The Suicide Motor Club (5 page)

BIRDS SANG IN THE DOUGLAS FIR AND LODGEPOLE PINES A FEW MILES OUTSIDE
Fresno, California, as Judith walked behind her father on a path they both knew well. Riley Eberhart carried an olive-drab duffel slung over one shoulder. Despite his nearly sixty years, he walked with the amiable slouch of a rancher's boy skipping church. Judith carried a shopping sack and the .22 rifle she'd been plinking cans with since she retired her pellet gun at ten.

He turned his head to flick an ice-blue eye at her, the hollow where the cancer bit his jaw making him look older but tough, like a bone the dogs had a gnaw at but couldn't splinter.

A robin hopped near the path, beaking now and again after some morsel wriggling in the brush. Dad spied the bird, too, and each knew what the other was thinking about. When Jude was nine, she had shot a robin with a pellet gun and stood transfixed while it thrashed, flying up and falling, flying up and falling.

What'd you do that for? You meanin' to eat that bird?

No.

Shoot him again.

I don't want to.

Have to.

Please, Daddy.

Ain't no please about it.

She tried to look away but he turned her head around.

Do it.

I can't!

She started crying then and put her gun down. Riley picked it up and put it back in her hand.

You gonna leave him like that?

Maybe he'll get better.

He won't.

You do it, Daddy.

No, ma'am. I'm not the one shot him for fun.

So she pumped the lever of the air gun until it was hard to pump, crying all the while. The bird had mostly stopped thrashing, and when she shot it again, it shivered hard once and stretched out its wing and lay still.

Can't unshoot a gun, Jude.

She had cried harder and he held her.

You won't never do that again, will you?

No, Daddy.

Then be sad for this one. But you be happy the next time you see a robin, because a robin taught you something you needed to know.

—

JUDITH'S DAD UNPACKED HIS DUFFEL, SETTING FOUR SODA CANS AND TWO WHITE
jugs up on the hacked-flat top of a fallen log they had laid against a primeval mound of dirt and brambles they called Boot Hill.

“Your mom switched us off'n the glass to these new plastic milk jugs. ‘Jug-a-Moo,' ain't that a peach? Some feller probably got him a corner office and a shiny new tiepin for comin' up with that one. What's
the milkman s'pose to do now? They're always dreamin' up new ways to fire people.”

“Least nobody's fired you.”

“No, ma'am. Work too hard. Lot harder'n them lazy-ass milkmen anyway. Ten yards to start?”

“Sure.”

“Pace 'em off,” he said in his best John Wayne.

“Your feet are closer to a foot,” she drawled in response. They had been doing that routine so long she couldn't remember if it was from a movie or not.

He handed her a .38 revolver from his duffel and fished out a box of shells. They stuffed cotton in their ears. Judith aimed and popped holes in the cans, dumped the shells, loaded the gun for her dad.

“What's wrong with the jugs, you scared of 'em?” he asked her as she set the cans back up.

“Nah. You hate 'em so much I thought I'd let you do the honors.”

Riley made the Jug-a-Moos hop and wobble. Once they had warmed up, they took turns throwing cans for one another and shooting them just before they hit the ground. Riley was better at this, but not much; Jude hit about every other one at ten yards. After they finished the .38 rounds, then backed up and burned a box of .22 long rifles with her Winchester, they meandered over to a sunny break in the trees where a creek could be heard. Riley sat down next to his daughter on a massive oak stump gray with age and weather. “We've been polishing this old man with our butts since Ike was in office, haven't we?”

“Yep.”

They shared warm beer and the deviled ham sandwiches Patsy had made for them, cutting off the crusts with great care and pride. Patsy never came to Boot Hill; she hated loud noises.

Riley rolled a cigarette from a pouch on his belt and fixed Judith with a long look.

“I just don't see it, you a nun. I know you're hurtin' and you've got hurtin' still to do, but it just seems like runnin' to me. What about Patsy?”

“What about her?”

“She'd be in seventh heaven if you moved back. Your old room needs a paint job, but I'm sure we could tackle that together. You could just get off the plane in Cincinnati Tuesday, pack up what you need, and drive on back. We could be right here plinkin' next week.”

“I've got my own life to live, Dad.”

“Reckon we all do.”

“Anyway, are we talking about Patsy or you?”

She took a long swig of her Pabst and watched him sort out what he wanted to say next.

“They said no, right?”

“They haven't answered. But I think they might say no.”

“They say no, you gonna find another one?”

She looked down. She didn't tell him about the other cloistered order in Detroit she had written to.

“I don't know. I'm still hoping about this one. I mean, I
felt
it and it felt right.”

“Guess the Lord speaks to some. Me he ain't never had a conversation with, least not in clear words. Maybe holdin' you the first time he was tellin' me somethin'. Maybe seein' your mom and her friend at that park, he was sayin',
You pick careful now which one of them pretty gals you tip your hat to
, and I guess I did. Maybe I heard him growlin' when the
Missouri
opened up her big guns, man I never got used to that. But nothin' like a, what's the word,
calling
.”

Judith looked at her dad's forearms, the fuzzy blue-green anchor tattooed on one, the cross and swallows on the other.

“You believe in evil, Dad?”

“I've seen evil deeds done. That what you mean?”

“I mean like the devil.”

“That's a tricky one.”

“Mom believes in the devil.”

“Oh, sure she does, I know it.”

“So if there's evil, there's got to be good, right?”

“I saw some things on the islands. I just don't know if there's enough good to balance them things, least not on earth. But I never saw nobody with horns and a tail. Just big white men and little yellow men doin' the worst things they could think of to each other. Then the lucky ones goin' home to their wives and tryin' to teach their kids not to kill birds just because.”

He mussed her hair when he said that.

She looked out at nothing for a long moment.

Then she said, “No.”

“No what?”

“I guess I just won't be a nun.”

Dear Mrs. Lamb,

Upon review of your application and after careful discussion of your situation, I am happy to tell you that you have been accepted as a postulant at the Our Lady of the Gleaning monastery.

Orientation will be Friday, September 8 at nine
A.M.
Please bring no more than you will absolutely need, as living space is shared and clutter is not permitted. Dungarees or other work clothes and one set of ordinary clothes are recommended, and sufficient underthings to last one week between launderings. Your habit will be provided, as will all kitchen goods, linens, towels, et cetera. Up to five books are permitted, provided they will serve you in your journey at a cloistered order and will fit neatly onto a three-foot shelf.

Family visits will be permissible once per month, though we remind you that you will not be permitted to leave the grounds.

In hopes that your journey toward the bridegroom will be as rewarding as it is challenging,

Yours in peace,
Reverend Mother Mary Catherine

P.S.: Perhaps I ought not share this with you, but last night, after much prayer and contemplation, I had written you an altogether different letter, one reluctantly declining your request to join our house. I folded my glasses on my night table and tried to sleep, but sleep would not come for many hours. When at last it did, I dreamed of Our Savior, and when I have had such dreams in the past, they have usually been a comfort. Last night, however, he had his blessed back to me and would not turn to face me no matter how I pleaded my love for him. No, he would not look at me. I became aware of a field of corn wherein, at such a great distance I could scarcely recognize her, I saw a young girl I had refused entry to the order some years ago, a girl of tragic circumstances similar to your own only in their severity. I learned, some years later, that this girl had married badly and subsequently taken her own life. At the time, in my pride, I thought I had been correct to refuse her because she had shown such weak character, and I put thoughts of her away. I know how harsh that sounds, but it will perhaps not surprise you to learn that nuns are just as prey to sin as others, even if their temptations come in different forms. Now, seeing her in this dream, I understood that I had done her, and perhaps the order, a great disservice in turning her away at her time of need; I had let her need make me see her as a beggar rather than one with great gifts to offer. I feel now that I am compelled to welcome you. I accept the task gladly, confident that you will give to the order more than you will take, and hopeful that we will give you more than we
demand.

The Killers

1969

Ohio

“THE PRESIDENT DOESN'T CARE ABOUT GOD, MAN. THAT'S WHAT THEY ALL TALK
about to get the Bible-thumpers on board, but Nixon, Kissinger, McNamara, they only go to the church of the military industrial complex.”

George sat in the corn with Mandy and their new friends as if they were kids about to play duck-duck-goose. The protest at the university had ended at sunset with the quiet reading of the names of war dead. It had been well attended and peaceful. Too peaceful, to George's mind. So he had painted
HONK TO IMPEACH NIXON
on his rear windshield in white shoe polish, leaving the relative urbanity of Wright State to cruise the farmland around Xenia, honking at other motorists and flashing the peace sign. He had gotten more insults and bird fingers than honks, and one flung bottle of Labatt's that had chipped his windshield, but he considered this a success. People needed to be woken up, and hanging around with like-minded folks wasn't going to do any good. He had to take it to God's country. When the sun went down, he had pulled into Pap's bar off 68 to wet his whistle. Mandy sat near him, hugging his arm with both of hers, while he ordered himself a beer and her a Coke with a cherry in it. She didn't like beer, though she had tried to like it for George. She felt the same way about pot.
And politics, but she had determined not to give up on that yet. Expressing anything but disapproval for the fascist regime in Washington would cause him to point his big vocabulary at her and fire it again and again till her head blew off and all she could do was nod and say, “I guess I hadn't thought of it that way” or “I'm sorry, I just don't read enough.” Then he would talk sweetly to her like a teacher or, when he was drinking, some kind of prophet, but both of those things were better than being shot at with words. What she really cared about was horses. She had worked all last summer at a riding camp before shipping off for her freshman year at Wright State, teaching wealthier girls how to ride and then brushing down the beautiful quarter horses and Appaloosas and that sweet-eyed bay named Percival. She had tried to get George to meet Percival, and he promised to, but somehow they never found time.

“Johnson wasn't much better. Just kept lying, acting like he had it under control. Acting like he was just a good guy doing his duty when he took the oath of office. How else do you shoot a president in broad daylight and nobody's got a good answer how, unless it's an inside job? Oh, he didn't give the order, maybe, but whoever did had Johnson in his pocket. And Nixon's their golden boy, war, war, war, bombs, bombs, bombs. Carpet bombing, how's that for a nice term? Like, we're just laying down some carpet, never mind that all these simple people who just want to get by are in the way of that carpet. Coca-Cola has to be sold. Hanoi needs to drive Fords and smoke Camels, right?”

His new friends just smiled and looked at him, dark under the night full of stars, and the stalks of the corn were dark. No wind blew at all and crickets sang hard.

The three strangers, a pretty woman, a bald man, and a big man with a neck brace, had walked into the bar not long after George and Mandy. They had taken the three stools on the left of the couple, the
bald man closest. He asked were they the ones who wanted Nixon impeached, and George had thrust his chin out and said yes. The bald man slapped him on the back and smiled, bought him a shot of whiskey.

“Aren't you having one?” George said. The man wished he could but he had an ulcer. Southern accent. George didn't usually like southerners, but this one had seemed friendly and open-minded, even if he did fish his hand around in the bowl of peanuts, put peanuts in his mouth and after a minute spit them on the floor wet like he just wanted the salt. George wouldn't have been able to say why he thought the man was open-minded, they hadn't talked about anything, but that was the impression he got the moment they shared a glance. When they traded names, George said, “Hope you didn't take my windshield personally.” The man found the situation funny, admired George's spunk, asked if he liked to get high. George allowed that he did.

That was how the five of them left the bar together, though not before the bald man said something to the barkeep that made his mouth hang open, made him stand there looking confused. Then the man whisked them all out the door. George saw a souped-up red car parked in the far corner of the dirt lot, but before he could ask about it, the stranger woman suggested George drive because they had a lot of junk in the backseat. George drove them to a stretch of 68 near a tumbledown barn, its weedy land separated from the high cornstalks by barbed wire. Mandy hadn't wanted to get into the car with these folks, and she definitely didn't want to sneak under fences into strange cornfields with them. When she whispered as much in his ear, he whispered back, “How are we going to influence people if we don't trust them? This man is open-minded. He's ready for revolution.”

“How do you know that?”

“He told me with his eyes.”

—

NOW THEY SAT IN THE STILL, HEAVY AIR, GEORGE SMOKING AND OFFERING TOKES
the others took, but not deeply, blowing out fast. George didn't form an opinion about this but just kept talking as the others listened and approved. The approval of others was a drug George coveted even more than grass or righteous indignation.

“Right on,” the woman said after each of George's declarations, smiling at him with bright, gleeful eyes.

When he said he thought Humphrey wasn't a great man, but that he'd take anybody over Richard Nixon—he was careful now to say “Richard Nixon” or “the president,” not just “Nixon”—Mandy yawned a theatric yawn, hoping George would notice and take her back to her dorm. Instead he ignored her and asked the bald southern man whom he'd voted for. He confessed that he hadn't voted in a long time. George asked the big man with the neck brace, who hadn't spoken once, what he thought of last fall's election, and the man shrugged. The bald one said his friend was not political.

That was when the bald one pulled out a small revolver and shot George in the temple at an upward angle.

Mandy made a guttural sound like a bark and stood up, but the woman grabbed her hand harder than anyone had ever grabbed it and yanked her down. Now Neck Brace held her head against his chest from behind, almost gently, his big, cold hand over her mouth, while the woman took out a knife and started poking deep holes in Mandy's chest and stomach. She thrashed and kicked, kicked so hard one shoe flew off and into the corn, but then shuddered and lay still. Neck Brace peeked over the high corn to see if anybody had heard the small gun's pop while the other two put their mouths to the damp holes in Mandy's sweater and drank. Then it was Neck Brace's turn. Two others appeared from the corn shadows and they also drank from the
dying girl. The bald man remembered seeing George drink beer with his right hand, so that was the one he grabbed. He wrapped George's fingers around the knife, unwrapped them, put the gun in George's hand, threading his finger through the trigger guard and pressing while he held the hammer in place. The five of them slunk through the corn to where their two cars waited and drove north on 68 toward Springfield.

Back at the bar, the bald man had looked Pap in the eye and said, “These two here came in alone and left alone. They was fightin' bad. Hissin' at each other. She was getting friendly with some jock, there's always some jock around, ain't there? He said he was the only man she was ever gonna have. You hear?”

Pap heard.

That was how Pap told it.