Corrosion (12 page)

He wore a suit and a tie even though he didn’t have a dollar and a job, and he said, Hi there, Benton, buddy, how are things?

Well, I wasn’t sure if he was trying to trick me by acting all kind and polite, trying to get some top secret information out of me, so I didn’t answer, didn’t say anything at all.

Where’s your dad? he said, and it was more of an accusation than a question.

Stiffly: Well, I can’t say that I know.

What about your mom?

Resting.

I could tell that Uncle Horace wasn’t satisfied, wasn’t satisfied at all. He adjusted his tie and smoothed out his mustache and said: I haven’t seen her in some time, and frankly I’m a little bit concerned. I’ve heard some things. Some rumors. Figured I’d check things out.

Like I said, she’s resting. She’s not well.

But Uncle Horace just stood there studying me with those rat eyes, the same rat eyes as Dad’s, and I suddenly had a terrible feeling that he was something terrible and would do something terrible to all of us.

Do you want me to tell her something? I said.

I’d like to tell her myself.

Well, I said, I guess that’s not possible. I guess you should be going.

But he didn’t go, not for some time, just stood there asking questions, difficult questions, saying that something was not right, saying that the mountain folk were sure starting to talk, saying that my father was sure acting suspicious, and I tuned out what he was saying and imagined that I was the Soldier and I was battle ready, firing my AK-57 with one hand, dragging out the wounded with the other. Shirt torn and bloody, bullet lodged in my shoulder. These are my boys! I’m shouting. They’ve got homes, families! They ain’t dying under my watch!

Want me to tell you what they’re saying? Uncle Horace asked.

Not interested, I said. Don’t care. They don’t know us. They don’t know who we really are.

You’re wrong, boy.
You
don’t know who you really are.

And that got me thinking, because it was a philosophical statement for sure, how we don’t ever really know who we are, how we let ourselves be defined by our enemies, and eventually Uncle Horace left but not before he scolded me some more and told me we’d better clean up our house, because it was sure a disgrace. But I didn’t tell him a thing about the the Christ Rat and his coming resurrection, because he would have used that against my father and they would have dragged him to the Castle with all the screaming and wailing and moaning and screaming…

CHAPTER 17

And then there was the smell. I didn’t notice it right away but that was probably because it happened gradually like when fruit sits in a hot kitchen for too long, not all of a sudden like when somebody takes a crap in your living room. And by the time I did notice the smell, I guess you could say it was too late because Dad was too far gone to do anything about it, and Mother was not well, what with the way the disease had ravaged her body, and the last thing that I wanted to do was go to the basement and deal with the dead Christ Rat and all his prophets because I hated rats—did you know they can go for twenty days without sleeping and their teeth never stop growing and some rats grow to eight pounds, did you know that?

So I spent most of my time outside of the house and I went to school sometimes, and I watched Constance when I could. Nobody understood what I felt for her, not even Constance herself. I knew that I would never let her go and if anybody gave me a hard time, I would show them a thing or two because now I was carrying a knife in my jacket pocket—an old Browning hunter with a gut hook.

And when I was feeling at my lowest, when I felt like I was ready to explode, I would hike out in the mountains and get away to my new sanctuary, the old mining cabin. I called it the Skull Shack—death to anybody who entered and that kind of stuff. I was loading the place up with canned food and blankets and knives and pillows and back issues of
Fight to the Finish
, just in case I needed to go into hiding from all the infidels skulking through Silverville.

There was this one night when the old man stood behind me and I could tell he’d been drinking what with the way he stank of cheap bourbon and cheaper stogies. When I turned around, I saw that his face was all pale and waxy and his mouth was fixed into a terrible grin. He was just a hunchback skeleton, his skull balanced on a wobbly cervical vertebrae. You been sneaking around? he said, his voice quiet and lilting, offering a false sense of comfort. I just shook my head and said, no sir. He placed his bony hand on my shoulder and said, your mother has gotten even sicker. You might not be able to see her for some time still.

Then I was mad and I asked him about the rats and his experiments and had he given up on finding a cure? Was he just going to let her die without a fight? But Dad avoided my question and instead he talked about religion and God. He said: I used to not believe in him, just thought it was a bunch of superstition, that there wasn’t an ounce of scientific proof that I could rely on. But now I’m a changed man. Now I’m a true believer!

What happened? I asked. What type of revelation did you have?

Yes, revelation. That’s a good word for it, Benton. The revelation came from seeing what’s happened to your mom, from seeing what’s happened to this world. Now I’m certain that there is a Supreme Being; it’s the only explanation. Only he isn’t kind and benevolent, our Lord, he is hateful and malicious, nothing but an ornery child stomping on an anthill!

And then, without saying another word, he reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a bronze skeleton key and proceeded to unlock and push open the bedroom door. Sensing an opportunity, I tried entering, tried pushing past him, but he was prepared for that, and he shoved me backward and slammed shut the door. And despite my pounding and pleading and sobbing, the door remained locked, and I didn’t see my father for another three days and I didn’t see my mother for another four weeks.

* * *

Well, I’ll tell you this: that dead Christ Rat stank. Yes, he stank so bad, I could hardly see straight, and every time I’d step into the house, the bile would coat my throat. You wouldn’t have thought an animal that small could give off such a stench, but I am living witness that it could, and the proof came when I was pulled out of class by the school counselor, and she sat me in her office and said this is a very difficult subject to broach but there have been several complaints made by other students about your personal hygiene and, in particular, about your odor, and I have to agree with them, you certainly do smell, Benton, you smell something awful. And they dragged me out of school kicking and screaming, and said don’t you dare come back until you’ve sterilized yourself in some boiling water! And if that episode wasn’t proof enough, what about when the little man and his little wife from down the road showed up at our house with their bottles of Lysol, thinking we couldn’t see them, spraying like lunatics at the base of the house while my old man stood at the window, pulling the curtains back so he could watch them, mumbling beneath his whiskey breath: They’ll get what’s coming to ’em, that they will.

And then the stench faded, but I guess the suspicions did not, because one snowy morning, a few weeks later, Uncle Horace came knocking at our door, and I’m here to tell you that they were the loneliest three knocks you ever did hear. The old man was sitting on the couch, sipping on bourbon, reading a dog-eared copy of the
American Journal of Medicine
, while I was illustrating my own version of
Fight to the Finish
, involving Constance Durban as a hostage forced to do terrible things by the Arabs before the Soldier cuts all their throats and rescues her. When he heard the knocking, my dad looked up slowly and stared at that door for a long time. Then he nodded at me, said, open the door, young man. It’s about time we had a visitor.

I was feeling uneasy, but what else could I do but follow the old man’s orders? Horace Faulk stood on the porch wearing that same tattered suit as before. His mustache was thicker and bushier than last time, and the rest of his face was in need of a shave. He was wearing gold-rimmed spectacles that rested on the tip of his narrow nose. His graying hair was wild and unruly. In his bony hands he held a leather-bound book, which I do believe was a King James Bible. I didn’t say a thing, just stood there, blocking Uncle Horace from entering. Hello, again, Benton. I’d like to speak with your father.

I told him no because my father had warned me about letting the self-righteous bastard inside, but he was dogged and refused to move from the porch. That’s when the old man rose to his feet, his face half-hidden by shadows. He took a couple of steps forward, shielding his eyes from the daylight. His upper lip rose into a snarl of hatred. What do you want, Horace? I don’t believe that you’re all that welcome in my house.

Where is she, Flan?

Where is who?

Catherine.

She’s sick.

How sick?

Sick.

Then Father grinned and it was an awful grin, and he said, she’s so sick that you might not ever get to place your filthy fingers inside of her again.

Uncle Horace shook his head. I never touched your wife.

That’s not what I heard.

You’re crazy, Flan. You need help.

I think it’d be best if you left now, Dad said.

But Uncle Horace took a step forward and tried peering into the living room. Dad sensed his aim and hobbled over to block him. Get the hell away from my property or I’ll call the sheriff. And Uncle Horace might have listened to his warning, might have turned around and walked away, but then his eyes came to rest on the wooden mantel where the sun reflected off Mom’s diamond engagement ring.

Now I guess the sight of the ring must have stirred some new suspicions inside of Uncle Horace, because despite the old man’s warnings, he took another step forward and then another. Dad suddenly seemed weak and old, and he said, just leave me be, please just leave me be. But Horace looked up at him with hatred in his eyes and then reached back with his arm and lunged forward, his open palm connecting with Dad’s face. It wasn’t much of a blow, but Dad wasn’t expecting it, I can tell you that much, because he tripped over his own feet and went tumbling onto the hardwood floor, jaw bouncing. Without waiting another moment, Horace staggered into the house toward the bedroom, and he’d almost reached it when the old man recovered, got to his knees, grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him down. Then he placed his bony red hands around his throat and started squeezing harder and harder, trying, I do believe, to kill his own brother.

While my father was struggling with Horace, I noticed that the room key had fallen out of the old man’s trouser pocket and I was overcome by morbid curiosity. I snatched the key off the floor and walked slowly to the bedroom, which you can hardly blame me for doing because I hadn’t seen my mother in such a long time.

I unlocked the door and pushed it open and then I wished I hadn’t because she was lying on the canopy bed, naked, her hands held stiffly at her side, her once beautiful black hair fallen in clumps on the pillow. Flies and maggots were crawling on her darkened body, her eyes were just empty sockets, and I was laughing and screaming and praying all at once.

CHAPTER 18

The moon shattered into a million pieces and Father plotted his move, saying, if they think they can prevent a man from going to his own wife’s funeral, if they think they can prevent a man from mourning in the proper way, they’ve got another thing coming! I’ll be damned if I allow them to turn me into some sort of pariah when all I did, all I ever did, was love and honor. It was my life’s work finding a cure for that woman, my life’s work! And that after she had fornicated with my brother and all the rest of them. Still, I loved and honored. And what did all the rest of them do for her, tell me that? Well, I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you exactly what they did for her: not a goddamn thing! And now they’re going to try and punish me? And now they’re going to say, well Flan Faulk, it’s time you stay home, it’s time you stay away, we’ll take care of the burial, yes we will? Well, I’ll tell you something, Benny Boy, we’re not going to go quietly! We’re not going to go peacefully!

And I knew better to argue with the old man because when he got his mind made up, he was awful stubborn, so he made his plans and I went right along with them even though I knew it was a mistake, even though I knew it would lead to him being dragged away to the Castle…

* * *

So here’s how things looked on this particular December morning: Outside the snow was falling and the mountain was as quiet as a Mormon whorehouse, as they say. I got dressed in my bedroom and then took a look in the mirror at the gangly boy with shoulder-length hair, pale skin, and a hobo suit, and I wanted to laugh, I wanted to break down and laugh, but I knew my father might hear me and take the belt out maybe. Before leaving, I snorted some snuff and drank a healthy portion of newly stolen Jelínek’s plum brandy, so I felt stuffed full of fairies and harps and Christmas cheers. I shouted out a good-bye but my father didn’t answer; he was in the basement, planning, plotting, plotting.