion to.”

Travis and Shank lifted the plants from the truck bed and laid them where Leonard said. As they approached the door Travis watched where the Plotts had vanished under the trailer. He didn't lift his eyes until he reached the steps. Inside, it took Travis's vision a few moments to adjust, because the only light came from a TV screen. Strings of unlit Christmas lights ran across the walls and over door eaves like bad wiring. A dusty couch slouched against the back wall. In the corner Leonard sat in a fake-leather recliner patched with black electrician's tape. A stereo system filled a cabinet and the music coming from the speakers didn't have guitars or words. Beside it stood two shoddily built bookshelves teetering with albums and books. What held Travis's attention lay on a cherrywood gun rack above the couch.

Travis had seen a Model 70 Winchester only in catalogs. The checkering was done by hand, the walnut so polished and smooth it seemed to Travis he looked deep into the wood, almost through the wood, as he might look through a jar filled with sourwood honey. Shank saw him staring at the rifle and grinned.

“That's nothing like the peashooter you got, is it?” Shank said. “That's a real rifle, a Winchester Seventy.”

Shank turned to Leonard.

“Let him have a look at that pistol.”

Shank nodded at a small table next to Leonard's chair. Behind the lamp Travis saw the tip of a barrel.

“Let him hold that sweetheart in his hand,” Shank said.

“I don't think so,” Leonard said.

“Come on, Leonard. Just let him hold it. We're not talking about shooting.”

Leonard looked put out with them both. He lifted the pistol from the table and emptied bullets from the cylinder into his palm, then handed it to Shank.