In the Night Season (11 page)

The boy tried to glare at him.

“We were talking about you and your daddy,” Travis said. “Remember?”

“My—mother—” The boy coughed again, attempted to draw air in.

“Mom’s safe.”

He sobbed, fighting it with everything in himself.

“Tell me about your daddy and you,” said Travis.

“I’m not talking to you.”

“You and your daddy were close. You told me that.”

The boy said nothing, still fighting back tears. The tears rolled down his cheeks. He felt them and closed his eyes.

Travis walked over and wiped the tears away with one rough index finger. “Sure. And you miss him. Tell me some of the stuff you used to do with him.”

Jason looked at him defiantly.

The fat man stepped closer and seemed to squint. “Come on, kid.”

“Just stay out of it, Bags,” said Travis.

“I could get it out of him.”

“Stand over there and shut up. You’ve got enough to answer for.”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t let the kid get away from me. Talk about queering things.”

“Just shut up.”

Bags moved to the other side of the room, hands shoved down in the pockets of his overalls.

“Did you and your daddy go fishing a lot?” Travis asked.

“What’s it to you?” Jason said.

“Believe it or not, kid, I’d like to get through this without hurting you or your pretty mama.”

“He ain’t the one to talk to,” the other said, from across the room.

“Billy, shut the fuck up.”

“I don’t know anything,” the boy said. “I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing. And I know you killed Mr. Bishop.”

Travis straightened a little. “This is a tough-talking kid. Your mama know you talk like that?”

Jason said nothing.

“Your daddy ever talk to you about secrets?”

“What’re you bothering with him for, anyway,” Bags said. “She’s the one.”

Travis turned on him, but said nothing.

“Shit-fire, Travis—it’s true. Besides—we’re supposed to wait.”

“I’m gonna hurt you,” Travis said.

“Well, we are.”

When he faced the boy again, his lips were pulled back over his teeth. He shook his head, then reached up and rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay, you little smart ass,” he said. “Upstairs with the lady.”

T
HE FAT ONE CAME UP, PULLED THE
blindfold off, and put a rag in her mouth. He removed her dress, pulling it roughly down over her legs, and then he put his crushing weight on her, licked her ear and cheek. He grasped her chin, turned her face to his, and she thought she might vomit into the rag and drown. She coughed, closed her eyes tight. His hands moved down her body and under her slip. She squirmed, tried to kick, tried to scream. His finger pushed in, and that horrible doltish laugh came forth, with the awful decay-smelling puff of air from his mouth. The finger moved, then stopped, then moved again. It hurt, deep. She kept her eyes closed tight, gagging, crying, and finally he stopped, tied her feet, and ran the cord up to where her hands were already tied. He made a noose and ran it from her neck to her ankles, so that when she moved, the noose tightened. She lay there, gagging on the mildew-and-dust taste of the rag, feeling the trickle of blood between her legs, filled with such a mixture of wrath and fear that her heart faltered, lost rhythm. Any second now, it would stop, from sheer rage. But it went on beating, thrumming against the hard floor where she lay, a creature, more aware of the sinews and bulk and bone of her own body than she had ever been in her life. When she could gather
something of her strength and her ability to calculate, she attempted to pull her hands out of the knots, choking from the noose. She kept pulling at the knots, and trying to expel the rag. The effort caused her to grow faint, and she lost consciousness for a time.

She came to as Travis carried Jason up—Jason fighting him all the way—and tied him, too.

Travis walked over and took the rag from her mouth. “Sorry,” he said. “You okay now?”

She coughed and spit and then retched emptily for a bad few seconds. He simply watched her.

“What did you do to my boy?” she said.

“Everybody’s fine, okay?”

“No, everybody’s
not
fine,” she said. “Oh, God. That—that animal.”

“Did Bags—” Travis seemed genuinely concerned.

She couldn’t put the words together. Jason was lying there staring, sniffling.

“Look, if you’d help us out, we’ll go away and you’ll never see either one of us again,” Travis said.

“I don’t know what the fuck you want!” she shrieked at him.

There were the heavy footsteps on the stairs. She screamed again. “Keep him away from me!”

Travis walked to the entrance of the room and spoke in a fierce whisper to the other man, who then waited there, leaning on the frame, an expression of stupid gratification on his face.

Travis came back. “Okay,” he said. “Business. Tell me what your husband left you.”

“My husband is dead,” she told him, crying.

“I know,” Travis said. “Tell me what he left you.”

She didn’t answer. Jason lay there whimpering. She saw the fear in his eyes and the pain.

“Well?” Travis said.

“I don’t understand,” she told him. “We don’t have anything.”

“Your husband spent every penny.”

She waited for him to go on.

“Right?”

“Who are you?” she said. “What is this?”

“She don’t know shit,” the fat one said from the doorway.

“Shut up, Bags. Go downstairs like I told you.”

The other made a lot of thumping noise, going down. He whistled above the clatter.

Travis put his face up close to Nora’s. “Your husband tell you about his troubles?”

“Please,” she said. “What is this about?”

“Answer the question.”

“He was my husband. What do you think?”

“You had money trouble.”

“My arms and my back hurt,” she said. “My son’s hurting. Please.”

He got to his knees and undid his belt.

“No!” Jason screamed.

Nora, at the same time, shouted, “If this is what it’s about, goddam you, let my son go!”

“Calm down,” Travis said, “Christ. Calm down.” He pulled his jeans to his knees, then sat and scooted around to hold his leg toward Nora’s face. “See that? That’s a bite mark. And this, this is where the little son of a bitch hit me with a rock.” He stood and pulled the jeans back up. “I ain’t likely to worry about any discomfort he might be feeling now.”

“Just say what you want and leave us alone,” Nora said with an exhausted sob.

He leaned close again. “I want you to talk to me about your husband.”

“I don’t understand.” She gasped, then tried to look right at him. “He’s been dead almost a year.”

“Did he give you anything to keep for him?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“It’s a simple question,” Travis said. “Don’t make me mad. You don’t want me to get mad. We ain’t got a lot of time here.”

“He spent money we didn’t have and borrowed from our insurance and then he got himself killed in an accident and left us with nothing.” She glanced over at Jason, whose face didn’t change—it was all pain and fright, watching everything.

“But before he got killed. Did he give you anything—something to keep for him, or hide for him?”

“Hide?”

The other took hold of her arm and pulled her a few feet across the floor, causing her to choke on the noose.

“Leave her alone!” Jason shrieked.

When she could get any air, she said, “I’m okay, son. I’m all right.”

Travis got down and put his face close to hers once more; she smelled stale tobacco. It made her gag again. Travis’s lips were touching her ear now, and he murmured: “Where are they?”

She sobbed. Caught her breath.

“Come on. Tell me where they are.”

“Who?” she managed.

“You and I can go in together on it,” he said. “I can help you.”

“What,” she said. “Oh, God—I don’t understand. I don’t understand you.”

“You can’t do anything alone,” he said. “You’re gonna need somebody.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Can you understand what I’m saying?”

He stood. “All right. If that’s the way you want to play it.”

“I’m not playing anything. For God’s sake!”

“You understand what I’m telling you,” he said, low, with an urgency. “You tell me about it and you won’t have to deal with anybody else.”

“Please don’t hurt us anymore. Please let my son go. You’ve made a mistake.”

“I’ll let him go right now. Right now. Lady, all you got to do is help me out a little and you can walk free.”

“What do you want me to do?” She couldn’t stop sobbing.

“Tell me,” he said.

“Oh, Christ. Tell you what?”

He stood and went over to where Jason lay writhing. Then he turned to look back at her.

“Please,” she said.

He reached down and struck the boy on the side of the face. “That’s for biting me,” he said. “You little fucker.” Then he strode to the doorway and was gone.

Nora tried to move toward her son, but the noose tightened and stopped her. He moaned, still trying to get free. “Don’t,” she sobbed. “Son, don’t.”

“I’m scared,” Jason said.

“I know.”

“Mom—they killed Ed Bishop. I saw him, Mom. Mr. Bishop’s dead.” His voice rose on the last words, and his sobs were at the pitch of a scream.

She said, murmured, “Quiet. Jason—you have to be still.”

Perhaps he had heard her. He kept crying, sniffling. But he wasn’t trying to struggle free anymore.

“Jason,” she whispered.

His response was another sob.

“Honey, please.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She made another effort to get herself closer to him. It wasn’t possible to move more than a foot or so before the tightening of the noose choked her. She felt herself falling into the dark. Everything went away and came back. Jason was a dim shape on the floor, a few feet away.

“They killed Mr. Bishop,” he said, low.

“I heard you.” Now, again, she was having to fight tears.

“They’re gonna kill us, too, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know,” she said. Then: “No, of course not.”

“Yes they are,” Jason said.

“They would’ve done it already, wouldn’t they?”

“They’re going to.” His voice shook.

There were heavy footfalls on the stairs, coming closer. Nora felt her own heart jump in her chest, felt the shiver go through her of this terror, hearing the ragged, fright-stricken breathing of her son. The fat man stood in the dim light of the doorway, chewing something.

“I suggest you both shut the fuck up,” he said. He waited a moment—evidently he was enjoying the sound in the room of
panic in the shaken exhalations of the two people on the floor. Nora saw the round shape of his face there in the dimness, and then he had turned and left them, laughing the small stupid huffing laugh. “All hell’s breaking loose,” he said, going away, apparently delighted with himself.

Jason sobbed softly in the darkness.

Again, she tried to edge closer, and once more the noose choked her to the point of losing consciousness. She came to, coughing. The cough hurt her lungs, her throat. She lay still. Jason appeared to be all right—there were no wounds that she could see. “What did they do to you?” she whispered.

“Nothing. They—asked me stuff.” He whimpered.

“Shhh.”

“Mom?”

“What did they ask you?” she got out.

“The same kind of stuff about Dad.”

She saw blood on the bottom of his pant legs and the sides of his shoes. “Are you hurt? Where are you hurt?”

“It’s Mr. Bishop’s—” the boy began, then went on weeping.

“Oh, baby,” she said. “My baby.” She pulled at the rope which held her, and the noose tightened.

“Did—did he hurt you?” Jason asked.

She husbanded all her strength, fought back the painful swelling in her throat. “No.”

He sniffled and wept for a long while, and a few times he struggled with the rope they’d tied him with. At last he was still.

“Jason?” she murmured. “Honey?”

Nothing but his slow, stertorous breathing. Below, she heard voices. Talk. It went on for a long time, but she couldn’t make out any of it. An argument was going on, though, and now she could distinguish some words: “How the fuck do we go back there, huh? You tell me just how in the fuck we’re supposed to go back.”

This was followed by a low, guttural something, a protest or growl. Other words, unintelligible. She put her ear to the floor, seeking to hear better, but the noose was too tight, and anyway the roar of her own eardrums and her heartbeat stopped her.

But then the other voice—Travis’s?—came clear again. “Answer me that. What the fuck do we tell him?”

She strained for the other voice. But the furnace came on, and she heard only the rumble and wind of it in the vents. The house settled into silence. Now and again there was a laugh, or what might have been a laugh. Oddly, she remembered that when Jack was alive, she nearly always went to bed before he did and liked the feeling of him awake elsewhere in the house.

The furnace stopped.

“What happens…”

She heard a mumble which ended in “Shut up.” It could have been “Both of you shut up.”

Was a third man there now? Someone else?

She strove to hear. The floor was so hard on the bones of her hips and shoulders. A low sob rose from her throat; she was unable to help herself. Below, the talk went on. And once again there was the voice shouting.

“Why the fuck we have to…” The voice trailed off. Then a moment later, it rose again. “…want to mess up your fucking hobby…” She filled her lungs with air, then held perfectly still again. “…Christ’s sake.”

But there was just the quiet, the furnace kicking on again, sighing, with its mutter of a fan turning. She remained awake. She thought she heard snoring. It struck her as the most bizarre and horrible thing, these men on the floor below, helpless as babies in their sleep—one of them even saying something and groaning. She was certain she’d heard it. And Jason, on the other side of the room, emitting a small guttural, liquid sound in the back of his throat. This went on, and it seemed that none of it had ever been, and she was far away, in a crowded room with very high ceilings, and a train was coming.

This was a train station. A dream. She was aware that it was a dream, and she could watch herself having the dream. Still, according to the dream, she was in a desperate hurry, late, and she couldn’t locate Jason or Jack. She moved through the crowd of others, while a hollow voice harangued her from the walls, and when she saw Jack
she felt her heart leap in her chest, as though this clear moment, seeing her husband in a confusion of faces, were something she could grasp, this could save her, save everything. She did not know what it meant and had no memory of what it was that needed saving, but all of life was in question, and she was moving through the packed room, approaching him. He stood only a few feet away, holding a handful of tickets. She took a step toward him and then she took another.
Oh, Jack
. Everything that had happened was gone. It was elsewhere, like a story about someone in another town. He was here—turning to see her, recognizing her. He smiled,
Baby—

—As he had been when she first knew him: brash, always on the edge of one kind of excitement or another, a clutch of enthusiasms, wide-eyed with curiosity about everything, still a boy: twenty-three years old, just out of the army, with an idea that maybe he would go to college and learn how to write music. He had hooked up with a bluegrass band, was playing bass for them and singing. “I think I might actually get good at it,” he told her. “There’s a thing that happens when we’re playing—I feel like—like nothing can go wrong. This is all going to add up to something good and nothing can ruin it. It’s got a life of its own.” She enjoyed the passion that came to his eyes when he talked about it, liked the feeling that all their choices lay in front of them. She had always been the kind of person who could step outside herself and look at the life she was leading. She possessed what he had called powers of appreciation, of savoring the time. He, on the other hand, always felt its rush, the sense that life was speeding past him. And there was the fact, all those years ago at the beginning, that his father expected him to perform the part of the only son: the contracting business needed his help, and Jack was always a soft touch for the old man. You had to love the devotion in him, the hope of raising a family of his own, the wanting to be the father his own father had been, though Nora secretly believed the old man acted too certain of things all the time, was often unbending and demanding. When he died, two years after Jason was born, she thought Jack might break down with the loss. But she was glad. She’d had to admit that a part of her was, well, relieved, anyway: there would be an end now to Jack’s commitment
to the business; he could sell it and go back to something he really wanted.