Wear Your Home Like a Scar, page 13
“I’m a damn sight from any hero,” the man said.
“Well, thank you anyway.”
He turned to check on the woman’s progress when Charlie yelled, “Keep your ass planted unless you want to be breathing through your neck.”
Butch spun around with his gun extended, clocked the man in the back who was standing up and raising his hands. Charlie yelled to sit down again and Butch felt a hot flash spread through his torso. He wobbled on his feet, caught a glimpse of the scarred vet rearing back for another kidney punch and squeezed his eyelids like fists.
A bang, his ears ringing.
He opened his eyes and saw a squirt of blood coming from the vet’s shoulder, turned and saw Charlie pointing his pistol in their direction, turned and saw the man in the back booth raise a gun at Charlie. Butch pulled his trigger four times and the man splashed blood over the vinyl booth.
There was a thin shriek, a whimper, a death-stare from Charlie to Butch, Charlie shaking his head and sighing then popping two shots, taking three steps, popping another two shots. The waitress who’d greeted them collapsed into a pile at Butch’s feet, the cook slumped over the divide between kitchen and dining room. Blood and flesh sizzled on the grill and the smell filled the air. Neither Charlie nor Butch noticed.
Butch worked himself to standing, rubbing blood back through his torso.
“No witnesses,” Charlie said to him. “So no chamber.”
Butch nodded, hobbling over to the counter to grab the canvas bag. He wanted to say it was an extreme reaction, to say that maybe the other patrons hadn’t struck him as heroes and didn’t need to die. But breathing was painful and his ribs were throbbing and he was just tired, so instead he slung the bag over his shoulder and made his way toward the door.
“That was a kind woman you just shot.” He looked to Charlie. “You better hope there’s enough to make it worthwhile.”
“Good people die all the time,” Charlie said. “From Daddy on down.”
“You’d know better than I,” Butch started to say, but over his brother’s shoulder he caught a glimpse of a stuffed rabbit hanging from the vinyl seat of a booth, its arms waving like it was trying not to plummet to its death on the ceramic tile below.
“Dear God.” Butch dropped the bag and hurried to the booth, pushing Charlie aside. “You cold-hearted son of a bitch.”
Charlie barely looked up, just thumbed out more bullets.
Using the seat back to lower himself, Butch knelt down.
There was a quick gasp, a slight whimper snuffed. There was blood dripping from the tabletop above, landing in a baseball-sized puddle. There was a young girl burying her head between her knees, rocking back and forth. Her feet sat but two inches from the dark red circle.
“Come here, sweetheart.” Butch held out his hand. He could practically hear her shaking. “Come on, let’s get you out of here.” He reached out to touch her and she yelped. “Just hold my hand and keep your eyes closed. I’ll get your bunny for you.”
His pulse throbbed against his temples, against his ribs. His veins felt ready to tear themselves to shreds. His fingers trembled until he was sure they’d shake loose, but his body stilled when she wrapped her right hand around his. She leaned forward, feeling with her left hand. Butch grabbed that one too, about three chin hairs from her plopping it in her mother’s blood.
A faint vibration came from her mouth, an attempt at words or sobs.
“It’s going to be okay, sweetheart. We’re going to call a doctor to take care of your momma, but let’s go find you some ice cream for right now.”
A click behind him. He didn’t turn, just said, “Put that down, brother.”
“No witnesses,” Charlie said. “No chamber.”
“She’s a damn kid.” Butch pulled her from underneath the table and set her on his knee. He looked up and couldn’t quite comprehend the look on his brother’s face—shock, revulsion, terror, love—but he understood the source. Butch and Charlie didn’t exchange many of their jungle stories, but after a job in Louisville took a particularly nasty turn, they drowned it out with two bottles of Kentucky moonshine. The story of the soul-stealing girl and her explosive tendencies came spilling out in something Butch thought to be alcohol-induced exorcism. Seeing this girl now, it was like coming home from a tour and catching first glimpse of your family on the porch, only to register that the buzzing in your ears wasn’t residue from the war but a plane diving right into your yard.
“No witnesses,” Charlie repeated. He motioned with the barrel.
“It ain’t her,” Butch said. “Go on out to the bikes. I’ll take care of this.”
The gun stayed trained on the little girl’s forehead. The girl trembled so hard it made Butch’s leg wobble. Butch extended a hand, slowly as he would to a coiled snake, and nudged Charlie’s hand away.
Charlie pulled the trigger three times. Plumes of vinyl and stuffing and gray fur filled the air. The rabbit’s ruined carcass fell to the floor. Charlie spun on his heels and headed to the front, stopping to grab the bag, then slammed the door.
Butch stood and adjusted the girl in his arms. “What’s your name, sweetheart?”
Her voice was muffled by Butch’s shoulder, but it sounded like Sadie.
“Sadie, I’m Maynard, but my friends call me Butch. That there was my brother, Charlie.”
She pulled her face back and he could get a look at her features. A towheaded waif of a girl, not more than five or six. Faint copper freckles that seemed borrowed from one of her friends, and eyes a color that he’d only seen on Charlie’s daughter, Ruthie, whom they hadn’t seen in several years after Charlie’s wife Jo kicked him out. He tucked her hair behind her ear and said they should get going.
When they stepped outside Levin’s Diner, he plopped her on his Harley and saddled up behind her, then took off his jacket and tied the arms around the both of them.
“What about Momma?” The girl blinked dumbly, and Butch recognized the shock, clear as day. She was running on autopilot right now, same as he’d seen in men he fought with.
“We’re going to find someone to help her, don’t you worry. I know a good doctor, next town over—a great doctor, actually—he’ll take care of her.” Butch felt awful for lying to the girl, but he could only deal with one crisis at a time.
“Just hold on tight,” he told her.
“Why are you on motorbikes?”
“You ever tried to hide a Buick with a couple tree branches?” He kickstarted the engine, opened the throttle a bit.
“We don’t have a car.”
Butch nodded. “Exactly.”
Something about that smell threw Edgar back a few years. He could hear the frantic screech of foreign birds, of voices screaming in guttural tongues. He remembered learning to tell the difference between a hops field and a wheat field when it burned, that you had to breathe deeply and watch the smoke. He remembered one of the other infantrymen saying it was hard to tell because sometimes the farmers trapped in the field put out their own smell while on fire. In his mind, they had known what was coming and should’ve moved faster, and if they didn’t, well, there’s one for Darwinism.
Edgar pulled himself up using the one of the counter stools. The burn spread through his shoulder, causing his fingers to loosen and slip from the stool’s back. He caught himself before falling back to the floor, pulled through the pain until he found his feet. Applying a little pressure around the wound told him it was an in-and-out and blood-loss was the only real thing to worry about.
The restaurant was not a world for the living. Poor Irma was piled not three feet from him, blood radiating from her like a gruesome sunset. He shouldered open the door to the kitchen, found Big Al slumped across the griddle. Wrapping his good arm around the big man’s waist, he heaved him back, off the steaming griddle. Blood burnt black, pocked with bubbles. The front of Al’s torso looked like the remains of a campfire the morning after a rain. Edgar grabbed a spatula meant for flipping burgers and set it on the steel, then searched through the kitchen for a towel or rag. Only ones he saw hung from the edge of the sink, soaked with grease water, so he pulled off Al’s hat and rolled it into a cylinder. He took a deep breath, then set it between his teeth and picked up the spatula.
It’d been a long time since he’d heard that sizzle. At least he didn’t have to worry about getting Kraut disease in it this time.
When his shoulder was cauterized, he made his way back through the dining room over to the back booth. His nephew lay face down on the table, a corona of blood ebbing toward the edge.
Damn shame, that kid. Bad enough his momma named him Lindsey and gave him clubbed feet. And now shot down like a stray dog.
Edgar’d tried to do right by his sister’s boy. Lindsey wanted to follow in his uncle’s footsteps and fight the good fight, but he’d been kept out of the service on account of his Palsy. Edgar had a few friends around town and did some favors to get the boy a badge and a gun, give him something to inspire a bit of respect.
He knelt down and closed the boy’s eyelids, then took the car keys from his pocket and walked outside.
Butch pulled the blanket up to Sadie’s chin and secured it beneath her shoulders. She didn’t look terribly comfortable, but it was the same way he’d seen mothers tuck in daughters in the pictures. Though he’d always wanted kids he could play baseball and wrestle with, his old lady had been more concerned about her ladies’ club and themed dinners than procreating. When he got back from Korea and found her closet empty, he was nearly relieved. People around town asked how he was doing alone and he’d have to think of the bodies of infantry he left behind to bring about the appropriate response. Taking up the road with Charlie had been as simple as leaving his front door open. He cinched the wool blanket tighter around his own shoulders, the chill of riding without a jacket in damp air still lodged inside him.
Butch and Sadie had passed the limits of the second town an hour after leaving the diner, and the third town shimmered like a mirage on the flat horizon of the plains. It perpetually grew on the straightaways, while at the same time receding into the distance when the road curved. The rain began twenty miles out. At first it only spat down on them and they could manage, but fell harder each time their wheels turned and Butch had to pull off into a copse of trees to keep her from the weather. By the time they finally parked around the corner from the Shangri-La Motel half a day later, Charlie had filled the room with thick cigarette smoke.
“I can’t sleep without Gabby,” Sadie said. Her eyes were dry but continually darted around the room, following Charlie’s circuit.
“You shouldn’t call your momma by her first name, darling.”
“Gabby’s my rabbit.”
Butch nodded. He looked around, scanning the room for anything to take Gabby’s place. Pulling the pillowcase off the extra pillow, he folded it twice, then tied a knot, emulating a vague head and flowing body, then handed it to her.
“That’s not Gabby.”
“It’s either that or my socks.” He patted her cheek and told her to sleep. She didn’t look convinced, so he said, “I’m going to call my doctor friend and make sure your momma’s okay.” That seemed to calm her and she closed her eyes, but Butch could see the twitch beneath her eyelids, still tracing Charlie’s movements.
Charlie grabbed Butch’s arm, yanked him up, and pushed him out the door to the carport.
“Two guns, two bikes, two beds.” The cherry of Charlie’s cigarette flickered bright red, the same color of his cheeks as he sucked in hard.
“You don’t sleep anymore, so it’s not really an issue.”
“When did you become the keeper of the poor?”
“Her daddy died over in Korea, and you took off her mom’s face on a humbug. What else should I do?”
Charlie scoffed. “How do you know anything about her daddy?”
“I asked her.”
“Yeah, well our daddy died in front of me. She needs to toughen up.”
“She’s six.”
He just shook his head, muttered something about gallows. “I think it’d be wise to lay low for a few days and let the dust cover our tracks. Figure out how to get rid of that kid.”
Butch took the cigarette from Charlie’s mouth and threw it on the ground, crushed it with the toe of his boot. “You can bunk up with me if your legs get tired, but keep quiet. Girl needs her sleep.”
He opened the door and motioned for Charlie to go in first, held a finger to his lips that Charlie ignored. Butch let the door whisper closed then crossed the room and sunk into the empty bed with a long sigh. He could hear Sadie’s breath ebb and flow. When he tried to take off her purple shoes, she’d have none of it, and her feet rustled the sheets like a dreaming puppy dog. The last thing he thought before falling asleep is I should really take off my boots, too.
The ghost of a breeze blew across his face. In the middle of all the brush and trees, the air was starched and a hint of ocean was god-sent. They had to sleep covered in floral camouflage, though, if they cared to wake. Another faint wind and some small animal crawled over his toes. He opened his eyes to shoo it away and saw two of the bluest moons focused on him, three inches from his face.
“He scares me,” she said. Her shoes touched his shin, as if physical contact could convey what her tiny voice couldn’t.
Butch glanced over to see Charlie pacing a small circuit, staring mostly at the covers Sadie hid beneath.
“He slept a whole lot when he was little. He got all his rest then and doesn’t need to sleep anymore.”
Sadie crimped the sheet under her chin. “Are you scared of him?”
“No. He’s my brother. Do you have a brother?”
She shook her head.
“He won’t hurt you, I promise. And I’ll keep you safe from everyone else.”
“Till Momma gets better?”
“Yeah,” Butch lied. “Till then.”
“Are you scared of anything?” Her lips formed the words more than spoke them.
Butch tucked her hair behind her ear, snugged the knotted pillowcase under her chin.
“No, honey,” he lied again. “No, I’m not.”
Butch again woke to eyes staring at him, only these were gray like sharkskin. By some instinct he didn’t understand, he placed his arm over Sadie, snoring beside him.
Charlie hunched over the foot of the bed, shards of wood around his mouth, a nub of pencil clamped between his teeth. Butch had seen this look before, in the eyes of Charlie’s dog when they were little, right before Momma took it behind the equipment garage and shot it so the madness wouldn’t spread.
“Charlie,” Butch said, keeping his voice level. He could feel Charlie’s hands trembling. “What’re you doing, Charlie?”
Charlie just stared.
“I know you miss her, but it’s not Ruthie, Charlie. It ain’t the other girl, neither. Just go take a walk.”
“Look at her ears,” he said. “Those are my girl’s ears. I’ve held dozens of ears in my hands. I know my daughter’s ears.”
Butch sat up slowly, doubling the blanket over Sadie, who began to stir.
“Just watch the tree line,” Charlie said. “I’ll watch her.”
Crawling to the edge of the bed, Butch kept saying, “It’s okay, Charlie. Let’s go take a walk. Let’s get some air.”
Charlie wasn’t having it, though. His teeth clicked when they finally broke through the pencil. He leaned forward, stretching his arms out toward Sadie. Butch slipped behind him, cinching the crook of his arm against Charlie’s throat, bracing his forearm on the back of his neck. His arms burned. He looked down and found bright red lines, blood dripping from the claw marks his brother left on him.
Easing Charlie’s legs to the floor, Butch pulled him toward the door, telling Sadie two times, three times, that everything’s okay, no one’s going to hurt her. He dragged his brother outside, pinned him against the stucco wall with his forearm.
“Charlie, you with me?” He snapped his fingers in his face a few times. “That is not the girl. Okay? It’s not her.”
“Just look at her.” His words came choked and broken.
“I did, brother. It ain’t her.” Butch loosened his grip. “That’s some poor girl whose momma we killed.”
Charlie’s nostrils flared when he exhaled, tightened when he inhaled. His chest rose and fell. After a half-dozen staggered breaths, he nodded. Butch released his grip, inch by inch.
“You look pale,” Butch said, opening the door. “I’ll buy you some breakfast.”
Inside the room, he rousted Sadie from bed, told her to put on her jacket. “You like eggs?”
She shook her head.
“Waffles?”
Shook it again.
“Pancakes, right?”
She nodded. “Blueberry.”
“Okay then.” Butch shrugged on his jacket and tucked the Mauser inside. When he lay his arm over her shoulders, he could feel the knobs of her bones. “Let’s get you a couple inches of pancakes.”
“Is Momma meeting us there?”
Butch paused, clenching his jaw. “I talked to my doctor friend last night. He’s got her at the hospital, taking care of things. Patching up and whatnot.” The words flowed from Butch without thought. “I’ll call him later and see how things are.”
Sadie looked skeptical but hungry enough to not belabor the point.
Charlie’s voice cut them as they closed the door behind them. Butch tightened his grip on Sadie.
“Gray Buick, due north-by-northwest.” Charlie motioned with his eyes, took another long drag of his cigarette. Smoke filled the air, his voice. “Saw him over your shoulder a minute ago. He put down his paper and’s been sitting there staring since.”
“Maybe it’s just—”
Concrete chips exploded from the wall behind Butch. The brothers fell to the ground, covering their heads. Charlie’s hand flew out by instinct and held Sadie down. Another round pinged against the metal post.
