Sorrow Floats (29 page)

I leaned one hand on my hip. “You already said that. Did something happen last night I don’t know about?”

“You were a cock tease. You were all over me, then when it came time you said you’d lost your pills and made me go put on a condom. When I came back to bed you were passed out.”

The scenario sounded funny, so I laughed. “You mean we didn’t fuck last night?”

He blinked about ten times in a row—like a machine gun. “Yeah, we fucked.”

I stared at his black eyes. Yesterday he’d been suave, urbane, a little dangerous; now he was just stupid. It took a minute for what he said to sink in. The son of a bitch nailed me while I was unconscious.

I slapped him hard. He looked surprised, blinked three or four times real fast, and slugged me in the stomach. When I gasped and bent over he hit me in the back of the head with his mask. I fell at his feet and bit the shit out of his big toe.

The man went insane. He kicked and I saw bright red pain in my eyes. He stomped again, driving my chin into the concrete. I tried to crawl away, but he pulled me upright by my hair and drove his knee into my spine. Blindly I found a Coors bottle and swung it into his body; I couldn’t see well enough to know what part I hit.

The weird thing was the noise. There wasn’t any. Neither one of us made a sound other than heavy breathing and the fist-on-flesh
thonks
when he hit me. A person hiding in the corner would have thought we were making love.

Which to Armand, in some sick, rotted part of his mind, we were. The blows came with a sexual rhythm. After working on my face, he moved on to the breasts, then lower. He tore my shirt off, then the bra. I kneed him in the crotch, and he hit me with a backhand that sent me sprawling across the floor. My hand landed on the hot end of the welding torch and I jerked away, smelling of burnt skin.

Then he was on me again. As he tore at the buttons on my jeans, I gave up and stopped fighting. When Armand realized this he stood over my inert body and dropped his pants. He knelt, pulled off my right boot, and threw it across the barn. He did the same with my left boot, then he lifted my legs to pull off my jeans.

That’s when I nailed him in the balls with the welding torch. Armand screamed and fell to the floor. I took off.

Things were screwed up inside my body. Breathing hurt real bad, and something warmer than rain flowed in my eyes. I slipped and slid on my face through mud, then crawled a few feet and came back up, running for the lights of the house.

At the porch, I stopped a moment to will away panic. Think. Should I go in the house? He would be after me soon, and he knew where the guns were kept. Unless I found one fast, the house was senseless.

I turned and ran up the driveway toward the road. If I made it to the highway, I could hole up off the side, wait for someone to pass by. Coming in, I’d been too drunk to notice how far away the nearest neighbors lived, but it couldn’t be more than a mile or so. Easterners aren’t spread out like back home.

I risked a look at the barn and saw Armand silhouetted in the double doors. He was bent over with his hands on his knees, trying to see through the rain. He shouted something and came toward me. I headed up the hill.

I was scared and hurt, but there was more—a sense of unreality. I could not believe Maurey Pierce would ever be in this much pain and this frightened. How had I come to the point where this was real? The thought struck that I could actually die. His reaction to a slap had been rape, then I burned his crotch. Death was not abstract here.

I hit a rut and fell again. My socks gave less traction than bare feet, but I had no time to yank them off. Behind me, Armand’s footsteps splashed across the yard and started up the drive.

As I scrambled uphill, a voice came from the ditch. “I could use a hand, if you don’t mind.”

“Shane?”

“Maurey. You look like death with tits.”

“God, Shane, I love you.”

His wheelchair was stuck in the mud. Shane was shaking badly, his hair and shirt, everything soaked through. Running to him, I slipped again and slid down the short embankment into one of his wheels.

“Don’t you dare move a muscle,” Shane said.

I looked up at the barrel of a pistol. Shane was pointing it behind me where Armand stood, breathing like a wounded bear.

***

Shane leaned over to offer me his spare hand. As I lifted myself upright, he said, “What seems to be the problem here?”

“Lovers’ quarrel,” Armand said. “Maurey overreacted.”

Shane looked at my face. “As a rule, lovers’ quarrels don’t involve this much blood.”

I finally got some control of my breath. “He beat the crap out of me.”

“Beating women is unethical,” Shane said.

“No shit, Sherlock.”

Armand took a step toward us, but Shane stopped him with a lift of the pistol. “Maurey is exaggerating,” Armand said. “She forced me into kinky sex and things got a little out of hand.”

I said, “Rape is more than a little out of hand, you prick.”

“Now, now.” Shane patted the inside of my elbow. “Why don’t we get in out of the weather and sort it all out?”

This was too civilized for me. I wasn’t brought up to handle violence with “Now, now.”

Armand came forward two more steps. “At least let me free you from the mud.”

“Freeze,” Shane ordered. “One more step and I blow your nuts off.”

I said, “That’s more like it.”

“Thank you, Maurey. Now help me out of this mire.”

“That’s my pistol, isn’t it?”

***

Took some pushing and tugging—and pain in my burnt hand—but I finally got Shane back on the driveway and down the rest of the hill. I couldn’t see my own face, thank God, but Shane looked in bad shape. He was coughing his guts out. Each cough spasm ended in what sounded like gagging, and I was scared to piss he might pass out.

“You want me to hold Charley?” I asked.

“I am perfectly competent with a gun.”

“I can’t believe you stole him. Then you lied, you swore to God himself you didn’t take Charley.”

“Lying to alcoholics is mandatory, especially where firearms are concerned,” Shane said.

Armand lurched ahead of us like a spoiled child. He even had hair growing out his butt, the jerk. My greatest fear was that he might call a bluff and realize Charley wasn’t loaded. We’d be in big trouble then.

“I’ll never trust another sober man,” I said.

Shane spit something up. “Aren’t you glad now that I lied?”

I rubbed my hand over the top of his wet head. “You think because you’re saving my life I’m going to forgive those ugly things you said?”

“Yes, I think so.”

***

Back in the dry, lit barn, Arrnand stood over by the art nouveau junk pile, eyeballing me. He had the ugliest penis I’d ever seen—looked like those Chinese handcuffs we played with as kids. He breathed at hyperventilation speed. Between the blood-pounding excitement and running, his pills must have been flat sizzling. A heart attack might be appropriate.

Shane kept Charley pointed at Armand, but he looked at me. “Holy Hannah, child, what did he hit you with?”

“You don’t look so healthy yourself. Did you see a phone inside? Maybe I should call someone.”

Armand gave a bark laugh. “Who could you call? The police are after you both.”

Shane started to speak but went into a coughing fit that lasted thirty seconds and left drool hanging off the corner of his mouth. Finally he asked, “Did he rape you?”

“He was going to.” I picked my torn shirt off the floor and wiped Shane’s mouth. He smiled weakly at me.

“I wasn’t going to rape her. Why should I rape something I’d already had?” Armand’s voice was full of disgust.

Shane pointed the shaky gun. “You. Shut up.” He took the shirt from my hand and gently dabbed my chin. It came away soaked in blood and dirt.

“Hold your pistol,” Shane said. “It’s time this villain paid for his sins.”

I took Charley. “Let’s charge the villain a lot. Beating me up should be expensive.”

“If he’d raped you, I would have cut out his reproductive system.”

Armand paled noticeably. I had the urge to point Charley at his crotch and pull the trigger, just to watch the jerk faint. “He fucked me while I was unconscious last night. Is that rape?”

“What am I, a lawyer?” With effort, Shane wheeled toward Armand. “If he moves, shoot him.”

“Gladly.”

Shane stopped out of the line of fire. He motioned to one of the two tanks connected to the welding torch. “Place your foot up here.”

Armand fastened his eyes on mine. “You can’t hurt me. I’ll call the police. She slept with me last night, and she stayed when you left. No court in Tennessee would convict me of rape.”

“You’re not going to court,” Shane said. I saw him dig in his pocket. “Now put your foot here.”

Armand’s mouth formed a red sneer inside his black beard. “Look at her. She enjoyed what I did. She wants more. You always wanted a real man, didn’t you, bitch.”

He screamed and dropped like a stuck pig. Shane flashed that wicked little knife of his, said, “Banzai, motherfucker,” and leaned over Armand’s writhing body. Five seconds later Armand screamed again, worse than when I stuck a hot welding torch to his testicles.

Shane turned the wheelchair a half circle and slowly made his way back across the floor. He held out his hand to show me two big toes, each with hairy growth behind the yellow nail.

Shane kind of sighed. “I always wanted just cause to do that. Being a cripple makes you mean sometimes.”

I said, “Jesus Christ, will he die?”

Shane looked at Armand, who lay on his back, weeping and holding the ends of his feet with both hands. “Not if he seeks treatment. Are you aware if you slice the big toe off a person you effectively cripple him?”

“Armand had it coming.”

Shane looked down at the toes in his hand. “I know. Still, if I weren’t dying, I probably would have taken only one.”

“You’re not dying,” I said.

Shane bent close over his hand. “Good Lord, Maurey, this toe has bite marks.”

“You definitely should seek professional treatment,” Shane said to Armand. “The human body has only so much blood to give, then it runs dry.”

For the advice, Armand’s face returned hatred.

“Think he can drive a truck without toes?” I asked.

Shane hacked out a couple coughs and a spit. “Sure, he can drive. I knew a cowboy named Tim Butler, tried to commit suicide by sticking the barrel of a .410 over-under shotgun in his mouth and pulling the triggers with his toe. Shotgun backfired and snapped that toe like the pully bone off a turkey. Tim drove a stock truck sixty-two miles to a clinic in Cedar City, Utah.”

I pulled up a milk crate and sat down. It was highly entertaining watching Armand crawl around trailing blood. He seemed to have lost his orientation.

“So where’s the cowboy now?” I asked.

“Tim decided God blew off his toe instead of his head for a reason. He joined up with Church of Christ missionaries in Patagonia. The natives made him a set of viper-headed crutches that he’s quite proud of.”

Shane rolled over by Armand. “Listen closely, son. Go in the house and wrap clean cloths around your feet to clot the flow. Then take a couple of painkillers—do you have any painkillers?”

Armand didn’t answer.

I said, “He’s got more than enough painkillers.”

“That’s fine. Take your painkillers and drive into a hospital and tell the nice nurses you ran over yourself with a lawn mower. You don’t want authorities involved in this any more than we do.”

From his hands and knees, Armand stared up at Shane, who continued the lecture. “It’s not the end of the world, son. Without your feet to hold you up, you shall grow a stronger base. Your life will be much fuller, spiritually speaking. Believe me, I have traveled the road and I know the destination.”

If Armand could have killed, Shane would have been dead in a heartbeat. Instead, he began the long crawl from the barn to the house. As the worm slithered past me, I fought the urge to kick him.

I said, “That’ll teach you to mess with women from Wyoming.”

I don’t think he heard me. Watching him grope his way across the mud, I thought of something. “You sure we should let him go? He has guns in there, at least the one he used on the cop tires.”

Twin lines of blood followed Armand across the yard. Shane’s eyes took on a reminiscent glow; I suppose he was thinking about his own lack of leg function.

“Your friend is in no shape for a shootout,” Shane said. “Besides, we have Charley if he tries anything.”

“Yeah, but Charley’s not loaded.”

I aimed Charley at Armand’s hairy ass as he pulled himself up the steps. He reminded me of road-kill badger.

“What makes you think Charley has no bullets?” Shane asked.

“Hell, any numbskull knows this gun’s not loaded.” I squeezed the trigger and—Boom!—Armand’s porch light exploded over his head. The noise was terrific.

Shane said, “Simply because you can’t buy bullets doesn’t mean everyone can’t buy bullets.” He took Charley away from me.

***

A light came on up on the third floor. “Imagine him climbing all those stairs,” Shane said. “The boy must be more resilient than I thought.”

“His stash is on the third floor,” I said.

“That explains it. Do you think he realizes the loss of his toes was a consequence of what he did to you? So few people connect actions with consequences. Take yourself, for instance.”

“Aren’t you too wet to pontificate?”

“Whenever a man saves a woman’s life the rules say he must tell her how to live it.”

“Does the woman have to listen?”

“Have you considered that losing your child and being beat to a pulp are both direct consequences of alcohol consumption? We’re not talking bad luck here; everything that’s happened happened because you are a sot.”

I stood up. “You’ll be sick if we don’t dry you off. I’ll look around, see if he hasn’t got a rag pile or something.”

“Denial is more than a river in Egypt.”

“Yeah, right. You better move out of the doorway. Armand might be resilient enough to pull a trigger.”

Shane’s snicker rapidly deteriorated into coughing followed by violent shivers. As I moved through Armand’s junky art, it occurred to me the situation might still be dire. I’d have a hell of a time explaining to Lloyd how Shane saved my butt, then keeled over dead. Where was Lloyd, anyway?

“Where is Lloyd, anyway?” I called.

“They’re camped a mile or so back toward Chattanooga. Lloyd said we had to wait in case you came to your senses. I informed him you don’t have any senses.”

Armand had an amazing inventory of iron trash—everything from barbwire to girders. Several antique tractors had been disassembled back by the horse stalls. “So why are you here instead of Lloyd? No offense, but you’re not built right to play cavalry.”

Shane bent over to take off his shoes and socks. “I told Lloyd he should check on you, but he said you had to make the choice and take action. You had to save yourself.”

“Then why let you come alone? Did he say ‘Maurey’s in trouble, go out in the rain and get sick’?”

“It wasn’t raining when I left, and Lloyd doesn’t know where I am. In case you haven’t noticed, he’s had maybe ten hours’ sleep spread over the last five days.”

“I haven’t noticed much of anything lately.”

“Everyone is lost in slumber, thus they won’t know I’m gone until tomorrow. Lloyd hid the campsite most effectively. You’d never find it in the rain at night.”

I looked back at Shane. “Is that your way of saying we’re stuck here till morning?”

He raised his head. “My tube is filled with mud.”

***

In a far corner of the barn I found a tack room full of riding saddles, horse blankets, and a few bridles. None of the saddles had been oiled recently, and spiders had spun webs in the stirrups. Seemed kind of strange to have all this gear and let it go to pot. One of the saddles was a kid’s English rig. I couldn’t imagine a scenario that fit a man living alone in a big mother of a house with all this horse equipment he seems to have walked away from. Sam Callahan would have come up with a story, but he basically lives in his fantasies. I’ve always been more of a reality woman.

Time to behave like a reality woman. Shane, the bum, was right. My ribs burned when I breathed, my breasts were covered with dried blood, my back felt as if someone had hammered on my lower spine, and, worst of all, I still didn’t have Auburn. And every single misfortune was my own damn fault.

Shit.

The weird thing is at that moment I didn’t need a drink. You’d think a person who dealt with the daily humdrum by staying soused would race to the bottle after major violence. Maybe major violence was too much trauma even for Yukon Jack. Lying on my back on the concrete, looking up as that hairy monster dropped his pants and prepared to rape me—something inside had died. Or gone away. The powerlessness changed something.

I lifted a horse blanket and looked down on the hugest set of jugs I’d ever seen. This floozy on a magazine cover crawled toward the camera with her tongue hanging out like a thirsty dog and—no lie—her tits dragging the floor. It was disgusting. She had hair the color of Armand’s toenails. The whores of Memphis were rank amateurs compared to this hard-ass woman. Shane would love it.

***

“This ought to make you feel more human,” I said, carrying a load of horse blankets with the girlie magazine on top.

When Shane saw the floozy his eyes sparked with the old flame.

“Nothing in all nature compares to the woman’s breast,” he said. “The combination of beauty and nutrition is unrivaled.”

“Only a pervert would call those things beautiful. They’re nothing but hanging pumpkins.”

Shane examined me, then the magazine cover, then me again. “Do I detect a note of jealousy, little missy?”

“You better dry fast, you’re getting delirious.”

The horse blankets were fairly high quality to have been abandoned to mice—mostly plaid Baker blankets and coolers with a couple of Australian rugs. I spread the Australians on the floor.

Shane asked, “Have you ever considered implants?”

“I gave birth to two children with this pair and they work fine. Now, take off those wet clothes, Lloyd’ll kill me if you die on us.”

He stared at my blood-encrusted breasts. Up to then I’d been too busy for self-consciousness about the hanging tits thing, but now I crossed my arms. “Off with the clothes.”

Shane started unbuttoning his shirt. “You just want to see my phallus.”

I covered his shoulders with a blanket and rubbed his hair. “I’ve seen your phallus, you should consider an implant.”

Shane started to laugh and went into a gag. His whole body was shivering. He tried to work out of his pants but couldn’t manage it. I straightened his legs to help with the process, and together we got him naked. Touching his legs was like handling firewood.

“Is there any chance of you answering a question honestly?” I asked.

“I am always honest.”

I’d turned out the overhead lights and moved Shane back from the open doors, out of the wind and rifle range, but I could still see the front door and the light up in Armand’s room. “When you stopped drinking, did your social life suffer?”

I had Shane’s middle wrapped like a mummy, but he still shook. “You mean did I get laid less?”

“I’m thinking seriously about quitting alcohol, but I’m afraid interesting men won’t like me anymore.”

“To be strictly frank, women have always found me irresistible. However, after I stopped drinking, the quality of woman who did so rose several meaningful notches.”

“I wonder if I could find higher-quality men.”

“My child, you could search the world over and never find lower-quality men than the ones you’ve chosen recently.”

The bedroom light went off. Armand was probably up there at the window, with his rifle, waiting for us to leave the barn. Let him wait—we had nowhere to go, and he was losing blood too fast to stay.

“Armand was nice at first. How was I to know he was a paranoid, sadistic psychopath?” I asked.

“If you’d been sober, you would have known.”

As I knelt on the concrete to dry Shane’s feet, the adrenaline high suddenly crashed and everything that had happened the last few weeks came down on me at once. Dothan, Auburn, Lloyd, Shane, Yukon Jack—the weight was unbearable.

I started to whimper. “Shane, life isn’t turning out right.”

He touched the top of my head. “It never does.”

“I try to keep going and act happy, but nothing I do works. I’m helpless.”

“You are only helpless if you refuse to ask for help.”

“Jesus”—I rested my head on his knees—“another bumper snicker to live by.”

I cried while Shane ran his fingers through my hair. Shane’s touch brought back a feeling of Dad when I was real little. Had Dad ever brushed hair out of my face while I cried in his lap, or is that one of those memories you want so much you make it real?

“Why did you come back?” I asked.

“You are worth saving.”

“Oh.” I felt the horse blanket on my face. It reminded me of Frostbite and the ranch.

“I don’t think I’ll listen to Paul Harvey anymore,” I said.

Shane did his chuckle sound where all three chins seem to contract at once. “The postcards to Papa have to go, too,” he said.

“They do?”

“Let him die, Maurey.”

***

We were both quiet a long time, until Shane exhaled one of his freight-train snores. He slid down on his back, and I was afraid he would fall out of the chair, so I eased him onto the Australian rug pallet. His face seemed waxy and melting, like a red candle in an oven.

I thought about what he’d said about asking for help. Life must be pretty desperate for me to be listening to Shane Rinesfoos’s advice, but, let’s face it, my life had been pretty desperate lately. At the moment, I had more faith in other people’s judgment than my own. Which is a frightening moment to find yourself in. The time had come to stop dicking around and admit the way I’d done things so far didn’t work.

I seized on the idea of changing every element of my life. I would start over at the last point where I’d liked myself, which was before I lost my virginity and before I took my first drink. Then I would do every single detail differently; I’d get up on the other side of the bed, brush my teeth sideways instead of up and down, only sleep with nice guys who liked me—that would be a switch—stay sober, and stay on the ranch.

Armand’s truck sputtered and kicked on. In my new-life rapture I’d forgotten to watch the front door. It was just dumb luck he didn’t crawl in the barn doors and shoot us both dead. When he shifted into first, the truck jerked forward and died. The engine rumbled again, and, delicately, Armand turned it around and headed up the hill.

Shane came awake with a wheeze. “Tell him to clutch with his heel, not his toes.”

“He’ll learn,” I said.

“Holy Hannah, I’m freezing.” He was in bad shape, shivering and coughing. His face felt clammy cold and hot at the same time.

I talked as I wrapped blankets around his arms. “Shane, I’ve decided to start all over at the beginning.”

“I wish I could do that.”

“I’ll stop drinking by pretending I never started. I’ll stay home on the ranch and won’t go to college. I’ll wear too much makeup instead of none, I’ll die my hair blond. If I’m blond, I won’t have to drink to attract men.”

Shane made a weak smile. “Do you know why gentlemen prefer blondes?” he asked.

“All I know is they do.”

“Because they’re tired of squeezing blackheads.”

We both laughed way out of proportion to the worth of the joke. I lay on my back, next to him on the pallet, and laughed, looking up at the corrugated metal ceiling. Shane turned his radish color and went into a coughing fit that ended in a choking sound and loads of bloody drool.

“Don’t tell any more jokes,” I said. I tried to play it blasé, but coughing up blood was scary. Shane looked real sick, and I was helpless to make him better.
Helpless
seemed to be today’s theme word. Maybe I’d been helpless all my life but too stupid to know it.