Vernon God Little (2 page)

‘Ma'am, I was behind the gym, I didn't even see it happen.'

‘You said you were in math.'

‘I said it was our math
period
.'

She looks at me sideways. ‘You take math behind the gym?'

‘No.'

‘So why weren't you in class?'

‘I ran an errand for Mr Nuckles, and got kind of – held up.'

‘Mr Nuckles?'

‘Our physics teacher.'

‘He teaches math?'

‘No.'

‘G-
hrrr
. This area's looking real gray, Mister Little.
Damn
gray.'

You don't know how bad I want to be Jean-Claude Van Damme. Ram her fucken gun up her ass, and run away with a
panty model. But just look at me: clump of lawless brown hair, the eyelashes of a camel. Big ole puppy-dog features like God made me through a fucken magnifying glass. You know right away my movie's the one where I puke on my legs, and they send a nurse to interview me instead.

‘Ma'am, I have witnesses.'

‘Is that right.'

‘Mr Nuckles saw me.'

‘And who else?' She prods the dry bones in her box.

‘A bunch of people.'

‘Is that right. And where are those people now?'

I try to think where those people are. But the memory doesn't come to my brain, it comes to my eye as a tear that shoots from my lash like a soggy bullet. I sit stunned.

‘Exactly,' says Gurie. ‘Not real gregarious, are they? So Vernon – let me ask you two simple questions. One: are you involved with drugs?'

‘Uh – no.'

She chases the pupils of my eyes across the wall, then herds them back to hers. ‘Two: do you possess a firearm?'

‘No.'

Her lips tighten. She pulls her phone from a holster on her belt, and suspends one finger over a key, eyeing me all the while. Then she jabs the key. The theme from
Mission: Impossible
chirps on a phone up the hall. ‘Sheriff?' she says. ‘You might want to attend the interview room.'

This wouldn't happen if she had more meat in her box. The dismay of no more meat made her seek other comforts, that's something I just learned. Now I'm the fucken meat.

After a minute, the door opens. A strip of buffalo leather scrapes into the room, tacked around the soul of Sheriff Porkorney. ‘This the boy?' he asks. Like, fucken no, it's Dolly Parton. ‘Cooperational, Vaine, is he?'

‘Can't say he is, sir.'

‘Give me a moment with him.' He closes the door behind him.

Gurie retracts her tit-fat across the table, turning to the corner like it makes her absent. The sheriff breathes a rod of decay at my face.

‘Bothered folk, son, outside. Bothered folk are quick to judge.'

‘I wasn't even there, sir – I have witnesses.'

He raises an eyebrow to Gurie's corner. One of her eyes flicks back, ‘We're following it up, Sheriff.'

Pulling a clean bone from the
Bar-B-Chew Barn
box, Porkorney moves to the picture on the door, and traces a line around Jesus' face, his bangs of blood, his forsaken eyes. Then he curls a gaze at me. ‘He talked to you – didn't he.'

‘Not about this, sir.'

‘You were close, though, you admit that.'

‘I didn't know he was going to kill anybody.'

The sheriff turns to Gurie. ‘Examine Little's clothes, did you?'

‘My partner did,' she says.

‘Undergarments?'

‘Regular Y-fronts.'

Porkorney thinks a moment, chews his lip. ‘Check the back of 'em, did you, Vaine? You know certain type of practices can loosen a man's pitoota.'

‘They seemed clean, Sheriff.'

I know where this is fucken headed. Typical of where I live that nobody will come right out and say it. I try to muster some control. ‘Sir, I ain't
gay
, if that's what you mean. We were friends since childhood, I didn't know how he'd turn out . . .'

A no-brand smile grows under the sheriff's moustache. ‘Regular boy then, are you, son? You like your cars, and your guns? And your – girls?'

‘Sure.'

‘Okay, all right – let's see if it's true. How many offices does a girl have that you can get more'n one finger into?'

‘Offices?'

‘Cavities – holes.'

‘Uh – two?'

‘Wrong.' The sheriff puffs up like he just discovered fucken relativity.

Fuck. I mean, how am I supposed to know? I got my fingertip into a hole once, don't ask me which one. It left memories of the Mini-Mart loading-bay after a storm; tangs of soggy cardboard and curdled milk. Somehow I don't think that's what your porn industry is talking about. Not like this other girl I know called Taylor Figueroa.

Sheriff Porkorney tosses his bone into the box, nodding to Gurie. ‘Get it on record, then hold him.' He creaks out of the room.

‘Vaine?' calls an officer through the door. ‘Fibers.'

Gurie re-forms into limbs. ‘You heard the sheriff. I'll be back with another officer to take your statement.'

When the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbecue sauce, is school – the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a fucken cross.

M
om's best friend
is called Palmyra. Everybody calls her Pam. She's fatter than Mom, so Mom feels good around her. Mom's other friends are slimmer. They're not her best friends.

Pam's here. Three counties hear her bellowing at the sheriff's secretary. ‘Lord, where
is
he? Eileena, have you seen Vern? Hey, love the hair!'

‘Not too frisky?' tweets Eileena.

‘Lord no, the brown really suits you.'

You have to like Palmyra, I guess, not that you'd want to imagine her humping or anything. She has a lemon-fresh lack of knives about her. What she does is eat.

‘Have you fed him?'

‘I think Vaine bought ribs,' says Eileena.

‘Vaine Gurie? She's supposed to be on the Pritikin diet – Barry'll have a
truck
!'

‘Good-night, she damn near
lives
at
Bar-B-Chew Barn
!'

‘Oh good Lord.'

‘Vernon's in there, Pam,' says Eileena. ‘You better wait outside.'

So the door flies open. Pam wobbles in, bolt upright like she has books on her head. It's on account of her center of gravity. ‘Vernie, you eatin rebs? What did you eat today?'

‘Breakfast.'

‘Oh Lord, we better go by the
Barn
.' Doesn't matter what you tell her, she's going by
Bar-B-Chew Barn
, believe me.

‘I can't, Pam, I have to stay.'

‘Malarkey, come on now.' She tugs my elbow. The force of it recommends the floor to my feet. ‘Eileena, I'm taking Vern – you
tell Vaine Gurie this boy ain't eaten, I'm double-parked out front, and she better hide some pounds before I see Barry.'

‘Leave him, Pam, Vaine ain't through . . .'

‘I don't see no handcuffs, and a child has a right to eat.' Pam's voice starts to rattle furniture.

‘I don't make the rules,' says Eileena. ‘I'm just sayin . . .'

‘Vaine can't hold him – you know that. We're gone,' says Pam. ‘Love your hair.'

Eileena's sigh follows us down the hallway. My ears flick around for signs of Gurie or the sheriff, but the offices seem empty; the sheriff's offices that is. Next thing you know, I'm halfway out of the building in Palmyra's gravity-field. You just can't argue with this much modern woman, I tell you.

Outside, a jungle of clouds has grown over the sun. They kindle the whiff of damp dog that always blows around here before a storm, burping lightning without a sound. Fate clouds. They mean get the fuck out of town, go visit Nana or something, until things quiet down, until the truth seeps out. Get rid of the drugs from home, then take a road trip.

A shimmer rises off the hood of Pam's ole Mercury. Martirio's tight-assed buildings quiver through it, oil pumpjacks melt and sparkle along the length of Gurie Street. Yeah: oil, jackrabbits, and Guries are what you find in Martirio. This was once the second-toughest town in Texas, after Luling. Whoever got beat up in Luling must've crawled over here. These days our toughest thing is congestion at the drive-thru on a Saturday night. I can't say I've seen too many places, but I've studied this one close and the learnings must be the same; all the money, and folk's interest in fixing things, parade around the center of town, then spread outwards in a dying wave. Healthy girls skip around the middle in whiter-than-white panties, then regions of shorts and cotton prints radiate out to the edges, where tangled babes hang in saggy purple underwear. Just a broken ole muffler shop on the outskirts; no more sprinklers, no more lawns.

‘Lord,' says Pam, ‘tell me why I can just taste a
Chik 'n' Mix
.'

Fucken yeah, right. Even in winter the Mercury stinks of fried chicken, never mind today when it's like a demon's womb. Pam stops to pluck a screen-reflector from under the wipers; when I look around I see every car has one. Seb Harris rides through the haze at the end of the street, distributing them from his bike. Pam opens the thing out and squints at the writing: ‘Harris's Store,' it reads, ‘More, More, More!'

‘Lookit that,' she says. ‘We just saved us the price of a
Chik 'n' Mix
.'

Deep fucken trouble keeps my euphoria at bay. Pam just molds into the car. Her soul's already knotted over the choice of side-order, you can tell. She'll end up getting coleslaw anyway, on account of Mom says it's healthy. It's vegetables, see. Me, I need something healthier today. Like the afternoon bus out of town.

A siren wails past us at the corner of Geppert Street. Don't ask me why, they can't save any children now. Pam will miss this corner anyway – it's fucken traditional, look, there she goes. Now she'll have to cut back two blocks, and she'll say, ‘Lord, nothing stays put in this town.' Reporters and camera people roam the streets in packs. I keep my head down, and scan the floor for fire ants. ‘Far aints,' Pam calls them. Fuck knows what other fauna climbs aboard in the century it takes her to get in and out of the fucken car.
Wild Fucken Kingdom
, I swear.

Today everybody at the
Barn
wears black, except for the Nikes on their feet. I identify the different models while they box up the chicken. Town's like a club, see. You recognize fellow members by their shoes. They won't even sell certain shoes to outsiders, it's a fact. I watch these black forms scurry around with different-colored feet and, just like when anything weird screens through the Mercury window, Glen Campbell starts to sing ‘Galveston
'
from Pam's ole stereo. It's a law of nature. Pam only has this one cassette, see –
The Best of Glen Campbell
. It jammed in the slot the first time she played it, and just kept on playing. Fate. Pam sings along with the
same part of the song every time, the part about the girl. I think she once had a boyfriend from Wharton, which is closer to Galveston than here. No songs about Wharton I guess.

‘Vern, eat the bottom pieces before they get soggy.'

‘Then the top pieces will be on the bottom.'

‘Oh Lord.' She lunges for the tub, but doesn't get past the refresher wipes before we turn into Liberty Drive. She must've forgot about Liberty Drive today.

Look at all the girls crying by the school.

Galveston, oh Galveston . . .

Another luxury wagon parks up ahead, with even more flowers, even more girls. It maneuvers slowly around the stains on the road. Strangers with cameras move back to fit it all in.

I still hear your sea waves crashing . . .

Behind the girls, behind the flowers are the mothers, and behind the mothers are the counselors; senior brownies at a petting zoo.

While I watch the cannons flashing . . .

Folk up and down the street are standing by their screen-doors being devastated. Mom's so-called friend Leona was already devastated last week, when Penney's delivered the wrong color kitchen drapes. Typical of her to go off half-cocked.

‘Oh my Lord, Vernie, oh God – all those tiny crosses . . .' I feel Palmyra's hand on my shoulder, and find myself sobbing spit.

The picture of Jesus that hangs behind the sheriff's door was taken at the crime scene. From a different angle than I last saw him. It doesn't show all the other bodies around, all the warped, innocent faces. Not like the picture in my soul. Tuesday breaks through me like a fucken hemorrhage.

I clean my gun, and dream of Galves-ton . . .

*

Jesus Navarro was born with six fingers on each hand, and that wasn't the most different thing about him. It's what took him though, in the very, very end. He didn't expect to die Tuesday; they found him wearing silk panties. Now girls' underwear is a major focus of the investigation, go figure. His ole man says the cops planted them on him. Like, ‘
Lingerie Squad! Freeze!
' I don't fucken think so.

That morning crowds my mind. ‘Hay-zoose, slow the fuck up!' I remember yelling to him.

A headwind worries our bikes on the way to school, weights them almost as heavy as this last Tuesday before summer vacation. Physics, then math, then physics again, some stupid experiment in the lab. Hell on fucken earth.

Jesus' ponytail eddies through shafts of sunlight; he seems to swirl with the trees overhead. He's changing, ole Jesus, turning pretty in an Indian kind of way. The stumps of his extra fingers have almost disappeared. He's still clumsy as hell though, and his mind's clumsy too; the certainty of our kid logic got washed away, leaving pebbles of anger and doubt that crack together with each new wave of emotion. My buddy, who once did the best David Letterman impression you ever saw, has been abducted by glandular acids. Sassy song and smell hormones must fume off his brain, the type that curdle if your mom senses them. But you get the feeling they ain't regular hormones. He keeps secrets from me, like he never did before. He got weird. Nobody knows why.