Vernon God Little (18 page)

‘Ma, slow up –
deputies
came?'

‘Uh-huh, around four-thirty. They were okay, I don't think Lally said anything yet.'

‘So what'd you tell them?'

‘I said you were with Dr Goosens. They said they'd check you at the clinic tomorrow.'

The Lechugas' teddy farm seems ole and squashed when I wake up next morning. Another Tuesday morning, two weeks after That Day. The shade under their willow is empty. Kurt is quiet, Mrs Porter's door is closed. Beulah Drive is clean of strangers for the first time since the tragedy. June is barely underway, but it's as if summer's liquor has evaporated, leaving this dry residue of horror. At ten-thirty the phone rings.

‘Vernon, that'll be the power company – when can I tell them you'll have your advance from work?'

‘Uh – I don't know.'

‘Well, do you want me to call the Lasseens and see what the hold-up is? I thought they promised it to you on your first day . . .'

‘I'll have it tonight, tell them.'

‘Are you sure? Don't say it if you're not positive, I can call Tyrie . . .'

‘I'm sure.' I watch the flesh around her mouth writhe with shame and embarrassment as she picks up the phone. My head runs a loop of Ella's words at Keeter's. ‘Mr Deutschman'd even
pay
for it.' Proof that my mind hooked onto the idea, is that I pretended not to be interested. I just changed the subject. That's how you know the demon seed was planted.

‘Well hi Grace,' says Mom. ‘He says he'll have it tonight, definitely. No, he's starting late today – he's studying marketing dynamics for work. Oh fine, just fine – Tyrie's real happy with his progress – says he might even get promoted! Uh-huh. Uh-huh? No, no, I've spoken to Tyrie personally, and he's definitely getting paid – Hildegard's an old friend, so it's not a challenge. Oh really? I didn't know you knew her. Oh, well – tell her hi.' Mom's eyes sink back into her sockets, she turns dirty red. ‘What? Well if you could just hold them back until after lunch, I'd really appreciate it. The truck left already? Uh-huh. But if I give them cash when they get here, can't you stop them from . . .?'

Blood splurches like paste from both ends of my body, caking hard in grotesque spike formations that only happen to liars and murderers, and that my ole lady can see from the phone. Thoughts dance through my head that shouldn't be there. Simonize the Studebaker, for instance. Mom puts down the phone. Her eyes cut me loose in a raft.

‘The disconnection truck already set off for the day,' she says. Razorfish slash the fucken raft. Mom's eyebrows lean up on one elbow to watch. ‘I better call Tyrie.' She fumbles through the phonetable drawer for her address book. I stay on my stomach in front of the TV. Save me falling back down here when I'm fucken dead.

In between snatches of my video research, the news plays on TV. ‘Overshadows events in Central Texas,' says a reporter, ‘with official sources confirming this morning's tragedy in California as the worst of its kind so far this year. Condolences and aid continue to pour into the devastated community . . .'

‘Vernon, do you have the
Spares & Repairs
number?'

‘Uh – not right here.'

I don't look up. I hear you can get big money selling your kidneys, but my brain's stressed from wondering where to sell them. Maybe the meatworks. Who fucken knows. My only other plan, plan B, is the desperate plan. I browse through my daddy's ole videos for tips. For cream pie, actually, truth be told.
Close the Deal
is here, one of his favorites. One thing about my dad, he had every kind of plan to get rich.

‘Here it is – Hildy Lasseen,' says Mom. She shuffles back to the phone, and picks up the receiver. An important-sounding fanfare accompanies her, as the TV jumps from global to local news.

‘Mrs Lasseen doesn't work at the yard,' I say. ‘That's just their
home
number.'

‘No, the
Spares & Repairs
number is here too.' She starts to dial. All you hear is the TV in back.

‘Don't write Martirio off yet,' says a reporter, ‘that's the message from the team behind a new multimedia venture inspired by the struggle of our brave citizens – a venture its founder claims will spread the gospel of human triumph over adversity to every corner of the globe.'

‘Martirio is already synonymous with sharing,' says Lally. Mom squeaks. She throws down the phone. ‘Many a crucial lesson about loss, about faith, and justice, can still be shared, be made a gift of – a gift of hope and compassion to a needy world.'

‘But what do you say to those who accuse you of capitalizing on the recent devastation?' asks the reporter.

Lally's eyebrows sink to their most credible level. ‘Every tragedy brings lessons. Hardship is only repeated when those lessons
aren't learned. What we propose is to share our challenge, share the benefits of our struggle, in the hope that others can avoid those hard lessons for themselves. If we can save just one life, wherever it may be – we'll have been successful. Also remember that, being an interactive project, individuals across the planet will be able to monitor, influence, and support Martirio in its efforts, twenty-four hours a day, via the internet. I don't think anybody would call that a bad thing.'

‘Fair enough, but with the tragedy now behind us – do you really think there's still a market for a lifestyle show from what is, after all, only the barbecue sauce capital of Central Texas?'

Lally throws out his arms. ‘Who says the lesson's behind us? The lesson is still to come, we have perpetrators to be brought to justice, causes to be found . . .'

‘But surely the case is open and shut?'

‘Things may appear so from a media standpoint,' says Lally. ‘But if we share the expertise of my partner in the venture, Deputy Vaine Gurie, we'll discover things aren't always as they appear . . .'

Mom whimpers. ‘Lalito . . .?' She stretches her fingertips out to the screen.

‘So,' says the reporter, ‘you won't be relocating to California for the experiment, in light of today's tragic events?'

‘Certainly not, our investment is here. We believe the good citizens of Martirio will shine in their challenge, with the generous backing of the
Bar-B-Chew Barn
corporation of course, and in conjunction with the Martirio Chamber of Commerce.'

Leona's hamster-petting eyes leap to the screen. ‘Wow, how do I feel? It's just such a challenge, I never presented a show before . . .'

Mom's hand snaps back to her body. We both turn to the kitchen window. Under the rattle of the pumpjack, you hear the Eldorado on its way up the street. ‘Vernon, I'm not home if those fucking girls come up here – tell them I'm at Nana's, or no, better – tell them I'm at
Penney's
with my gold Amex . . .'

‘But, Ma, you don't even have . . .'

‘Just
do it
!'

She scurries up the hall like a blood clot, as Those Girls bounce into the driveway. The bedroom door slams. It's too fucken much for me. I just continue to flick through Dad's videos.
Cash Makes Cash
, and
Did You Ever See a Poor Billionaire?
I have to learn how to turn slime into legitimate business, the way it's my right to do in this free world. My obligation, almost, when you think about it. What I definitely learned just now is that everything hinges on the words you use. Doesn't matter what you do in life, you just have to wrap the thing in the right kind of words. Anyway, pimps are already an accepted thing these days, check any TV-movie. Lovable even, some of them, with their leopardskin Cadillacs, and their purple Stetsons. Their bitches and all. I can go a long way with what I already learned this morning from my daddy's library. Products and Services, Branding, Motivation. I already know I'll be offering a Service. I just have to Position and Package the thing.

‘Doris?' George lets herself through the kitchen screen. Betty follows. ‘Do-
ris
?'

‘Uh – she ain't here,' I say.

Leona wafts through the door behind them. ‘I bet she's in her room,' she says, shimmying right up the fucken hall. Suddenly I feel like one of those TV-movie secretaries when some asshole barges into the chairman's office, ‘Sir, you can't go in there . . .' But no, fucken guaranteed, Leona barges into Mom's room.

‘Hey,
there
you are,' she croons, like they just met at the Mini-Mart. ‘Did y'all hear – I got my own show!'

‘Wow,' sniffs Mom.

‘You ain't got it yet, honey,' hollers George from her armchair. ‘Not until Vaine raises the capital to partner up.'

‘Oh
goodnight
Georgie, she'll get it – she just got her own
SWAT team
, for God's sake.'

‘Uh-huh, and then appointed lard-bucket Barry to it, who's only a damn
jail guard
. I just hope by “SWAT” they mean “SWAT flies”.'

‘Heck, you're just miffed because the
Barn
went over the sheriff's head.'

‘Sure, pumpkin, like I'm
sooo
devastated,' says George. ‘I'm just sayin, a SWAT team don't qualify Vaine for goddam internet broadcasting, and it certainly don't give her the cash.' She pauses to suck half a cigarette into her chest. ‘And anyway – our lil' ole tragedy just got shot off its damn perch.'

Leona stomps back out of Mom's room, and throws her hands on her hips. ‘Don't you throw cold water on my big day, Georgette-Ann! Lalo says they won't have time to set up the
infrastructure
in California, not if we move fast.'

‘We-ell.' George launches a finger of smoke at the ceiling. ‘We-eell. I'll just try not to blink, in case I miss ole Vaine movin so fast.'

‘Look, it's gonna happen –
okay
?!'

‘Take one helluva new twist, is all I'm sayin.'

‘
George
– Lalo just happens to be aware of that fact,
wow
!' The thrust of the last word flicks Leona forward at the waist. She stays there awhile, to make sure it sticks. Then she chirps back into Mom's room. ‘Hey, did I tell you we're setting up Lalo's office in my den?'

Mom scurries into the hall. ‘Well I guess we've got time for one coffee, before I go to Penney's. Vern, isn't it time for work?'

‘Hey,' says Leona, ‘I can drop him.'

‘Loni, stop it,' says George. ‘But – he'll get there faster . . .'

‘Le-ona! It's just not fair.' George excavates a tunnel to Mom through her cigarette smoke. ‘Honey, I hate to tell you, but Bertram's sending someone to get the boy. The shrink turned him in.'

‘Well, but – Vern's making
money
now, why, he's getting
five hundred dollars
, just today . . .'

Leona shakes her head. ‘You shouldn't've told her, George.'

‘Oh sure, so you could take him via Lally, and film the arrest. Doris is our goddam
friend
, Leona.'

Mom's face peels off her head and hangs in tatters from her chin. ‘Well, but . . .'

I just get up off the floor. ‘Either way, I should go brush my hair.'

‘Well, there, see? He's a changed young man, with a high-powered job and all.'

I leave the ladies and slide up the hall, via Mom's room, to reload my backpack. I pack my address book, my jacket, and some small clothes. My player, and some discs. I remove the clarinet and skateboard. I don't think I'll be going past town anymore. I grab the pack and head out through the laundry door, without a word to the Forces of Evil. You can still hear my ole lady from the porch, struggling to pump cream into her pie.

‘Well I have to get to San Tone for the new fridge, and I'm getting a quote on one of those central-vac systems too, that plug right into anywhere in the house – I guess it's time to think about myself for a change, now that Vern has a career.'

From the bottom of the porch stairs I see a power company truck idling past the pumpjack, studying house numbers along the road. It jackrabbits to me, and starts to pull over. I just creak away on my bike.

N
obody will look twice at us,
I'm pretty sure of that. A boy and a girl on a bike. A boy in regular jeans, and a tangled blonde in a bluebonnet-blue dress. No smells on us, just like TV. I have my pack with me, so it could even look like we're selling things. Selling things is a good excuse around here.

‘Guess what?' yells Ella into my eardrum.

I stop by the side of the Johnson road to instruct her how to be a bicycle passenger without killing the driver. She lifts her dress to show me her clean white underwear. I only half pay attention, because it seems a troubled afternoon to me; gusts come threaded with thunder, and the horizon behind Keeter's is lit by a single strake of gold. Ella doesn't notice omens, you can tell she's just getting a kick out of today. Probably because she's in a business adventure with me. Fucken Ella, I swear to God. We're going to split the booty, although she says she ain't in it for the money. That's how fucken weird she is.

I get some waves about it. For all I know, Deutschman could be trying to quit schoolgirls, he could be on the schoolgirl wagon, taking one day at a time and all. And now – heeere's Ella. I make an effort to think more like my dad's videos. I mean, the client has an Unfulfilled Need, so – here's a Timely and Caring Service. What's more, part of our Extensive After-Sales Service is that nobody will ever know. It's a Market Gap, for chrissakes. But my conscience still calls me from Brooklyn. ‘Nah, Boinie,' it says. ‘Yez openin up a whole can a woims for da guy.' Then I think of Mom at home. Probably with the power off, probably getting laughed at, on account of her poverty, and her lack of fucken pizzazz. Localized smirking from douche-bag Leona. I'm committed.