Heartland, page 11
Then we made out way back to the breeding farm in his jeep, and as we stood there, with his two arms flung around our shoulders, already you could see them, just the same as he did – all those yet-to-be Kentucky and Heartland ghosts, chic and elegant in their broad-brimmed hats, jewellery, furs and shined shoes, swarming all over every inch of the downs, and whose stately elegance mimicked in every way the immaculate image of a Kentucky bluegrass horse farm.
–Hell, either of you two boys could just as easily be Mickey Rooney in National Velvet, grooming his breeds for the one and only WW, and I got to say that that just suits me fine, what with you being good local breeds y’selves haw haw …
Below us, the barns were roofed in tile, the stables painted white and the stall doors a soothing shade of green, with the bridle path swept and manicured.
–Kentuckyland, we heard him hum with pride, and I could have sworn I saw him thumb a tear from his eye.
As he handed us both a smoke and led us into his Louis XIV-style lounge.
–Like I told you, I heard him remark to Jody, I knew your father back in the day – and I happen to be aware that, whatever misfortunes he might have encountered in his life, that your dad Chester, right down to the bones, he was a motherfucking thoroughbred, son. Through and through. You got to believe that.
He handed us drinks. And just stood there in front of him, pressing his fist into Jody Kane’s chest as he insisted:
–And you, son of Chester, you are going to carry on that very same tradition. You got me?
With him going on then to claim that he fully intended to turn Jody into the best knuckle-fighter Glasson County, in its wildest dreams, had ever seen.
A project with which, as it transpired, he was soon to spectacularly succeed, with the name Jody Kane on everyone’s lips, and those early Country Club bouts having already passed into sports and gambling legend.
As those bones kept crunching and the gouts of blood flew.
And why wouldn’t we be proud of it, WW would often say, to the legendary Bone King of the Glasson Meats killing floor – the one and only:
Tony Begley.
For TB, as he called him, was Mr Monroe’s right-hand man, his loyal and trusted first lieutenant.
–You got it, Mr Monroe, you would often hear Tony Begley agreeing, us old country folks we got to look that critter right in the eye. And you know what, WW? Tame that tiger – look that hungry sumbitch in the eye and then, when you get the chance, make your move and bone the fucker. Bring him to heel.
–And you’re the man to do that, Tony, WW would respond, like he’d cracked the greatest joke in history.
–Yup, his sidekick Tony Begley would laugh good-naturedly, just like he used to every day in the factory. Up there on the floor of Glasson Meats, when business was flying and they’d bring old Tony no end of Holsteins.
–Yes, Holsteins, Mr Monroe, and Friesians and Charolais too. Because I weren’t choosy. No way, no-how. Because as long as them bitches got four legs, Tony’ll do the job. Yep, skin the fuckers, every one.
To those who didn’t know him, his legendary meanness – so stingy, some contended, that he squeaked when he walked – TB would have appeared a somewhat unremarkable, perhaps conventional, rural individual – a characteristic most signified, perhaps, by an inordinate fear of offending his mother.
Who was collected by him on her doorstep every single Sabbath morning without fail.
But, having succumbed to a very brief illness, in the aftermath of which she’d unfortunately died, Tony had announced that he wouldn’t be appearing in church ever again.
–Because, you see, the fact is, I’m afraid I don’t like God anymore, he was heard informing his friends. I’m sorry but for me, I regret to say, that the God my mother worshipped so faithfully over the years, the fucker’s dead, I’m afraid.
–As are a lot of other things, he would then add cryptically.
And then look at his associates in ‘that way’, as they described it.
A kind of stillness, a silence which made them feel uncomfortable, like they were being judged or something.
Especially then, when out of nowhere, he’d turn around and give you that faint, wan smile.
–Did you know that she went to church every day? he would ask.
And, before they’d have sufficient time to make any considered response, he would just look away and say nothing at all, almost as if he had forgotten the question.
And then he’d shiver just a little as he looked back and said:
–But all the same, no matter what I might say about God, sometimes late at night I’ll still find myself saying the odd Hail Mary. Because that’s what we used to do, me and her, together say one or two little Hail Marys.
–Kneeling together, they would hear TB whisper, so happy we might have been children again.
Chapter 15
The Secret Life of Oranges
Nobody, deep down, knew what to make of Tony Begley, so they were always talking about him.
Just like now.
–TB, complained Hughie, I wonder did he ever buy a drink in his whole fucking life?
Sonny Hackett shook his head.
–But, man, he began, you got to admit that he sure is one mean sucker. King Sumbitch, a.k.a. Tony Begley. You know who the Mean Sumbitch is, my friends? He’s the one who’s destined from birth to be a loner. Has never in his life had a real friend, just a coupla jerks he reckons he can manipulate easily – maybe the likes of you and me, who knows? He figures the world owes him on account of his very nature. All the bad-ass brotherhood to which he belongs they hate and despise him. But, most of all, they hate themselves. Because at times like this, they know they need him. That’s TB’s kind, I’m sorry to have to say. Is he out there yet?
–No, said Barney, no sign so far.
Hughie was rhythmically patting his perspiration-pearled dome, with Sonny Hackett rocking in his chair, heels on the table, back and forth
As Big Barney Grue, standing over by the jukebox, kept stealing glances out the window, before returning to gravely stroke his chin.
Red Campbell was frowning as he called across to Mervyn:
–What’s so interesting about that stupid willow tree? What do you find so special about it, Mervyn?
Mervyn Walker sighed and looked right over at him, smiling.
–It relaxes me, that’s all. Nothing more. For your information, I just find it calms me down. That’s all, Mr Campbell.
–You’re a funny fucking customer, said Red, a funny customer – that’s what I’d have to say about you, Mervyn.
As Hughie abruptly pocketed his handkerchief, before announcing:
–As long as I’ve known Begley, there was one thing he always used to say. And that was that he made it his business to never hurt a woman. Yes, that no matter what it might be, and in spite of whatever it was she was supposed to have done, he would always make sure to do his best not to cause her physical harm. I remember him always saying that, going right back. That it’s one thing you just don’t do, cause unnecessary physical distress or upset to a lady. No matter what she’s been guilty of.
Pausing for a moment to gather his thoughts, Sonny Hackett considered this remark for a moment before sipping once more and, with those piercing dark eyes, regarded Hughie over the rim of his glass.
–That’s interesting. So, did you ever hear what he did to Tiny Smallwoods? What he happened to do to Tiny when he was going with her?
–Tony Begley was going out with Tiny, was he? said Barney, taken aback.
–I didn’t know that. I never heard tell of that. I never knew he was going out with her – not Tiny Smallwoods. Are you sure about that? I mean, are you certain?
–Not only going with her – he was mad about her. In love with her, he was. But she jacked him over.
–Jacked him over? interrupted Red. Tiny Smallwoods jacked him over? Jacked Tony Begley over – no!
–Making cadence with someone else she was. I’d never have trusted her, not an inch. And neither should Tony. To tell you the truth, I’m surprised he ever did.
–So what happened then, Sonny? asked Big Barney, what happened after she jacked him over?
–He calls her into his office this night, Sonny Hackett continued, and there she is: What, me? You think that I did something, do you Tony? Why would I do something wrong? O please no Tony – don’t think ill of me. But Begley reassures her that it’s all gonna be OK. You don’t got no call to worry, Tiny, he tells her. Only then he goes over to the window and says, in this real low voice – you know the one he uses. Tell me about the oranges, he says. Tell me about the oranges, Tiny Smallwoods. And Tiny, I mean, you know, she’s not stupid. So she starts into all this backtracking and sobbing. Well, you would, I mean, wouldn’t you. I mean you all know the way that Tony can look at you. So there he is, standing there, just looking at her and saying nothing. No, nothing at all – just the way he does. In that particular way that he likes to do. And what’s she do? What is there for poor old Tiny to do, only sink to her knees and start bawling and crying. Because she knows what’s coming. Because she’s heard that he’s done it before.
–Done what before? interrupted Barney. Done what, Sonny?
–Done what? replied Sonny, reaching for his glass.
Stroking the bridge of his nose with two pinched fingers.
–Get you up like a good girl now, he tells her, and take yourself off out and go and get them for Tony. You’ll find any amount of them in the supermarket. Go on now, sweetheart – away off with you and get the oranges. And so off she goes, just like she’s told. I don’t know how many she got in the end – maybe six or seven pounds:
–Six or seven pounds of oranges? mumbled Red. Oranges, Sonny – six or seven pounds?
–Yes, spat Sonny, what the fuck do you think I said, Campbell – teeth? Pounds of teeth – is that what I said?
Red Campbell swallowed and looked away, saying nothing.
–And it was after she came back with the bag that he did it, Sonny elaborated, yeah that was when he set about his business.
–Was that when he did it? gasped Wee Hughie, fearing the worst.
–Did what? stammered Barney. Did what, Sonny?
–Told her about the oranges.
Big Barney’s eyes blazed and he tore at his whiskers.
–Told her what, for fuck’s sake, about the oranges? What can you tell someone about oranges that they don’t know already? What about fucking oranges – that’s what I’d like to know. Outspan, Jaffa, there’s sweet fuck all to know. At the end of the day, there’s not much to know.
–Barney is right, nodded Hughie, I don’t know what you’re talking about, Sonny. Making a big deal about—
–Maybe apples, Big Barney laughed loudly, there might be something you could say about apples. Eh, Hughie?
–Aye! chortled Hughie, eager to develop this more lighthearted turn in the conversation, maybe something you could say about Granny Smiths or Cox’s Pippins!
But, in this regard, Sonny Hackett gave him absolutely no encouragement at all, continuing to gaze at his knuckles as he repeatedly opened and closed his fist.
–That, I’m afraid, is where you’re wrong, he explained, because there are a great many things you can say about oranges and their secrets. And perhaps the most important is that, if you happen to be looking to swindle money out of the insurance, you can give someone a fierce fucking hiding and leave her with a welter of great unsightly bruises. Which ought to see you good for a coupla sackfuls of moolah – but with the advantage, of course, of not doing any serious damage to the internal organs.
He looked away with a thousand yard stare.
–Men are one thing, women another, Tony used to always say. Men are easy, but with the judies you got no choice but to adopt a different approach. You got to be nice to the judies, he always said.
–I heard she was never the same again, said Red, that’s what I heard …
–What, asked Hughie, what did you hear?
–That she’d some kind of nervous collapse or something after it. And that they used to see her up at Lake Wynter, just sitting there crying her eyes out, under a tree.
–But you know what the funny thing is? Sonny continued, the funny thing is that, in the end, he never actually did anything at all. Because right after he’d given her that great big speech, he just took every orange and put them right back into her bag. And never went near her ribs or nothing. That, you see, is the secret of the oranges. That he never touched her – not even so much as lifted a finger. And do you want to know why? Because I love you, is what he told her. Yes, loved her with all his heart, that old Tiny, he said. And that, even though she’d jacked him over, that he’d still go on, doing just that – loving her, like he said – he still , you know, keeps her picture in his wallet. I know that for a fact. My Tiny, he used to sometimes say to me, I was stone mad cracked about her, Sonny, you know. But I guess it just wasn’t meant to be, he would tell you. That’s the truth about the oranges, guys. Ain’t it strange?
But no one replied to what Sonny Hackett said, and all you could hear was the scratch of yet another record as it kept on revolving.
And the soft gentle sweep of the willow, sighing.
Chapter 16
I’m Mr Bonny
A dollar down and a dollar a week – that was one of the ways Jody liked to express himself. When he wanted to explain how he had managed, in the end, to find some way of facing down his demons.
It’s not like it’s some dam inside of you bursts, Ray, he told me, with everything coming at you in one go and that’s the end of it.
No, Ray, my friend – like Johnny Cash says, one piece at a time, easy does it.
That’s pretty much how I succeeded in coming to terms with it, he said – calling some kind of a halt to the grim and relentless march of my experiences at the hands of so-called Trooper Johnny Redlegs, winnowing away at whatever little part of my soul remained.
After all those years of being frozen emotionally, do you understand what I’m trying to say to you, Ray?
I did – and I still do.
And which is why I sat down and wrote right back to Sweetwater, Georgia.
Explaining how, coincidentally, that’s exactly the same advice they give you in AA.
With ‘incremental’ being the word they prefer to use – one day at a time, in other words.
Half of what I had written by return to Jody that night had come to me almost in a blinding flash. I’m not suggesting some kind of revelation, but I had definitely slipped into some kind of blissful daze.
With me starting the letter somewhere between sleep and waking, and then letting my hand roam free in the hope of doing justice to the dream I’d just had.
And which, like I said earlier, had ended up part of some strange, dark but vivid fairy tale – mostly concerning a certain Trooper Johnny Redlegs, standing at the bottom of the dormitory stairs, holding a candle as he breathed evenly in and out.
As though trying to decide whether he would climb the stairs or not.
With his long weathered face haloed in the glow of the flickering flame, as he finally began his tortured ascent.
It hadn’t, of course, been the first time that he’d done it – it was a regular occurrence way back in those Whiterock days.
–I’ll look after you, little dogie, you’d hear him whisper, his smile like moonlight on a tombstone as he pressed another handful of coins into my fist. Just so long as you promise not to breathe a word about this to anyone. Do you hear me now?
And Trooper Johnny Redlegs, he would sit there half the night in the dormitory, by the light of the candle staring down at Jody, sleeping fitully.
Git along lil dogies
Why don’t you lay down
And quit your forever shiftin’ around, he would croon, ever so softly – to Jody. You could tell he was drunk.
And then, when the singing and everything else at long last was over, I would look up and see him standing at the bottom of my bed – with the whites of his eyes rolling as the sound of suppressed sobbing erased all trace of the lingering lullaby.
Observing, both in terror and bewilderment, as he slowly, inexorably began sinking to his knees.
–Once upon a time, I heard him whimper, when I was a young man in America, I viewed a painting called Southerners In Hell. And what was upon that canvas, my innocent little partner, that I beheld was a company of lonesome rebels, all sitting there covering their ears and shutting their eyes. As they listened to Abraham Lincoln reciting his Gettysburg Address – only not just for now, but for all of eternity … over and over and over, little dogie.
–This too is to be my fate, he informed me, for the crimes I’ve committed, not only here but in many other places, involving the flesh and all its many lusts.
–Yes, for what I’ve done, little feller, he continued, and loathsome persistence of all base desires – the Almighty has decreed that I am to suffer a similar fate. But I deserve it. I won’t complain.
But then, quite unexpectedly, erupting into a bout of hopelessly irrational chuckling. As he swept the blankets right off of my bed and covered himself like John the Baptist, whining pitifully:
–Yes, for now until the end of eternity, I here and now proclaim my guilt to all and sundry and shall kneel here, covering my ears as I sink before the righteous accusations of the world!
He banged his forehead against the bedstead till it bled. Then, once more, he wept.
–Help me, he groaned, please can anyone help me? Please can you help poor old Johnny Redlegs, and free him from his heartless prison that decent people call their temple?
