Vernon God Little (36 page)

Lally reels in a wild circle, confused, caressing the rifle, erasing Mom's fingerprints, and her worries, forever. As Taylor Figueroa ducks out of the helicopter with a news cameraman, Lally raises
the rifle and cries in an unearthly tone. ‘
Ma
-mi,' he bawls, finding the trigger with both hands. ‘
Mamá!
'

Watch out Taylor, like – oh my
God
!

‘
Open fire!
' Vaine screams to her team.

Lally's face is a mask I fucken adore, suspended in time forever as slugs whistle and pierce the evening sky. He dances mid-air as chunks of his body pelt down like rain, before the bulk of him thuds twitching to the ground. Leona Dunt's Eldorado has to swerve off the track to avoid him.

‘Wow, but is it supposed to be hidden, like –
in
the shit?' asks Leona, pouring out of the car in a cloud of tobacco smoke.

‘I think Nancie means the
story
about the shit is what's valuable,' coughs Betty, ashing a cigarette into the dust. ‘Just the
evidence
of the shit, the
story
rights . . .'

‘Honey,' says George, ‘a bonanza is a bonanza, whether it's
in
or
on
or
about
the shit, now hand me that flashlight . . .'

‘Golly,' says Betty, scraping through the bushes around my den. ‘Looks like somebody's been here already . . .'

My vision dissolves, my mind shimmers back to the gurney and I find myself still alive, teeth clenched into a smile. That's some fucken anesthetic, boy. I look over to see the guards nod to each other in readiness. As the day's first thunder crackles outside, I turn to wink at Ella through the glass. Then I close my eyes. I wait for the deep to claim me, for the cool in my arm to turn icy, or not to turn at all, to just vanish through the glare with everything around, including lumpy ole asshole me.

Sailing

Takes me away

To where I've always heard it could be

Just a dream and the wind to carry me

And soon I will be free . . .

Suddenly, a cannonade of noise swells through the windows and cracks, down the stairs and ducts of the jail, a thousand voices
and fists and feet triggered by some invisible cue. My eyes pop open to see if God, or the devil, has come to claim my slimy soul. Instead, Abdini bursts into the witness area, followed be a horde of cameramen. The whole jail must be watching it live on TV. Abdini has a dirty brown ball of paper in one hand, and a melted candle in the other. He holds them up to the glass, singing, jumping. It's Nuckles's notes, the ones I used to wipe my ass that fateful day. ‘Test prove it!' he cries.

A phone rings out back. After a moment I crane to see Jonesy toddle into the chamber, shaking his head. He leans over the end of the gurney, cups his hands to his mouth.

‘Little – your pardon came through.'

T
he ladies study the envelope
like it was the body of a dead baby.

‘Definitely one of those Italian cars, a
Romeo and Juliet
or whatever,' says George.

‘I know,' says Betty, ‘but why send the brochure to Doris's?'

‘Honey, it doesn't say
Doris
on the front, it says
Leona
. Just the
address
is Doris's.'

‘But
why
?'

George shakes her head. ‘Loni wants us to know she's getting one of those sports cars, I guess.'

Betty tightens her lips, and tuts awhile. ‘I
know
, but why doesn't she just come over, like always, or even just call? Maybe she went to have the implants after all . . .'

George blows a plume of smoke, finishing with a ring that travels up and over the
Central-Vac
box on the rug. ‘Betty, don't piss me off, okay? You know damn well why.'

‘Oh
Lord
,' scowls Betty. ‘But that's her
ex
-
ex
-husband, the tragedy was nothing to do with
her
...'

George rolls her eyes. ‘I know, I
know
, but some people might question the quality of a marriage that left a man chasing teenage boys for kicks – you have to admit that's
out there
even for
Marion Nuckles
, never mind the phony shrink he hooked up with. And goddammit to hell, Betty, now you've got me saying “I know.”'

‘I
know
.'

George clicks her teeth. Then their eyes meet, and they start to froth with helpless laughter.

‘Girls, it's here!' calls Mom through the kitchen. ‘It's the side-by-side!' She tries to keep her mouth pointed down, in mourning for Lally, but her eyes give her away. My ole lady just loves being in mourning. It's one of her needs, I guess. Bent ole kitten.

I hear Brad hollering up the hall, so I slink into the kitchen where a pile of media paperwork sits on the bench, along with some contracts from my agent. On top of the pile is a faxed cover of next week's
Time
magazine – the headline reads: ‘Stool's Out!' The picture shows the dried remains of my crap, wrapped in Nuckles's class papers, sitting in a scientific laboratory. Behind it, Abdini proudly holds up the note Jesus left in the den, for Nuckles and Goosens, the lovers and internet entrepreneurs. ‘You sed it was love you batsards,' reads the note, in his ole baby scribble. My eyes drop for Jesus. One thing, though: his note inadvertently granted a big ole want for Nuckles and Goosens. Now they'll have all the boys they could wish for, up there in prison. Somehow you sense they might be doing a little more receiving than giving, though. But hell. As Nuckles himself would say – ‘Beggars can't be choosers.'

Farther along the kitchen bench lies a copy of today's paper, with the headline: ‘Old Familiar Feces.' The picture shows Leona out at Keeter's, holding lumps of shit in her hands. Farther down still is an article about Taylor. She'll be fine. Just maybe not filling her panties the way she used to. Maybe they can implant a silicon butt-cheek or something, who knows?

Mom bunts me over the porch and down to the wishing bench, where the man from the morgue hovers. ‘Let me shake your hand, son,' he says, ‘your daddy would've been mighty proud.'

‘Thank you,' I say, breathing in the clear blue day.

‘Yessir, that was some turnaround. What's your secret?'

‘I went down on my knees and prayed, sir.'

‘Mighty fine,' he says, turning to Mom. ‘And ma'am – I think we can process that earlier insurance matter just now – the body clearly can't be found.'

‘Well thank you, Tuck,' says Mom, running a hand over her wishing bench.

‘Mr Wilmer!' calls George from the porch. ‘See what you can do for that poor woman in Nacogdoches . . .'

‘Be my pleasure, Mrs Porkorney – you take care now, y'hear?'

After he turns away, Mom frowns at the fridge box being wheeled up the driveway. She frowns extra-hard, not just on account of being a double widow, but because Leona taught her not to show too much joy over new goods. You have to pretend they don't matter, that's what she taught her, that and how to throw her head back when she laughs. Doesn't fool me, though.

I lean over the bench and soak up Mom's clammy warmth. When the ladies join us, Mrs Lechuga comes to her window across the street. She sends a little wave, and I realize who's missing, for the full set of dice in my life – Palmyra. But, hey – I guess it ain't every day you get to play pinball on
Oprah
.

‘Vern,' says Betty, ‘Brad's just desperate to show you his birthday present.'

I try to nod politely, but my eyes snag on some dappled pink flesh behind the willows up the street. It's Ella with her suitcase. She wears a wool sweater over a loose cotton dress that swishes full of honey breeze. She grins when she sees me watching her. I told her I'd send a car, but she insisted on taking one last walk through town, crazy girl. Anyway, we'll be back. Mexico ain't so far.

‘Kurt,
stay
!' Ole Mrs Porter bangs through her screen, and struggles down the lawn with a table full of knitted toys. Then, as I cross the driveway to meet Ella, Brad thumps onto the porch behind us.

‘B-ooom!
Suck shit muthafucka!
'

‘That better not be loaded,' says Betty. ‘
Bradley Pritchard!
Don't you point that thing, or it'll go right back to the store!'

I ignore him by rubbing lips with Ella. Then we both turn to watch Mrs Porter stand her toys by the roadside. She's setting up a fucken stall for chrissakes. We just swallow giggles.

‘Ma'am,' I call over the road. ‘Mrs Porter!'

She cocks her head, in a kindly way, and flaps a little wave.

‘Everybody's gone, Mrs Porter. Everything's back to normal . . .'

THE END

 

Acknowledgements

 

Give me a spirit that on this life's rough sea

Loves t'have his sails filled with a lusty wind
,

Even till his sail-yards tremble, his masts crack
,

And his rapt ship run on her side so low

That she drinks water, and her keel ploughs air.

George Chapman

Love to Katz for gently stitching and filling such fine new sails; to my parents and family for this taste for the sea; and to all whose faith opened space beneath a ragged keel.

To the Burnbury Court of Miracles: Strawberries to Dawn & Mark, who practiced friendship with the stealth many reserve for crime; Lisa for energy and chocolate; Bubbles & Frog, who didn't put me up in Hong Kong; Val Wilson, Martinez, and the Cavendish milieu for enlightenment and vodka; to the CWs – Hawker Siddeley!

May the Watras be with Hog, Hildegard, and all Bara crew;
Abrazos pa Toño y los cuates – ora si verda carnales
; to Junius and family for longevity of faith; Lynn Pearce & family for mindful encouragement; to all whose shores remain littered with my sins – this could be the handle of a mop . . .

Special thanks to Clare Conville, of Conville & Walsh, Lee Brackstone and all at Faber and Faber, for the vigor with which they hoisted this sheet to the breeze, and to Grant Stewart, whose keen eye first sighted the craft approaching.

P.S. Gumby – still want that assassination?