The Heavenly Table (29 page)

“Oh, I don’t know,” Cane said. “Could you fix us something to eat?”

“Sure, I can cook,” Eula said.

“Well,” he said, scratching his head, “how about twenty a day? Would that be all right?”

Eula’s heart began beating a little faster. “How many days are we talking about?”

“Three, maybe four. Just till Junior’s leg gets better.”

“But, Eula, where are they going to sleep?” Ellsworth asked. “We don’t have—”

“Hold on and let me think for a minute,” she said. Good God, man, she thought to herself, who cares where they sleep? We’re talking about sixty dollars here, maybe more. They could sleep in her bed for that much money. Of course, feeding them would use up a lot of the food she had stored back for winter, but they’d still come out way ahead, even if she had to kill half the chickens. Wait a minute, though. How could she be sure they weren’t just trying to pull one over on a couple of old people? Just looking at them, you wouldn’t think they’d have two nickels to rub together. “Can you pay something in advance?” she finally asked.

Cane pulled a small wad of bills out of his pocket and counted out forty dollars and placed it in her hand. “There’s two days’ worth,” he said.

She glanced down at the money. “It’s not that I don’t trust ye,” she said apologetically, “but we been took before.”

“I understand,” Cane said.

“Well, one of you can stay in our boy’s room, but I’m afraid the other two will have to sleep out in the barn. That’s the best we can do.”

“The barn will be fine for all of us,” said Cane.

“All right then,” Eula said. She stood up then and started into the house, gripping the money tightly. “There’s a well out back if’n you want to wash up. Ells will get you some soap and a lantern. But the first thing I want you to do is bring your brother in the house and let me change that dirty bandage. It’s a wonder he don’t have blood poisoning.”

—

“T
WENTY DOLLARS A
day!” Chimney said. “What the hell was you thinking?” They had just had their first decent meal in several weeks—beans and cornbread and fried pork and stewed apples and coffee—and were now lying on their blankets in the barn loft. There was a large hinged door at one end, and they had propped it open to let in a light breeze that was making the leaves whisper on the two oak trees in the front yard. Cob was already snoring down below them in the back of the farmer’s wagon. The horses were in a fenced-in lot behind the barn with the mule and a milk cow, and their guns were stashed under some boards behind a rusty plow that looked like it hadn’t been moved since the start of the century. At the other end of the loft, the saddlebag with the money was buried deep in some straw. The jugs of wine that Ellsworth had hid up there lay undetected just a few feet from their heads.

“I would have paid twice that,” Cane said. He could barely keep his eyes open. The last time he had felt this peaceful, their mother was still alive.

A nightingale let loose several soft, melodious notes, then stopped suddenly. Chimney sat up and looked over toward the house, a worried expression on his face. He was chewing the inside of his mouth, something he always did when he was on edge. After a few seconds, the bird started up again. “Do you really trust them?”

“Jesus, what do you think they’re gonna do? Climb up here and cut our throats? Tie us up and go runnin’ for the sheriff?”

“Well, what about Cob? He has a hard enough time remembering where he shit last. How you figure he’s going to keep that story straight?”

“Don’t worry about him,” Cane said. “What about you?”

Chimney spat out the door, then lay back down. “Hollis Stubbs, your dashing cousin.” He lazily scanned the constellations in the dark sky, but, unlike most men, he had never found much meaning in the stars. They were too remote, too silent. “Headed for Canada in search of my fortune.”

40

T
HAT EVENING, A
man in a thin coat named Everett Nunley stumbled out the front door of the Blind Owl and began walking south toward the Whore Barn. Frank Pollard watched him from the window and chuckled to himself. It was the man’s first night in Meade, and just by coincidence, he had turned out to be from over around McArthur, where the bartender had grown up. For the last three hours, Nunley had drunkenly recited every goddamn fact and rumor he knew about the place, along with all the births and deaths recorded over the past twenty years, to the point where, if it hadn’t been for Pollard’s rule of never maiming or killing anyone whom the law might be able to connect him to in even the smallest way, he would have gladly torn the bastard’s arms off and thrown him in Paint Creek to drown. So it was easy to imagine his glee when, desperate to get shed of him, he mentioned to Nunley that the pimp gave out free pussy on Thursday nights, and the dumb sonofabitch actually fell for it. After he disappeared over the bridge, Pollard ate a can of sausages with a fork—he was a great believer in preserved food, and had recently been toying with the idea of trying to can a human—then turned out the lights and settled down in the back room on his cot. From time to time he picked up the jar of teeth he’d collected and shook them. The sound always soothed him, reminded him of the rattle his mother had made him out of a gourd when he was just a little chap.

—

W
HEN
N
UNLEY FINALLY
arrived at the Whore Barn, he walked up to Blackie and Henry sitting by the fire and cheerily announced he was there for his free piece. “What the hell you talkin’ about?” the pimp said.

“The barkeep said ye give it out every Thursday.”

“Barkeep? Which one?”

“Man named Pollard. Over at the Blind Owl.”

“Ah, he’s just fuckin’ with ye,” Henry said.

“You mean he lied to me?”

“He did if he told ye it was free.”

“I’ll be goddamned,” the man swore. “And I used to run traps with his daddy.”

“Hell,” Henry said, “you should’ve knowed better. You could search the world over and you’ll never find such a thing as free pussy.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” the man said, his face now clouded with disappointment. “Oh, well, he always was a prick, even when he was a kid.”

“How much money ye got?” Blackie said.

The man weaved on his feet and reached into his pants pocket. He pulled out a little change and struggled to count it in the campfire light. “Seventy-five cents,” he finally said.

“Have ye anything else you could trade? I hate to see a man go away horny, but goddamn, hoss, I got bills to pay.”

Nunley looked blank for a moment, then brightened up a little and said, “Got a good penknife.”

“Let me see it,” the pimp said. The knife was just a plaything with a crack in the handle, but it had been another slow night. Yesterday, he had knocked on the door at the clap doctor’s house intending to try to bribe him into easing up a bit on his lectures, but no sooner than he introduced himself, the man jerked a paper mask from his pocket and covered his face with it, then ordered him off his property. As if he, Blackie Beeler, was carrying some vile disease. He looked over at Henry and shrugged his shoulders. “Hand me the money,” he told the drunk. After a quick glance at the coins, he nodded toward the tents. “First one back.”

Nunley looked toward the barn, wiped his sleeve across his lips. “What’s her name?” he asked.

“Esther,” Blackie said. “Now go on, you got yourself ten minutes whether you’re done or not.”

“Ten minutes?”

“What do ye expect for a busted-up knife and three quarters?”

“Well, shit, I—”

“Don’t worry,” Henry told the man. “You won’t want no more than that once Esther wraps them big legs around ye. I guarantee it.”

—

B
ACK AT THE
Blind Owl, Pollard shook the jar one more time, then set it down on the floor. He raised up and reached into his shirt pocket, took out a small brown bottle capped with an eyedropper. Sleep had never come easy to him, and lately the only time it came at all was when he dosed himself with some stuff he’d gotten from Caldwell, the druggist over on Walnut Street. After squeezing three drops onto his tongue, he put the bottle back in his pocket. Free pussy, he said to himself. Ha. Only a stupid sonofabitch from McArthur would ever believe something like that. He lay there awhile with his eyes closed, then reached over and picked up the jar again. Fuck that town. Someday he’d go back there and set fire to the whole goddamn place.

41

T
HE SUN WAS
coming through the loft door when Cane and Chimney finally woke up, a little stiff from having slept so long. They could hear Eula’s chickens scratching and clucking below them. Climbing down the ladder, they discovered that Cob was gone. “See?” Chimney said. “I told you. You got to watch the fat-ass every minute.”

“He must be in the house,” Cane said.

“Yeah,” Chimney said, “probably spillin’ his guts.”

“Nah, he’s sharper than you give him credit for. Come on, I’ll show ye.”

They found Cob at the kitchen table stuffing grits and eggs into his mouth. Eula was sitting across from him drinking a cup of coffee. “Good mornin’, Tom,” he said. “Mornin’, Hollis.”

“Just give me a minute and I’ll get your breakfast,” Eula said, getting up and going to the stove.

“How did ye sleep, Tom?” Cob asked.

“Like a rock.”

“What about you, Cousin Hollis?”

“Pretty good, I reckon.”

“How’s the leg feelin’ this morning, Junior?” Cane said.

“A lot better than yesterday, I’ll tell you that. Miss Eula’s a regular nurse.”

Chimney looked into the parlor. “Where’s the ol’…where’s Mr. Fiddler?”

“Oh, he’s been gone a couple hours,” Eula said, as she cracked some eggs into a bowl.

“Gone?” Chimney asked, shooting a look toward Cane. “Where’d he go?”

“Down the road a ways. He’s wantin’ to get another five acres of corn cut today.”

“By himself?” Cane said.

Eula shrugged. “Well, with Eddie gone, he don’t have much choice.”

“That’s a hard job for one man.”

“I know,” she said. “You saw him last night. Couldn’t hardly stay awake.”

An hour later, as they sat on the front porch sipping coffee and staring out upon the road, Cane suddenly said to Chimney, “I think we should help that old man with his crop.” From inside the house, they heard Eula ask “Junior” if he wanted another biscuit.

“Oh, no, not me, brother. I’ve already told ye, my days of slavin’ in a field are over with.”

Putting down his cup, Cane reached over and grabbed hold of Chimney’s hands. “Look at these,” he said, turning the palms up. “Soft as a banker’s.”

“So?”

“Shit, you don’t want to get like one of them bastards, do ye?”

“Forget it,” Chimney said, jerking his hands away. “We’re payin’ them good money to stay here. And besides, I thought we was supposed to be resting up.”

“What about this,” Cane said, glancing around to make sure Eula wasn’t within hearing distance. “We give him a couple good days and then we’ll take off for this Meade he was talking about and get you a woman. That’ll work, won’t it?”

“But why should we even give a shit? Heck, sounds to me like his own boy bailed on him.”

“I don’t know. They just sort of remind me of what Mother and Pap might have been like if she had lived. You don’t remember them like I do. Things were different back when she was around.”

“Jesus, talk about gettin’ soft.”

Cane shook his head, then stood up. “All right, you stay here and have a little tea party with Junior and Miss Eula. I’ll go help the old man.”

“Fuck,” Chimney said with a sigh. Chopping corn didn’t go along with his idea of the outlaw life, but sitting around on a porch in a goddamn rocking chair didn’t, either. At least it would give him something to do until they got to town. “I’ll give him the rest of today and two more, but that’s it.”

“That’s plenty. We can get a lot of work done in that amount of time.”

“But then we go to this Meade town and have some fun.”

“Fair enough,” Cane said. He turned and started to walk toward the barn.

“Hold up a minute,” Chimney said. “What about guns? We’ll be pretty much right out in plain sight.”

Cane paused. His brother had a point. If the law caught them in the open without any horses or weapons, they’d be fucked. “Well, what about them Remington .22s we got?” he said. “We could carry them in our pockets.”

“Shit,” Chimney scoffed, “one of them little things won’t stop nothing.”

“Aw, hell, as good a shot as you are, you could just knock their eyeballs out.”

Chimney gave a little snort. “Now you’re braggin’ on me. You want this bad, don’t ye?”

“Come on,” Cane said. “Let’s see if we can find a stone or somethin’ to sharpen those machetes with.”

That afternoon Ellsworth came back to the house for his dinner, and when he finished, they followed him back to the field with their cutters and another roll of twine. For the rest of the day, they took turns chopping the dry stalks right at the ground while the other two gathered them up and tied them into shocks. The sun was going down when Ellsworth finally got them to quit. As they walked back to the house looking forward to supper, he tried in his fumbling way to tell them the joke he’d heard about the queer in the pickle patch, and it surprised him when they laughed. He wanted to ask them what it meant, but he didn’t. Cane and Chimney dumped buckets of water on their heads and ate on the front porch, then gathered up Cob from the kitchen and went to the barn. As Ellsworth told Eula that night after they had gone to bed, “I never saw two men work so hard in my life.” His voice was still a little hoarse.

“It’s a miracle,” she said, looking up at the dark ceiling, his hands resting on her stomach. “How much things have turned around in just one day.”

“You figure?”

“Maybe,” she said. “I hope so.”

They lay there for a moment counting their blessings, and then he said, “I almost forgot. How did Junior do?”

“Oh, he’s a good boy,” Eula said. “He sure does love to eat, I’ll tell you that. You know what he told me after you all left this afternoon?”

“No,” Ellsworth said. “What?”