The Wettest County in the World (27 page)

Then Rakes turned and walked back across the clearing to his car and sat in the front seat. Abshire came out to talk with Forrest again, and the other two men flanked their car with rifles propped butt-end on their hips. Jack walked up to where Forrest was standing talking with Abshire.

You can let them all through, Forrest was saying, as easy as you can let one.

We’ll need to take the other two, Abshire said.

We can’t do that, Jack said.

Abshire eyed Jack and tugged his collar up around his ears.

Listen, son, Abshire said, let’s make it easy. The one car doesn’t have anything, so that one can go. And keep those damn pistols out of sight!

You can’t have the other cars, Forrest said.

The worry on his brother’s face made Jack nervy and he fingered the pistol in his pocket. The clearing was still and rapidly warming, nearing noon.

Go on over to the cars, Forrest said. Tell Everett head back and go home.

We need all of them, Jack said. They can’t take any.

What? Abshire said. We ain’t afraid of you, son. You boys gotta take your medicine.

Forrest stepped between them.

Listen, Henry, he said calmly. Somebody is gonna die unless you let us across this bridge.

Don’t be a fool, Abshire said.

Forrest turned to Jack.

Git back to the car and tell Everett to get on.

Jack walked back and told Everett to turn around and head back to the station. There goes four hundred dollars, Jack thought, as Everett turned the car around and left the clearing. Where was Howard? If they negotiated something and Howard showed up it could all go to hell. But if things got sticky he would sure like to have Howard at his back.

When Everett was gone Rakes came over and headed for Jack’s car while Abshire and Forrest stood by the bridge, talking.

We gonna have to take these cars, Rakes said. You boys can walk on back to the station from here.

As he walked around to the driver’s side of Jack’s car, Jack ducked through the window and snatched the keys out of the ignition. Rakes whipped out his pistol, covering Jack with it as he came back around the hood of the car to the road.

You’re acting might smart, Rakes said.

I reckon, Jack said, I can take the keys out of my own car.

Now, I told you, Rakes said, we gotta have that car.

Jack held the keys in his hand, unsure of what to do. The keys were in his right hand, the same side as the gun in his pocket. He would never be able to draw quickly enough.

Just then Howard came barreling into the clearing, the green Ford fishtailing and overcorrecting, and he slid to a stop a few feet behind Jack’s car. Jack had never been so relieved to see his brother in his life. The trunk was stove in and from the stench you could tell that some of the crushed cans were leaking liquor. A swirl of steam rose from the back end of the car. Howard was breathing hard, his eyes mere slits.

Now gimme those damn keys, Rakes said.

I’ll offer him a bit more money, Jack thought. The seventy dollars in his front pocket.

Look, Jack said, I gotta little somethin’ here for you in my pocket.

He started to reach for it and Rakes cocked the hammer.

Are you reachin’ for something, boy?

I got seventy dollars here, Jack said.

I think you reaching for a gun, Rakes said.

Jack saw him close an eye and sight him down the barrel and he raised both of his hands in the air, flinching away at the last moment as Rakes fired.

Wait!

The bullet hit Jack in the side just under the arm. It felt like a hammer blow and twisted his torso around, his feet swiveling in the snow. He never heard the initial pistol report, but rather the continuing echo that sounded like it came from a long way off. He cried out:

Forrest!

Jack fell on his stomach and elbows, his head still up, no real pain but the feeling of warmth under his armpit and spreading into his chest. He could see Forrest start toward him, his arms pumping, Abshire following, his gun out. Forrest charged to him, his teeth set in a grimace, his hand in his pocket rooting for his pistol. Rakes turned, crouching, and shot Forrest at a distance of about twenty yards. But Forrest kept coming, pistol out, and Jack thought, well damned if it all ain’t true after all.

Then Rakes went to one knee, stretching out his arm, and shot again, and Forrest suddenly doubled over at the waist, took another few steps, then stumbled down to his knees, his hand clenched at his belly, his head down.

Howard lurched from his car, jacket flying under his arms. Rakes was standing over Forrest, who knelt in the snow with his knees apart, sitting on his heels, hands folded at his gut, motionless.

Oh, yeah, Rakes said,
you that goddamned hard-boiled son of a bitch, ain’t you!

Then he turned and sighted his pistol at Howard, who froze, one hand on the open car door. Rakes cocked the hammer.

Jack wanted to rise but knew that he wouldn’t, even if he possessed the strength to, even if he had all the strength of the known world.

Abshire came up and chopped Rakes’s arm down just as he shot again at Howard, the round discharging into the snow in a flush of white.

Jack felt a hot spasm down his ribs and across his chest and he rolled to one side. A dark stain was spreading across his jacket and his left arm flopped onto the ground, numb. He stared at his fingers, the dirty sleeve, as if they were things not of himself. Then a shiver went through him and he lay his head back and watched the sky shrink to a pinprick of black.

J
ACK’S EYES
felt like iron and his mouth was so dry he had a flash of terror: Someone had stuffed him full of clay; he was being drowned like Cricket Pate. He shifted his body and felt his torso encased, something wound around his chest, his hips and buttocks on sheets, the feel of them on the tops of his hands. He was in a bed. The relief brought a rush of sweat to his face. He struggled to open his eyes again. There was a ring of dark shapes around him. Low lamplight, the ripple of white bedding stretched over his body, the peaks of his feet. He wriggled his toes. A dark shape unfolded itself from the corner to his right and loomed over his bed.

Hey there, son.

An unfamiliar voice. A man, wearing a dark three-piece suit. A watch chain dangling from his waist pocket. A tall, hooked form. Jack moved his lips but could not speak, his throat like sawdust. In his gut he felt the seizing, knotting sensation of terror. Where is my father? The man bent from the waist, down over Jack’s face. The long fleshy horse face, stubbled chin and dirty collar.

Lookin’ good, Floyd Carter said.

Several other men materialized, standing around his bed, men in long coats and wearing hats, their arms folded. One of the men shifted and Jack caught a glimpse of a window; darkness, the glass streaked with rain. What day is it? Floyd Carter bent closer to Jack’s ear.

I figured, Carter said, you could use a little visit from the Midnight Coal Company, after all the money we made together, eh?

He grinned, a mouth of yellow horse teeth, then bent to Jack’s ear again.

I got a little somethin’ for ya, he whispered.

Carter held up a small piece of folded paper in front of Jack’s face, waving it back and forth. Then he picked up a book from the bedside table, opened it, contemplated the contents for a moment. Carter chuckled and showed the other men the cover of the book, then held it open and inserted the piece of paper inside.

Your girl brought this in earlier, Carter said, left this here.

He closed the book and showed Jack the cover: Holy Bible.

Bertha was here?

Carter patted the book thoughtfully and rubbed the spine, then placed it back on the table.

Seems like a nice girl, Jack, he said. You oughta marry her once you get up and out of here.

Forrest, Jack croaked.

He’s gonna make it, Carter said. Your daddy was here. Him and Mister Lee. Seems they came to an arrangement. Commonwealth attorney’s office gonna pay your medical bills, no charges filed. Figured you boys can settle up with Rakes later, eh?

Carter bent close to Jack’s ear again.

Listen, he whispered, on that piece of paper is the names of two men. The two men who cut your brother. You give it to ’im yourself, if you like.

Carter straightened up and the men shuffled, arranging themselves.

Take more than a bullet to kill Forrest, you oughta know that by now. You take care now, Jack. Come see us sometime.

The assembled men flowed out of the room and Jack craned his neck, his shoulders swathed in bandages, to look at the bedside table, the Bible lying there, a tip of paper protruding like a bookmark.

L
UCY WAS IN
the kitchen, stirring a pot of sugared damson berries. Her cotton shift hung on her shoulders, the bones of her hips visible. She seemed so small, so fragile to Howard that he was afraid she wasill. But she turned to him as he came through the door, a smile of relief on her face, the glow of health on her forehead and neck, and she flung herself into his arms.

Oh, Lord, she said, I’m so glad you’re here!

Howard straightened up, leaning back slightly and Lucy’s feet came off the floor and she hung there on his broad bulk, her arms around his neck, resting on his chest.

Where’s the baby? Howard said into her hair.

Sleeping, Lucy said. Sleeping good. Oh, Howard the last few days she’s sleeping good and eatin’. You oughta see her. Everybody all right?

Jack will be good in a few weeks, he said. Forrest was hurt real bad, but he’s gonna pull through.

Howard could feel the bones of her back and ribs but the weight was solid, a comfortable density and firmness of bone. He shifted and swung her slightly from side to side, her feet swaying.

I almost lost them, he said. I almost lost them both.

Oh, Howard, it’s all gonna be okay.

I went into the ditch down the hill, had to push out. If I hadda been there earlier—

Oh God Howard don’t say it. Please don’t say it.

His throat knotted and he gasped for air.

You’re a good man, Howard, you’re a good man.

He knew that he could stand and hold her like this throughout the night if he wished to, such was his strength. Was that enough? Lucy buried her face into his neck.

Don’t let me go, Howard said.

I couldn’t, Lucy said. You got me.

He gave her a slight squeeze, tempering his strength, and heard the breath come whistling out of her lungs. She nuzzled in his neck, murmuring.

Don’t let go, Howard said.

T
HAT NIGHT
Howard lay in the bed in the cabin with Lucy wound around him. The baby lay next to them in her crib, and the dark room was softly patterned with their breathing. Howard fell asleep almost instantly, not having slept in more than two days. He dreamed of a vast, long white road stretching to the horizon. As he adjusted to the light he could see it wasn’t a road, rather a river that wound slightly into the dull glow of the sun, everything blinding white and cold. His hands ached and when he held them up they were battered and deeply cut and scabbed on the knuckles. In the distance a figure separated itself from the white, someone standing on the frozen river. Howard walked toward the figure, his footing unsure on the slick ice. The figure began to convulse, bending rapidly. It was Forrest, jerking his body toward the ice. He was attacking the frozen surface with an ax, striking it repeatedly, sending up a shower of ice and spray. Howard tried to yell out to his brother but his voice was lost in some kind of white noise, a solid wave of sound. Forrest brought the ax over his head with two hands, his feet planted wide, hacking away at a spot, moving too rapidly, like he was animated by some strange force.
Forrest,
he called out again, and he could hear the name in his mind but he knew there was no sound. He could see the thin hair on his brother’s head, the hawklike nose, Forrest dressed in his wool shirt and pants, bare-handed, chopping at the ice again and again. No scar, no meandering line under his chin. There was some other movement and looking down Howard could see a dark ripple under the ice, a shadow moving under them, an enormous shape more than fifty feet long.
Forrest! Stop!
he shouted. But his brother only chopped faster.

M
AGGIE SHUTTERED
the windows and the Blackwater station remained closed for the four weeks Forrest was in the hospital. Everett Dillon came by after a few days and found the door locked. It was morning, the snowfall of the week before now a mottled crust, a border of stained brown along the road. The snow in the lot was still crisp and even, untouched. Everett knocked a few times. The curtain moved upstairs, and he could see her looking out. He looked up to her and pointed to the door, rattled the handle, but Maggie only let the curtain fall and moved away from the window. Standing there quietly in the lot he could hear the faint sound of music coming through the window.

W
HEN
J
ACK WOKE
one day Bertha was sitting beside his bed, holding the slip of paper with the names on it. She asked, and he told her.

Jack, you can’t give this to him. You can’t.

Why?

Bertha tucked the paper back into the Bible on her lap, placing both hands over it. She pursed her lips, breathing quickly through her nose.

You know what he’ll do, she said.

Jack’s rib cage ached so hard it made him squint. It seemed to be dusk, or perhaps morning. The light was uncertain.

Jack? Promise me.

He let his head roll on the pillow toward her. Her face was white and her eyes hard upon him. The window was dark but he could hear the wind buffeting the side of the building. What time is it? he wondered.

You gotta promise me, Bertha said, or so help me you’ll never see me again.

A
S HE SLEPT FITFULLY
over the next few weeks in the hospital Jack had extended vivid dreams of his grandfather. The old man was continually exhorting him on, his beard whipped by wind, eyes flashing, leading him into a deep wood, a shape in the doorway of a barn, waving him across a field of snow.

His grandfather was an industrious man, always working and trying to scrape together a few dollars, but in the end it never amounted to much. Most Bondurant men, including Jack and his brothers, had that strange obsession of the terminally poor; the dreams of wadded sums of cash, of heavy lumps of change in your pocket, the small stacks that speak of little dreams. They banked on the salvation of a few dollars. It meant nothing in the end because it would take far more to ever break out of the tunnel each was tumbled into at birth.

In his crudely lettered last will and testament Jack’s grandfather left his son Granville three acres, a pair of worn-out mules, and a black boy named Julius, who had grown and left many years before.

Jack remembered the old man sitting on his bed, whittling away at his figures. The feral look on Forrest’s face as he played with them by the creek, hiding them in the woods. After a few months the weather began to work on the pieces, hidden as they were in a hollow log, swelling and distorting the carved features. The wood grew discolored with molds, and fungus split the grains, making the men look as if they were erupting from within. Forrest continued to play with them until they were unrecognizable lumps of rotted wood, having memorized by then who each character was and what role he played. Finally he buried the moldy bits as they came apart in his hands, depleting the ranks over time.

One winter afternoon Jack watched his brother chisel a hole with a stick into the icy ground by Snow Creek. Jack hid among a small bunch of catalpa trees along the creek, his knees damp on the frosty ground, the afternoon chores finished and nearly supper time. When Forrest finished and left, loping back across the field to the house, Jack crept forward and carefully dug up the figure. The final remaining character was an ambitious piece, a man on horseback. Warped and swollen with frost, the man on horseback held out his broad-brimmed hat in his hand as if waving on his men. The other hand held his sword, raised high and straight, ready to strike. His chest was thrown back and he held his head at an unnatural angle, cocked to one side and looking up, as if he were asking for a favor from someone above, the instruments of encouragement and punishment in each hand at the ready.

Jack knelt there in the cold mud for only a few minutes, studying the figure carefully, turning it over in his numb fingers. His body shook violently with the cold and he placed the figure back in the hole and carefully buried him. When he stood he saw Forrest standing at the crest of the hill, several hundred feet away, a slanted silhouette against the indigo sky, watching him. Forrest stood there for several minutes, motionless. Then he turned and walked over the hill into the darkness.

Jack waited a full hour by the creek, teeth chattering, before venturing back to the house. At the supper table Forrest was an impassive specter, and that night Jack begged his mother in tears to be allowed to sleep in their room on the floor so he wouldn’t have to sleep in his normal bed with Forrest.

What on earth is wrong with you, son? said Granville.

But his mother finally agreed and wrapped him in blankets on the floor next to their bed.

In the morning Jack woke with a fever and he spent the next week sweating and tearful and his mother fretted over him with hot broth and alcohol rubs. When he was well again he went back to the bed with Forrest. Forrest never spoke of the figures to Jack or anyone, and no one in the family ever mentioned them again.