They Call Me Crazy (6 page)

I smile.

We sit together like two friends enjoying a cup of coffee as the pond fills and the canoe slowly rises out of the grave. When the water starts to seep over the edge, soaking the ground around the tarp, I get up and turn off the spigot. The canoe is almost completely flat in its new waterway, the bow still angled up but not much. A little weight on the front and it will tilt back down and hopefully start down the hill all by itself.

“You think a hundred pounds is going to be enough weight with him in there?” I turn to Old Man Booker, but he’s gone. Another fickle guy. I shrug and move to the front of the canoe.

The lamp has gone out, but I don’t bother to go back to the barn for more kerosene. My eyes have adjusted to the moonlight. The hill is slick from the rainstorm, and I just know this is going to work. I pull the canoe as far as I can out of the hole without the stern submerging, causing almost half of the front end to lift over the side. The ground gently slopes toward the river. I push on the front and am surprised at how easily the canoe tips forward. Once I get it a foot off the ground, I straddle it, sitting on the front deck and facing the river.

One hundred pounds is plenty. The minute my ass hits the tiny aluminum triangle, the canoe jolts and starts down the slippery slope of the backside of our hill. There’s no way for me to steer the thing, so it twists and turns all the way down the hill. I fall backward into the canoe, and my head slams into the heels of Roland’s boots. His ass bounces inches above my face.

I work my way back to a sitting position between Roland’s legs and try to keep my eyes on the river as the boat spins. We pick up speed and head right for the dock. My plan is that we’ll hit the dock straight on, so the canoe will fly off the end and into the water. How I’ll get back to shore after that, I don’t know. It’s a plan, but maybe not a well-thought-out one.

Instead, we hit from the side. The impact tips the canoe and sends Roland and me rolling across the dock in a tangled mess of bodies.

I push him off me and lie back, watching the stars twinkle. I start laughing and keep going until my stomach hurts. All I have left to do is push him off the dock, and it will be done.

I slowly roll over on my knees, thinking I might even drag the canoe back to the top of the hill for another ride. As I raise my head, a blinding light hits me right in the face.

I knew it was too good to be true.

Chapter Seven

Clay

I
am out back with my worms when the doorbell rings. Stopping at the utility sink inside the back door, I wash my hands, wipe them on my pant leg, and go to the front.

Maryanne doesn’t bother to say, “Hello,” or “Can I come in?” She just breezes right past me and sits on the arm of my couch. “I saw Pet at the ball game,” she says. Her back is straight and her hands are together in her lap, but she keeps moving her thumbs, putting one on top of the other, as if playing a game of Thumb War with herself. “He said Rolly wasn’t at work today. And I saw Cass driving the truck in town.”

“How was the game? Tell Shay I’m sorry I missed it. I’ll make it up to her.”

Maryanne frowns. “Are you listening, Clay? Your brother wasn’t at work today. He hasn’t missed work, ever. His crazy wife is driving around town in his truck, and no one has heard from him since yesterday.”

“You mean
you
haven’t heard from him.”

She shoots me a look that would tip a cow. “Very funny. Something’s wrong. And he’s your brother.”

I shake my head. I know all about Maryanne and Rolly—and any other swinging dick she can sneak in and sneak out. Never me, though. I’m just around for Shay.

Maryanne is too damn pretty to be so damn loose. Every man in the four-state area wants a piece of her, and she has no problem granting their wishes, as long as the deed is done outside town, away from her schoolmarm facade. I can’t say much. You have to love a woman with a libido, and besides, conducting her business under cover—so to speak—keeps it away from her daughter.
Our daughter.

Shaylene resembles her mother—tall and thin, dark hair, dark eyes. At times, when I’m with Shay, I turn and see Maryanne at seventeen, sitting next to me and covering the leather seats of my ‘72 Mustang with her Love’s Baby Soft. But Shay doesn’t go for some of her mother’s habits, even the healthier ones.

Maryanne runs five miles every other day, even in the winter. The summer is always best, though. Tank top, tight running shorts, wet by the third mile. I run with her once in a while, just to see her sweat. While fun to watch, that woman’s been bounced on more than a time-worn diving board, and I’m not much for swimming in a public pool.

“Are you listening to me?” she asks.

Oh, yeah. Rolly.
The great Roland Adams. My little brother. I shrug. “Wait ’til tonight. I’m sure you’ll find him out at Fat Tina’s.” Rolly’s job at the strip club is perfect for him, acting as the protector for all those girls and—I’m sure—getting special tips for his services.

She puts one hand on her chest, fingers splayed, and bats her lashes over exaggerated wide eyes. “Me? I’m not going out there. What would people think? What would Shay think?”

That’s right. Use the kid.

After Maryanne leaves, I return to my worms. Maybe I should be worried about Rolly, especially if he didn’t show up for work today, but the truth is, that boy drinks too much. It might have just finally caught up with him.
Boy?
He hasn’t been a boy for a long time, but it’s still hard for me to call him a man.

I’m careful not to disturb the night crawlers. A lot of them are mating right now, paired off, the middle of their bodies glowing orange as they exchange their worm sperm. I used to watch, but it kind of lost its pull after a while. Besides, I’ve got an apple-spice cake to make for the VFW bake sale, and I would hate knowing the special ingredient was pregnant.

I prefer the reds, anyway. They’re smaller and seem to wiggle a bit more. I grab a fistful. Their cool bodies send a pleasurable chill up my arms as they squirm in my hand. They’re soft, like a woman, except the worms actually move once in a while.

I spread my fingers slightly and watch as the most adventurous of the wigglers squirm between them and wrap around my hands. Their bodies make a rhythmic motion as they contract and extend, contract and extend, moving slowly at different angles until my palms are covered with their brownish-red bodies. I lightly squeeze, feeling the softness and the response, before putting them back in their compost bin.

The sun sits on top of King Hill, the last of its appearance for the day. I need to get that spice cake made, then clean up and go to Fat Tina’s.

Women.
I sure wish they were easy as worms.

As Garth Brooks’s voice fills the air, celebrating his friends in low places, I watch the girl onstage. She has the song choreographed down to the last line, removing one piece of her already too-revealing outfit at a time until she is completely nude. A pole runs from the floor to the ceiling at center stage, and she uses it as adeptly as any fireman, raising her body high on the pole, then turning upside down. Her long blond hair drags the floor as she slowly slides back to the stage. She rolls over and crawls seductively around the circular stage, her small breasts within reaching distance of the men who line the perimeter. She collects dollar bills in her teeth. I turn away. She can’t be much older than my daughter.

I’ve never been much for the bar scene. I don’t drink, and if I did, I don’t see any reason why I couldn’t do that at home. I don’t dance, either. I enjoy listening to the music, as long as it’s not rap, hip hop, or whatever the hell they call it where everyone’s a ho or a thug or a gangster. That kind doesn’t make much sense to me.

I go to the VFW once in a while to shoot some pool or throw darts. The crowd is different there, though. There are a lot of husbands and wives, along with plenty of women for a single guy to hook up with for a night. Unlike Tina’s place, they enforce their “No shirt, no shoes, no service” policy. Pauline has been the bartender there for thirty years, and if you tip her, which you better, the money goes in a Mason jar, not a G-string. And the jukebox only has country music.

Fat Tina’s is packed. I try not to breathe too deeply. The spicy smell of hot bodies—mostly male—mixed with the too-sweet aroma of scented oils is sickening. Benny Cloud stands at the bar in full uniform, shaking hands more than usual. The stage area is packed, with everyone facing front, while tables and booths are filled with men watching or participating in the floor show. Lap dances are taking place at every other table with young girls grinding into the laps of men their fathers’ ages.

Fat Tina’s staff members patrol the crowd, warning someone when he’s getting out of control and escorting them outside if needed. Their hot-pink T-shirts feature a crudely drawn obese woman spread-eagled with a rooster between her knees. They pass out condoms with the Fat Tina logo as if they’re Dum Dums suckers. Rolly is usually one of those guys, but I don’t see him. I spot Tina behind the bar and make my way through the crowd.

“Hey there, Clay,” Tina says. “It’s about time you came out to see me.” She speaks loudly to be heard over the crowd, but she isn’t screaming. Easily twice my size, she has to be holding down five hundred pounds. She carries it well, or I guess as well as one could. She’s wearing a loose, sleeveless gauze dress—blue with a pattern of huge orchids—that trails the ground. She doesn’t try to hide her arms, which are as large as medium-sized dogs and sway back and forth like porch swings. She wears more makeup than some of the girls working the floor. I notice as she extends her hand that her pudgy fingers are covered with rings. She offers a firm shake, not the limp wrist some women do.

I’ve known Tina since we were kids. In school, some called her Tiny, which she never was. Tina just laughed it off. I never made fun of her. Some girls just had more than others. Besides, I always thought Tina would one day have enough of the bullshit, and I didn’t want to be the one who sent her over the edge.

After high school, she disappeared for a while then came back with an MBA and started this place, just outside the city limits. She’s a businesswoman, and with a twenty-dollar cover and the place wall-to-wall packed every night, a successful one at that.

“How’s Harlan and the kids?” I asked.

Tina had met Harlan Early at the truck stop out on the highway, shortly after she came back from school. Harlan couldn’t weigh more than one fifty soaking wet. He loves the hell out of her, though, all of her. They have a nice home on the river and two kids. Two fat kids.

“They’re doing fine. Say, where’s that brother of yours? He was supposed to be here over two hours ago. Odd for him to not show up for work. He’s one of the best.”

“No one’s heard from him all day. I thought you might know something.”

Tina shrugs. Her entire body moves with the action. “Didn’t call, hasn’t shown. Not like him. Not like him at all.”

I told Maryanne I would check on him, but he isn’t here, and I don’t know where else he’d be. Roland likes to tell me about his extracurricular activities, which usually include some trash-ass woman who thinks he’s a god, but I really don’t pay much attention. I learned a long time ago that half of Roland’s game is all talk. He wants to make me jealous, but I’m not the type. Well, maybe a little… I am a man, after all. But I’ve seen some of his prized catches—white ribbons—if you’re competing at the state fair. In my opinion, he already has the best catch sitting at home and waiting for his sorry ass.

I want to think he’s sleeping off a drunk somewhere, or starting on a new one, but I’m starting to get worried about him. Tina’s right: Rolly would rather die than miss work.

“Any ideas where he might go if he’s not here?” I figure Tina keeps a pretty stiff eye on her staff. The law is always watching her, and she’s smart enough to keep things on the up-and-up as much as possible.

“No. I try to keep my nose out of his business.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back a bit. “Roland doesn’t give me any trouble, so I try not to give him any back. He works, I pay him. That’s our deal.”

I know that isn’t entirely true. Rolly showed up at my house a few weeks ago in the middle of the night, drunk as I’d ever seen him and ready to pass out on my couch—as he does a bit too often. He told me Tina’s been giving him a time about his side racket, but he wasn’t about to start running the dealers out of the parking lot as long as they kept slipping him a bit of their profits.

He doesn’t make much at the mop factory—that’s for sure. Still, there’s no telling what my brother spends his money on, probably something I don’t want to know.

“While you’re here, how about a lap dance?” Tina asks. “On the house, for an old friend. What do you say?”

I can’t help but laugh. “I don’t think these legs can support you, Tina.”

She waves a hand in the air as if swatting a fly, causing the porch swings to start rocking. “I don’t do any of that stuff. You should know better. I meant one of the girls. You do like girls, don’t you?”

One thing about Tina, she gets right to the point. I start to reply then feel a firm grip on my upper arm. I turn and face Benny Cloud. He has no jurisdiction out here, but he likes everyone to know he’s keeping an eye out. But Tina lets him in without a cover to keep the peace, and Benny likes to watch the girls.

I look from his hand on my arm to his face. “What do you want?” He’s sweating, and even in the dimness of the bar, I can tell that his face has gone pale.

His eyes dart between Tina and me. “I think you better come with me. We got a problem.”

The way he says it, trying to control his voice but still unable to contain a note of urgency, makes me pause. Somehow, I know “we,” as in Benny and me, aren’t really the ones with the problem.