Vernon God Little (5 page)

‘I could sure use your bathroom. And maybe a bite to eat.'

‘We have joy cakes.'

‘
Joy
cakes?'

‘Don't ask.'

Ledesma grabs a handful of the tiny bottles from the floor, stuffing them into a pocket as he stretches into his overalls. He studies me through quick, black eyes. ‘Your mom's stressed today.'

‘This is one of her better days.'

He gives a laugh like asthma, ‘Hururrr, hrrr,' and slaps me on the arm. Kind of slap my dad used to give me, when he was feeling friendly. We move back over the road and up the driveway, but Ledesma stops by the wishing bench to adjust his balls. Then he shakes his head, and looks at me.

‘Vern – you're innocent, right?'

‘Uh-huh.'

‘I don't know why it gets to me, tch. All this shit raining down on you, I can't help thinking – what kind of fucking life is this?'

‘Tell me about it.'

He puts a hand on my shoulder. ‘I'd be prepared to help.'

I just stare at my New Jacks. To be honest, intimate moments aren't my scene at all, especially when you just saw a guy naked. Next thing you know you're in a fucken TV-movie, quivering all
over the place. I guess he senses it. He takes his hand away, tweaks his crotch again, and leans against the wishing bench, which sharply tilts away.

‘Shit,' he says, pulling back. ‘Can't you stand this somewhere flat?'

‘Yeah, like – back at the store.'

He laughs. ‘You should tell your story, little big man, clear your name – the world loves an underdog.'

‘What about the spot we just did, with Deputy Gurie?'

‘Tch – camera wasn't running.'

‘Get outta town.'

‘Call it a favor – between underdogs.'

‘You're an
underdog
?' Mrs Porter's door opens as I say it; Kurt's nose snuffles out.

‘Only underdogs and psychos in this world,' says Ledesma. ‘Psychos like that fat-assed deputy. Think about it.'

I don't think long. You have to quiver on TV, it's a fucken law of nature. You have to quiver and be fucken devastated all the time. I know it for sure, and you'd know it too if you saw Mom watching Court TV. ‘See how impassive he is, he chopped up ten people and ate their bowels but he doesn't show a care in the world.' I personally don't see the logic in having to quiver if you're innocent. If you ask me, people who don't eat your bowels are more likely to be impassive. But no, one learning I made is that juries watch the same shows as my ole lady. If you don't quiver, you're fucken guilty.

‘I don't know,' I say, turning to the porch.

Ledesma hangs back. ‘Don't underestimate your general public, Vern – they want to see justice being done. I say give them what they want.'

‘But, like – I didn't do anything.'

‘Tch, and who knows it? People decide with or without the facts – if you don't get out there and paint your paradigm, someone'll paint it for you.'

‘My
what
?'

‘Pa-ra-dime. You never heard of the paradigm shift? Example: you see a man with his hand up your granny's ass. What do you think?'

‘Bastard.'

‘Right. Then you learn a deadly bug crawled up there, and the man has in fact put aside his disgust to save Granny. What do you think now?'

‘Hero.' You can tell he ain't met my nana.

‘There you go, a paradigm shift. The action doesn't change – the information you use to judge it does. You were ready to crucify the guy because you didn't have the facts. Now you want to shake his hand.'

‘I don't think so.'

‘I mean figuratively, asshole,' he laughs, punching out six of my ribs. ‘Facts may seem black and white by the time they hit your TV screen, but professional teams sift through mountains of gray to get them there. You need positioning, like a product in the market – the jails are full of people who didn't manage their positions.'

‘Wait up, I have a witness, you know.'

Ledesma heads up the porch steps. ‘Yeah, and Deputy Lard-ass is so interested. Public opinion will go with the first psycho who points a finger. You're butt-naked, big man.'

We creak through the screen into the cool of the kitchen. Mom's here, all wiped dry with her frog mitt, a smudge of joy cake on one cheek. The other ole flaps are in the background acting natural.

‘Ladies!' says Lally, grinning. ‘This is how you lounge, while I'm outside like a slave?'

‘Oh, Mr Smedma,' says Mom.

‘Eulalio Ledesma, ma'am. Educated people call me Lally.'

‘Well can I get you a Coke, Mr Lesma? Diet, or diet-decaf if you prefer?' Mom loves it when important people call by, like the doctor and all. Her lashes flutter like dying flies.

Lally hoists his ass onto the kitchen bench, makes himself comfortable.
‘Thanks, just water for me – and maybe one of these cakes. Actually I have something exciting to share with you ladies, if you're interested.'

‘Wake me when it's over,' mutters Pam in back.

Lally pulls out the glass bottles, filled with like piss. ‘Siberian Ginseng Compound.' He jams one into my hand, winking. ‘Better than Viagra.'

‘Hee, hee,' go the girls.

‘So, Lally,' says Mom, ‘do you sleep in the van, or . . .?'

‘Right now I do – motels are full between here and Austin. I hear some generous townsfolk are taking in guests, but I haven't come across them yet.'

‘Well, ahem,' Mom looks down the hall. ‘I mean . . .'

‘Doris, you're not going to let Vernon drink that stuff, are you?' It's George's distraction technique, look at it. It gives me mixed feelings. I mean, I'm glad she interrupted my ole lady from inviting Ledesma to stay. But now everybody's attention snaps to me.

‘Oh, it's harmless,' says Lally. ‘Great stress-buster.'

George watches me fondle the phial. Her eyes narrow, which is a bad fucken sign. ‘Like you're
real
stressed, Vern. Got a job for the summer?'

‘Nah,' I say, downing the ginseng. It tastes like dirt.

‘Doris, you hear the Harris boy bought a truck? Paid cash for it too, a Ford truck.
All
the boys I know have summer jobs. Course, they all have
haircuts
too.'

‘It ain't a Ford,' says Brad from the floor.

‘Bradley,' says Betty, ‘I wish you wouldn't say “ain't”.'

‘Pluck off.'

‘Don't you talk to
me
like that, Bradley Everett Pritchard!'

‘Goddam
what
? I said “
Pluck
” for chrissakes, I mean,
shit
!' He spits and squirms across the rug, then stomps up to Betty and smacks her in the gut.

‘
Bradley!
'

‘Pluck off, pluck off, PLUCK
OFF
!'

I just stay quiet. Lally looks over, sees my eyes fixed longingly up the hall. He gulps his ginseng and says, ‘I appreciate your help, big man – maybe your room would be a better working environment.' He turns to Mom. ‘I hope it's no problem – Vern agreed to collate some local data for me . . .'

‘Oh, no problem Lally, gosh,' says Mom. ‘Quickly, Vern! Hear that girls? It's a job for Lally, he's colliding data for Lally!'

I scurry away like a pack of rats. ‘Only job he'll get looking like that,' says George. ‘Guilty-looking hair, if you ask me. And those shoes don't help none either, same shoes as that psycho Meskin . . .'

Fuck her. I kick a pile of laundry, and slam my bedroom door. What I'm seriously considering, in light of everybody's behavior, is just to evacuate through the laundry door; hop a bus to Nana's, and not even tell anybody. Just call up later or something. I mean, the whole world knows Jesus caused the fucken tragedy. But because he's dead, and they can't fucken kill him for it, they have to find a skate-goat. That's people for you. Me, I'd love to explain the sequence of events last Tuesday. But I'm in a bind, see. I have family honor to think of. And I have my ma to protect, now that I'm Man of the House and all. Anyway, whoever points a finger at me, just for being a guy's friend, has some deep remorse coming. Tears of fucken regret, when the truth comes marching in. And it always comes, you know it. Watch any fucken movie.

I still hear everybody through my bedroom door, talking like bad actors, the way they do. ‘It's a challenging time for everyone,' says Lally.

‘I know, I
know
.'

‘And Vaine's pushing things so hard,' says Leona. ‘Can't she sense our grief?'

George barks a cough. ‘My ole man's pushing
Vaine
hard – he gave her a month to pump some life into her conviction average, or she's history.'

‘You mean he'd throw her off the force,' asks Mom, ‘after all this time?'

‘Worse. He'd probably make her Eileena's assistant.'

‘Oh my God,' says Leona, ‘but Eileena's like – the
receptionist
. That's as low as
Barry's
job!'

‘Lower,' Pam chuckles darkly.

You hear a quiet gap. That means everybody's sighing. Then Mom goes, ‘Well this is sure a big month for Vaine. And I can't say it's going too well, the way she's handling Vernon and all.'

‘Tch,' goes Lally. ‘Maybe the dogs'll shed some light.'

‘Dogs?' asks Leona.

‘Sniffer dogs, from Smith County.'

‘Well but, what can
dogs
do now?' asks Mom.

‘Can I call you Doris?' asks Lally. His voice drops a tone. ‘You see, Doris, people are asking how anyone in their right mind could orchestrate such a rampage. They're starting to wonder if drugs were involved. If rumors about a drugs link are correct, these specialist dogs will tie it up as fast as cock a leg.'

‘Well
good
,' huffs Mom, ‘I feel like calling them over here right now, and putting a stop to this ridiculous business with Vernon.'

I take the drugs out of the shoebox in my closet, and drop them into my pocket. The joints leave my hand wet. Kurt barks outside.

T
o be fair,
the rumors about ole Mr Deutschman didn't say he'd actually dicked any schoolgirls. Probably just touched them and shit, you know. Real slime though, don't get me wrong. He used to be a school principal or something, all righteous and upstanding, back in the days before they'd bust you for that type of thing. Maybe even before talk shows, back when you'd just get ostracized by word of mouth. He probably used to get his hair cut at the fancy unisex on Gurie Street, with the coffee machine and all. But not anymore. Now he slinks through the valley behind the abattoir, to the meatworks barber shoppe. Yeah, the meatworks has its own barber on Saturdays. It's just ole Mr Deutschman and me here this morning. And Mom.

‘Well don't listen to Vernon, the unisex usually takes off a lot.'

Her head-scarf and shades supposedly make her invisible. The invisible twitching woman. Me, I wear the reddest T-shirt you ever saw, like a goddam six-year-old or something. I didn't want to wear it. She controls what you wear by keeping everything else damp in the laundry.

‘Well go ahead, sir, it'll only grow back.'

‘Hell, Ma . . .'

‘Vernon I'm only trying to help you out. We'll have to find you some decent shoes too.'

Sweat starts to pool in my ass. The lights are off, just one ray glows sideways through the door onto these green tiles. The air reeks of flesh. Flies guard two historical barber chairs in the middle of the room; white leather turned brown, cracked and hardened to plastic. I check them for arm clamps. I'm in one, Deutschman is in the other; his hands creep around under his gown. He seems happy
to wait. Then a whistle blows outside, and the meatworks' marching band assembles on the gravel in the yard. ‘Braaap, barp, bap,' band practice starts. One majorette I see through the door is about eighty-thousand years ole, her buns smack the backs of her legs as she marches. My eyes flee to a TV in the corner of the room.

‘Look, Vernon, he doesn't have arms or legs, but he's neatly groomed. And he has a
job
, look – he even invests on the stock market.'

They ask the kid on TV what it feels like to be so gifted. He just shrugs and says, ‘Isn't everybody?'

The barber mostly slashes mid-air; two halves of a fly hit the deck. ‘Barry was here. Said there could be a drugs link.'

‘A drug slink, yes,' says Mr Deutschman.

‘A drugs link, or another firearm.'

‘Another farm, uh-huh. I heard it was a panty cult – you hear it was a panty cult?'

On balance, today sucks. You don't want to be here if they find any drugs. So I'm here with two spliffs, and two acid pearls in my pocket; nasty gels, according to Taylor, like your mind would projectile-exit your nose if you took one. I tried to ditch them on the way down, but Fate was against me. Fate's always fucken against me these days.

Load my pack, and lope away is what I'll do; all crusty and lonely, like you see on TV. Ditch Taylor's dope, and lope away. More successfully than last night, with Lally and the world's media camped outside. I only got four steps away from my porch before they came a-sniffing. Now they think I take out the trash in my backpack. Last night was long, boy, long and shivery with ghosts and realizations. Realizations that I have to act.

‘Vaine's coming down with they dogs,' says the barber. ‘I'll tell her we need a SWAT team, with some of they automatic guns, that rip the meat off offenders' bodies, not any ole dogs.' Click, slash; he evens up my skull. I scan the floor for ears.

‘Meat's better'n dogs,' says Deutschman.

‘Sit still, Vern,' says Mom.

‘I have stuff to do.'

‘Well, Harris' store might take you on.'