No Story to Tell (34 page)

The price of the pot had started justifiably low and risen frantically on waving arms and seething faces to where it was now trading at a multiple premium of its worth. No one appeared to care. The crowd cheered or jeered each new bid, the three women frothing with the quest of attainment. Finally, the competition tired and Mrs. Lyncroft surged into the lead, captured her prize and raised it overhead like Olympic gold. Today was a day to celebrate. Never mind tomorrow when she’d search through the catalogue and find she could have ordered a new one for less than half the price.

Bobby was butting in now, Elliot’s story reminding him of one of his own, although he didn’t seem to make the connection that while Elliot’s had stemmed from the adventures of a real life, his own was nothing more than an old joke.

“Hey. Hey. I got one. There’s this guy, eh. Jus’ bin married and him an his wife they’s driving down the road—”

“Naw, not that one, Bobby,” Peter whined. “Tell the other one. That hooker that worked as a nun one.”

“It was a nun who worked as a hooker, peckerhead,” corrected John Jr.

“Whatever. Tells him that one, Bobby.”

“Can’t never 'member that one.”

“Can’t 'member it? Ya got shit fer brains or what?” John Jr. spat beside Peter’s foot and slapped Bobby’s arm for a drink of his whiskey.

“You jus’ never bloody mind what I got fer brains.” He reached over and retrieved his bottle, attempting without success to straighten himself on the stair.

“So anyhow, they’s driving along and all-a-sudden his dog starts howling and whining and carrying on in the back of the truck, eh? Bugger hollars back at it to shut the hell up an sure 'nuff the bitch settles right down. Guy turns to his wife. ‘That’s once,’ he says. Keeps on driving.”

He paused here to fumble a cigarette into his slack mouth. “All a sudden, you can’t bloody believe it, eh, frig-gin’ mutt starts up again. Whining and crying an’ carrying on. Well, that’s it. Bugger’s pissed right bloody off now. Pulls the truck over, jumps out—”

“Hey, Bobby . . . pass me a slosh will ya?”

“Petey ya dumb-assed dickhead! Will ya shut the hell up? You’re wrecking my friggin’joke!”

“I jus’ wanted a—”

Bobby answered him with a smack that knocked his cap into the lilac bush and scattered what little was left of his hair.

“Now, where was I?”

“He just got out of his truck,” Elliot replied as he retrieved Peter’s hat and handed it back to him.

“Did he have his rifle?”

“Don’t think so.”

“Okay. Well, he grabs it eh, goes to the back of the truck, BOOM! Blows the friggin’ dog away. All over hell and back, hey?” The edges of his mouth began to fan upward with the promise of expectant laughter. “Gets back in the truck and holy shee-it if his woman don’t start freaking out on him. Whining and crying and carrying on. Bugger takes one look at her, hollers ‘Shut up bitch.’ Pulls the bloody truck back on the road says, ‘That’s once.’ Ya get it?” He exploded with laughter. “‘That’s once,’ he says. Same’s the dog!”

Elliot smiled dryly, looked at Victoria his eyes opened in mock exclamation. Bobby’s mood soured dramatically when he found himself laughing a solo.

“Hey! What’s the matter with you? Didn’t ya git it, or what?”

“Ya. Ya, I think I got it.”

“Why ain’t ya laughing then? You got a problem with my joke?”

“No. No, I don’t have a problem with your joke. I just didn’t find it particularly funny. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Ya just didn’t git it, did ya?” Peter sneered. “He jus’ didn’t git it did he JJ? Dumb as that other potlicker we hadda explain it to.”

“That was you ya dumb-shit,” John Jr. shot back.

“Bull-shit JJ! Wasn’t me. Was that friggin’ what’s-his-face. I got it first time I bloody heard it I did.” He jutted his chin accusingly at Elliot. “You didn’t git it though, did ya?”

Elliot looked around, assessed the situation and nodded. “Yep. Guess you’re right Peter. Maybe I didn’t. Anyhow, looks like this sale is about sold.”

The group of them started to make their way across the emptying yard toward the vehicles, Peter still questioning Elliot on why he didn’t shoot the lion when he had the chance. Bobby kept his arm locked around Victoria in an iron embrace.

“You guys need a lift back to town?” Elliot offered.

Bobby squinted at the others thickly to see if any of them had understood the question. “What fer? We got my truck.”

“Hmm. Don’t think you might have had a tad too much to be thinking about driving?”

“Whoo-ee!” Bobby bellered like a bull-calf on branding day. “You sound just like my friggin’ granny. Us boys drink twice the hell as much as a fella like you, still drive ten times as good.”

“Hope so,” Elliot replied as he slipped Victoria the hint of a wink.

“Drive ten times better’n any city boy anyway, drunk or sober. Ain’t that right, Petey?”

“Oh ya, Bobby. You’re friggin’ Superman. Just won’t mention what the hell ya did to my garbage cans.” Peter, after a lifetime of abuse was not one to forgive and forget, not one to concede when a point could be taken.

“Hey, asshole. Leave the buggers in the middle of the road . . . whadda ya expect?”

“Ya managed by them just fine on your way into the yard,” he challenged back, moving just beyond belting distance.

“You criticizing my driving skills?”

“Criticizing more than that. You got stuck in the garden twice for ya got your ass turned around.”

“Wasn’t stuck, ya little dwarf pecker. Ya ain’t never stuck long as ya still’s moving.”

“Ya was only moving ’cause Samson an me was pushing ya.”

“Ya. Wasn’t stuck then, was I? You wanna criticize my driving maybe ya better put some money where your yap is.”

Victoria looked up quickly into Bobby’s drunken, frozen face.

“Bobby, don’t be stupid. You’re way too drunk to—”

“Yee-haw,” whooped Peter, “even your woman don’t think you can drive!”

“That so?” Bobby lurched sideways toward his truck, roughly pulling Victoria with him. “Guess she best come along and see how much she don’t know then, hey?”

“Bobby, don’t. Please,” she pleaded quietly as she tried to twist away without drawing any more attention to herself. “I have my car, Bobby. I have to take it home.”

Seeing the pain in Victoria’s face, Elliot stepped forward, his body steeled, jaw tight.

“Hey, Bobby. Come on now. Let her go. I think she’s made it pretty clear she’d rather not ride with you right now.”

“That so?” Bobby snarled back in surprise. He was not used to being openly challenged on his own turf. “So, just what the hell you planning to do about it, huh?”

“Not planning on doing anything about it, okay? She has her own car here. Why not just let her drive that home?”

“Cause it ain’t safe. She ain’t even bloody ’sposed to be driving it yet, that’s why!” he hollered violently.

Victoria avoided Elliot’s eyes.

“Well, look. Why don’t I give her a ride home, then? If you don’t mind.”

“Mind! Why the hell should I mind?” Bobby blustered, fear boiling up alongside the rage filling his mind. “Hey, Vic. That what you want to do? You want to get a ride home with this here guy, huh?” His thumb bruised hard into the bones of her wrist and she bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry out. Then suddenly, he let her go. For one fragile breath freedom bloomed within her then perished just as quickly.

“Hey, Vic. You wanna play cards?”

“Bobby, no—” Victoria whispered frantically.

“No? Why not? You liked it last time we played, didn’t ya?”

“Bobby, please. Don’t—” she pleaded, Bobby ignoring her as he swung open the door of his truck and dug something silver out from behind the seat.

“Holy shit, Bobby,” exhaled John Jr. “Put that fricken’ thing down before someone gets hurt. You goddam crazy?”

“Don’t know, JJ. Maybe I am. Whadda you think, Vic? You think you’re married to a crazy man or what?” He loosely waved the revolver around and laughed.

“Oh, my god, Bobby. Don’t. There’s kids—” Victoria whispered, hysterical voices rising around her as horrified parents shoved crying children into vehicles and quickly drove away with one frantic eye on the rearview mirror.

Electricity sizzled around them, tense breathing driving like pistons through the constricted air. Seeking out Sam’s face she held his gaze for a desperate moment. A thousand words could not have hoped to articulate what passed silently between them, and slowly Sam’s head began to lower, his mismatched eyes sliding shamefully away.

“So? Whadda ya think, Vic?” Bobby sneered, the gun now nestled into the folds of his crossed arms. “You wanna play cards again or not?”

“No, Bobby. You know I don’t.”

“You sure?”

Dropping her head, she nodded back tears.

“You think you’re married to a goddamn crazy man or what?”

Victoria looked at Elliot helplessly, then shook her head. “Of course not, Bobby. Now, just put the gun down, okay?”

“You still thinking of going home with this here joker?” Bobby flicked his head toward Elliot who stood in appalled disbelief at the scene unfolding before him.

Hot tears slid free of her eyes as she looked at the ground and shook her head.

The air began to move again as Bobby finally lowered the revolver and took a drink of his whiskey. She heard Elliot clear his throat and speak softly, his voice imploring her to look up at him, but she could not.

“This isn’t right, Victoria—” he said gently.

“Leave her alone, priss-ass! She’s fine,” Bobby yelled. “You’re just fine, ain’t you, Vic? Ain’t you?”

Victoria’s head gave an almost imperceptible nod.

“Victoria, I can—”

“You can’t do nothing!” Bobby fumed, snapping the gun up toward Elliot.

“Jesus, Bobby! Come on. Settle down with that thing—” Sam ventured carefully.

“I’ll settle down once this city-prick gets out of my face.”

“Think you better get outta here,” Peter advised from his hiding spot behind the truck.

Elliot stood his ground. “You deserve more than this, Victoria. I hope you know that.”

She listened as he began to walk away, his words crucifying her heart with each step he took.

Pushing her toward the truck, Bobby commanded her to get in while he rummaged in a case on the floor, found a warm and somewhat skanky beer, and cracked it open with his teeth. Crawling across to the middle of the seat she scraped a patch clear to sit in and hugged her arms around herself as she started shaking, Bobby and John Jr. crushing into the spaces on either side.

John Jr. looked hard over at Bobby.

“What?”

“What? What the frick you think,
what?
”

“What? That?”

“Yeah. That.”

“Wasn’t nothing, JJ. I was just jerking that priss-ass’s chain.”

“Yah? Well, don’t be doing it again.”

Bobby laughed edgily. “Okay, grandma,” he said in an attempt to make light of the situation as he started the truck, spun a donut then accelerated out of the yard.

The sign was a local landmark erected by optimistic forefathers to mark their town’s growth. Following the main road, it’d take about three-quarters of an hour to reach, but Bobby, adrenaline still pumping furiously, was impatient to prove what he considered was his legendary status as a marksman with a beer bottle. Roaring across several cow pastures and straight through one fence, he created his own shortcut instead. Someone, no one could remember exactly who, although the boys each claimed responsibility, had taken a can of spray paint and whited out part of the sign, leaving the population at a grand total of two. Years of abuse by projectiles hurled from passing vehicles had slowly chipped away at the center of the sign until Hinckly’s
N
was completely obliterated.

“How much?” Bobby slurred over at John Jr.

“How much you wanna lose, numb-nuts?”

“Case . . . two cases. An a mickey if I git the j
N
.”

John Jr. expelled a gritty laugh, snapped the cap off a beer and flicked it across the cab. “Ya stupid potlicker. You be lucky to even hit the friggin’ sign, never mind the
N
.”

“Hey, I think you’s forgetting who nailed the bitch last time. Hey? Who was that, huh?” Bobby had pulled the truck around to face back toward town, and they sat in the middle of the road now, Bobby gunning the motor till the truck shook.

“Quit revving the shit out of her, or we’ll end up walking back to town.”

“Rev the shit outta her iffin’ I want. Shut up and pass me a beer.”

John Jr. hammered his fist on the back window and an opened beer was dutifully passed forward and chugged down by Bobby as the others hooted and cheered and egged him on. Enjoying a sizable belch, Bobby slid his foot from the brake and the truck fishtailed angrily, almost throwing Peter clear out of the back.

Stomping the gas pedal into the floor, he pressed as hard as he could, as if by sheer force he could propel the vehicle faster. Slowly the road, the trees, the gravel began to swish by in a blur as the sign began to come into focus before them. Leaning his bulk into his door, Bobby pressed as much of his flesh through the window as he could manage, the empty bottle held tightly in his left hand.