Rot (6 page)

He dropped to his knees and his gut started to hurt bad. He grabbed at the handle of the screwdriver, but it was slick with his blood and he could not get a grip to pull the thing out of him. He could feel the cold blade lodged deep inside. Something was loose, sloshing around in there. And it hurt worse now. Sonofabitch, it hurt.

“Help me.” His voice sounded weak and burbly. He tried to clear his throat, but the effort made his gut hurt all the more. “Help me.”

Marianne looked down at the kneeling young man, smiling that off-center smile. She put the flat of her hand into his face and pushed. With no strength left to resist, Fabian went over backwards. His knees popped as both legs were trapped under him. He didn’t feel the torn tendons as an icy cold began to spread up from the screwdriver blade in his belly.

The light in the trailer got all patchy, like somebody had pulled a ragged curtain over his face. There were moving swatches of black, like bats fluttering in front of his eyes. He was cold. So cold. He wanted a blanket. Why didn’t Mama bring him a blanket?

More and more bats flew in. Where were they coming from? Pretty soon they blacked out the little patches of light. In the back behind the bats he could see Mama standing over him. It was Mama, wasn’t it? Why didn’t she bring him a blanket? He was so cold. And his tummy hurt. He shouldn’t have eaten those crabapples. Mama warned him not to. Maybe that’s why she didn’t bring him a blanket now. She was punishing him. But he was so cold. And he hurt so bad. And the bats the bats the bats were so many he couldn’t see Mama any more. He couldn’t see anything. He could only shiver and hurt and then he …

• • •

Although the evening was comfortably cool, Kyle’s shirt was soaked under his arms and down his back when Marianne came out of the trailer, closing the aluminum door securely as she left. Light from the television screen flickered at the trailer window. Faint sounds of a tire-screeching car chase came from inside.

Marianne stopped outside the car. She stuck the screwdriver blade between her thighs, closed her legs, and drew it out, leaving a dark stain on her jeans. Then she got in beside Kyle.

“We can go now.”

He did not ask her what happened in there.

He did not want to hear.

He did not want to think.

Kyle drove out of the Zenith Mobile Home Park, back through Elkhorn City, and down the blacktopped highway to Bischoff trying very hard not to think.

Kyle’s enthusiasm for doing anything around the farm vanished. The morning after his return with Marianne from Elkhorn City he dragged himself out of bed and sleepwalked through the day. He barely heard Mrs. Simms and Uncle Bob when they spoke to him. His answers were monosyllables. He ate, but the food was tasteless. After lunch he wandered across the pasture, down to the creek that bordered Uncle Bob’s land. Fritz, the big collie, bounded along with him, but Kyle found no joy this day in the dog’s company. He sat on a rock at the edge of the water and stared unseeing at the trees on the other bank.

How could his life have gone so wrong in such a short time? A month ago his biggest concern was whether to let his hair grow or cut it short. He was a happy, uncomplicated college boy looking forward to a summer of sun and fun. Now he had problems he could not have imagined. Through no fault of his own he was shackled to a girl whose physical condition was something he did not even want to define. She had in all probability committed some heinous crime last night, and he was technically an accomplice.

No, damn it, he could not say he was blameless for this mess. It was he, after all, who was at the wheel when the car rolled. It was he who urged the strange Gypsy to bring the girl back. His motives may have been selfish, but he certainly had not foreseen the terrible consequences. He was caught now in a mire of despair that drew him ever downward.

Anxious to do anything to get out of the house, he volunteered to drive into town after supper and pick up tomorrow’s groceries for Mrs. Simms. At least it would give him a task to occupy his mind and maybe push back the black thoughts for a little while.

He drove the crawfishing Plymouth into town and continued past the Thriftway. No hurry about the groceries, and a beer or two to take the edge off his thoughts seemed like a good idea. He parked in front of Dave & Emma’s Tavern. One thing you had to say for the town of Bischoff — there was always a parking space.

The evening crowd was larger and livelier than the afternoon customers the first time Kyle had been in. Most of them had a farmer look — rough clothes, seamed faces, work-hardened hands. A couple of booths were occupied by young people wearing baseball caps and T-shirts that read
Kaufman’s Hardware
. It seemed to Kyle that conversation stopped and everyone looked at him when he walked in. Several people nodded, and there were even a few smiles.

Oh, great, I’m getting accepted.

The barmaid with the Popeye forearms came over at once when he took a stool.

“How ya doin’?”

“Fine. Could I have a beer?”

“Why not. That’s what we’re in business for.” She brought a brimming glass and set it on the bar in front of him. “You know, a lot of people like the way you lit into the Gerstner kid the other day.”

“Yeah, well, I guess I did it without thinking.”

“He was a mean kid from a mean family. You like to think there’s a little good in everybody, but it’s hard to say anything nice about the Gerstners.”

Was.

Kyle sipped his beer and wished she would go away.

The barmaid leaned across the bar. “Say, maybe you didn’t hear what happened to him last night.”

“Happened to who?”

“Fabian Gerstner.”

“Last night?” Kyle felt his ears getting hot. He had never been good at pretending.

“Somebody got into his trailer and killed him.”

Kyle swallowed beer to clear his throat. “Do they know who did it?”

The barmaid shrugged. “Not that I heard. Could’ve been a lot of people. The Gerstners ain’t real well liked around here.”

Kyle shook his head, trying to look concerned. He did not trust his voice.

A deeply wrinkled man in Oshkosh B’Gosh overalls leaned into the conversation. “Guy stabbed him in the belly is what I hear. They say he took a long time to die.” He chuckled, a sound like the rustle of dry leaves. “You ask me, it couldn’t happen to a better fella.”

Several people at the bar murmured agreement. Kyle stretched his mouth in a weak smile. He gulped the last of his beer and put a bill on the bar.

The woman shoved it back toward him. “That was on the house.”

“I buy you one?” said the wrinkled man.

“No thanks. Gotta go.”

“Catch you next time.”

“Take care,” the barmaid told him.

Kyle escaped out onto Main Street feeling stifled. He forced himself to suck in several deep breaths. Not only was he accepted in Dave’s, he was some kind of hero. What if they knew he was accomplice to a murder. Maybe they thought he
was
the murderer. What if the police came around? What would he tell them? Oh, shit.

He got into the Plymouth, squeezed his eyes shut and tried to think of something else. No good. There
was
nothing else. He started the car and drove up into the small parking lot beside the Thriftway. Inside he concentrated fiercely on filling the grocery list Mrs. Simms had given him. Thank God, nobody spoke to him.

When he pulled into Uncle Bob’s road he saw a strange car parked up by the tool shed. In a flash of panic he thought:
Police!

No, that was ridiculous. The police don’t drive bronze Buick Electras. He parked alongside the Buick, lifted out the two bags of groceries, and carried them to the house.

Mrs. Simms showed him where to put the bags down in the kitchen. She said, “Frank Avery’s upstairs with your uncle.”

“Oh?”

“Marianne’s father.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I think he really came to see you.”

“Me?”

“He looked worried.”

Kyle started to get that walls-closing-in feeling. What had Marianne told her father?

He said, “I think I left the keys in the car.”

“Don’t worry about it. We got no car thieves in Bischoff.”

You’d be surprised to know what you’ve got in Bischoff
.

“I’ll go check anyway.” Kyle started for the kitchen door.

“Kyle?” The man’s voice hit him like a punch between the shoulder blades.

He turned and faked it as best as he could. “Oh, hi, Mr. Avery.”

“Are you on your way out?”

“I was just, uh, going out to the car.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

The kitchen door closed behind them and they walked slowly toward the outbuildings where the two cars were parked. Kyle could sense the older man’s tension.

“Hold it a minute.”

Kyle stopped and turned reluctantly to face him.

“I’m worried about Marianne.”

“Worried?”

The reflected light from the kitchen window on his lenses made Frank Avery’s eyes invisible.

“Since the night you two went to the dance in Elkhorn City … since the accident … she’s been, I don’t know different. Is it possible she was hurt in the accident more seriously than we thought?”

“I don’t know, Mr. Avery. She seemed all right.”

“I’m not trying to blame you or anything. I’m just looking for some answers. Marianne always had a hearty appetite, ate everything my wife put in front of her. Now she barely picks at her food. She stays in her room all day and goes out at night up until all hours. I don’t know when she sleeps. Or where. She doesn’t come down to the store any more. I just don’t know what’s wrong.”

“Has she seen a doctor?” Kyle dreaded the answer.

“That’s another thing. She refuses to go. Won’t even talk about it. And the way she looks … well, she’s been over here. You’ve seen her.”

“I’ve seen her.” Kyle suppressed a shudder.

“Then you know what I mean. She’s a naturally pretty girl, always has been. Took pride in her appearance. If anything, she spent too much time primping. But now she just won’t take care of herself. And she doesn’t look healthy. Mrs. Avery and I are at our wits’ end.”

“I wish I could help you, Mr. Avery.”
I wish you’d go away, Mr. Avery, I’ve got troubles of my own
.

“Well, I just thought — hoped — you might have seen something or remembered something that might explain what’s happened to her.”

An image flashed into Kyle’s mind. He saw himself telling Marianne’s father how she was raped by three hoods while he did nothing. How she lay in the road after the accident with her head crooked and not breathing. How the strange Gypsy took her into his camper and did God knows what. And how she then revived, or so it appeared. And how she later squatted over him in the tool shed. And how she walked into Fabian Gerstner’s trailer with a long-bladed screwdriver and walked out wiping the blood off it. Yeah, right, describe all that to her father.

He said, “I just don’t know, Mr. Avery. I’m sorry.”

“I know you are, Kyle.” Then, an afterthought. “And how are you? Any aftereffects from the accident.”

“Bumps and bruises. I’m a little sore still, that’s all.”

“You were lucky.”

Right, lucky
. “I guess I was.”

They reached the two cars parked side by side.

“I wish you’d come over if you get a chance. Marianne might talk to you.”

“I’ll do that.”
Sure I will, when cows learn to dance
.

“We’d appreciate it. So long, Kyle.”

“So long, Mr. Avery.”

Kyle watched the Buick’s taillights recede down the dirt road toward the highway. The black sky, clear and sparkling with stars, pressed down on him. With hands jammed into his pockets, he slouched back to the house.

The kitchen, brightly lit as always, was empty. He heard voices from the living room. Curious, he walked down the hall to the parlor.

While Mrs. Simms stood by, Uncle Bob sat holding a telephone to his ear with his good left hand. The metal crutches leaned against the side of his chair. The working half of his face was smiling broadly.

“That’s great, son,” he said into the mouthpiece as Kyle entered. “We’ll really be glad to have you home. ‘Bye.”

Mrs. Simms took the instrument from his hand and replaced it in the cradle.

Kyle walked into the room. Uncle Bob beamed at him.

“Carney’s coming home.”

“He’s out?”

“The early discharge came through.”

A ray of light in the darkness. “When will he be here?”

“By the end of the week. Gosh, it’ll be good to have him home.”

“That’s great.”
You don’t know the half of it
. “I’d better call my folks and tell them to expect me home.”

“It doesn’t mean you have to leave, Kyle. Heck, spend the summer if you want. You and Carney could get to know each other.”

“Gee, I’d like to, but there are things I should be doing back at home.”

“Whatever you think.” Uncle Bob was too happy at the prospect of his son’s return to care much what his nephew did.

So relieved and happy was Kyle at the thought of getting the hell away from here and from
her
that he lay for hours in bed, listening to the song of the tree frogs outside and grinning into the darkness. At last, for the first time in many days, he slipped off into an easy, dreamless sleep.

• • •

As Kyle slept, Bert Wagstaff, a trucker working the run between Duluth and Milwaukee dropped off his hitchhiker on the edge of Elkhorn City. When his headlights had picked her up thumbing on the road through Bischoff he had thought he had a nice sexy little number to ride into Milwaukee with him. When she got in and he got a close look and, worse, a whiff of her he was relieved to learn he’d be rid of her in just fifteen miles. Once the girl was out of his cab he rolled down both windows and hit the accelerator to blow out the stench she had left behind. She was on her way to visit a friend, the girl had told him. Bert Wagstaff was not a religious man, but as he roared south toward Milwaukee he thanked God that he was not that friend.