Heartland, page 6
In the one I had of my mother, she looked not unlike a youthful Patsy Cline – full-figured, big-boned, and holding a straw hat, like she was all dressed up for the day, but in the only fancy dress she owned.
For his part, my father looked mortified – having to be photographed at all, I mean. As he stood before the sun, in the centre of a field dressed in his work overalls, doing his best to avert his eyes from the camera, covering his face with a shapeless hat.
He had always been a kind man, Marty Wade, or so they said. Had been solid and dependable, devoted to his wife. It had been such a sad thing to happen, the accident – but at least, if nothing else, they had died together. In one another’s arms, close by the sycamore at the One Tree Crossroads.
Jody was the only real friend I’d ever made there – not that there was anything wrong with anyone else – just that, with him, it was somehow easy. Because you didn’t have to try with Jody. Like he’d said in his letters, there are just some people who instinctively understand. And that was the way it had always been with us.
For as long as we’d been there, prospective parents came and went – checking out the quality of the merchandise, I guess you might say.
Searching for a vulnerable little orphan on whom they might shower all the love they reckoned they had to give, affection that had nowhere else to go.
However, I’m sad to say – certainly during those first couple of years when the death of my parents was still very vivid and alive in my mind – the degree of hooded, withdrawn sullenness which they tended to find themselves encountering in my case proved more than enough to dissuade them from making any kind of offer.
And as for Jody Kane – who wants to take home an itinerant orphan?
At least that’s what you think.
That’s what you become convinced of, in the end.
And then it happens – right out of the blue, you find yourself completely upended.
When we looked out the great bay window facing onto the terrace and who do we see there, laughing away in his hat, only that good old Mr Monroe, leaning across the hood of his convertible.
What could he want, we asked ourselves.
But didn’t even dare to hope.
Because how could we ever – how, in God’s name, could we ever expect to be bailed out by the likes of him?
By the likes of WW Monroe?
No chance.
But that, whether we knew it or not, was exactly what was already in the process of happening. Apparently we were the first to be selected as the subjects of some enlightened scheme or other.
That, at least, was the public story. But, given WW’s well-known interest in gambling, and the fight game in particular, his motives may well have been a lot less altruistic than had been acknowledged at the time.
But, either way, he ended up liberating us and giving us both jobs in Kentuckyland racetrack and breeding farm as his apprentice grooms.
How could we, possibly, have believed our luck?
–I’ve decided to look after you on account of I knew your, father, young Kane, he declared as he drove us both away, and seen him fight once or twice, as a youngster myself. The Hero Chester, man what a slugger, a true-to-the-end-of-the-world goddamn pugilist. And, as for you, Wade Junior, when I first started out as a farmboy, I used to work in the fields with your old pop Marty. And your mother, son, I knew her too. One hell of a gentle creature was Tessie, before they were both tragically taken from us in that heartbreaker of all fucking accidents – pardon my language – out at the One Tree Crossroads.
After that, he had taken us under his wing permanently – in Kentuckyland, as I say.
Which was the very first of its kind in the country.
Whose grounds were marked by pebbled plazas and walkways, numbered horses idling in the shade of stately oaks as its dark grandstands and towers of granite rose majestically over the blanket bogs and forest plantations, their reflections shimmering in the meandering waters of Ireland’s central lowlands of flat rolling plains dissected by bogs, loughs, rivers and surrounded by low hills and mountains.
–Talk about the promised land, I remember Jody saying as he threw his arm around me. We are one pair of sweet motherfucking fortunate orphans – huh, amigo?
But not now.
With him lying there, half dead, in the darkness of a miserable outhouse, a long way now from any promised land.
With Red Campbell still standing there, snorting and heaving above him, shadowboxing as he kicked up the dirt.
–So this is what it has come to, Red Campbell snarled, the eye of his cigarette glowing away, the so-called greatest bareknuckler in the county.
Campbell began muttering incoherently to himself, almost as if Jody Kane wasn’t present.
And then walked around, obsessively tugging at his little thatch of beard.
–Who, in the glorious days of the early seventies, Red Campbell continued, could ever have dreamed – who, in their wildest imaginings, could have predicted such an outcome for me, Red Campbell! Yes, for me – the one and only fucking Red!
He cleared his throat and aimed a wild, furious swipe at nothing.
Then, quite unexpectedly, Red Campbell seemed surprisingly sad as he gripped the captive by the chin and yanked his head right back on his shoulders.
–You made a lotta mistakes in your life, Jody boy. But this is just about the worst thing you ever could have done. Because you really should not have tried to jack Mr Monroe over. No, that was a bad thing you and Wade had to do. Why did you have to listen to that snakeyed diamondback rattler, huh? And after everything WW did for you – all the kindness that he showed you, Mr Monroe … So now you gotta pay your dues, gypsy boy. You hearing me, Breed?
He riffled Jody’s bloodsoaked hair, Red’s single gold incisor glinting momentarily in the moonlight as he grinned:
–But I guess you’re happy that it ain’t gonna be very much longer now. And that soon, on this approaching velvet morning you, very shortly, will be breathing your last. Did you expect it to come so soon, old friend? Come on, little feller – you can tell your old Red. Because he’s your tried and trusted friend. Tell him what it is that you dream about in the night – of a golden world, bright and shining in the purple morning …
–You been reading too many fucking books, spat Jody, maybe too many fucking books been coming your way. But which I have to admit comes as kind of a surprise, because I hadn’t actually figured on you being able to do that. Read, I mean.
The moon stood impassive in the porthole window high above his head as Red Campbell groaned and began to grind his teeth, seeming pained.
–O you are a very unwise little fellow, Jody. O yes but you are the impudent smoke-and-horses little tinker boy. And which is why – even more than Wade – yes, even more than that diamondback fuck, you have got it coming mighty bad. Because it won’t be very long now before Mr Begley comes walking right in, without a care, in through that door. And then we’ll see what you’re made of, deep inside. Yes, then we’ll see just how much of a champion you are. Because I’ve seen, you see, what he can do, Tony Begley. I’ve seen him make harder nuts than you weep like sweet little girls. And tonight, my friend, that’s gonna be you.
–It’s not over yet, not by a fucking long shot, Campbell. So don’t go making that fatal mistake. No, don’t go counting chickens, Red, because that just might be the most serious fucking miscalculation …
Red Campbell laughed and blew his nose before breaking into a broad, indulgent grin.
–You know something, Jody? You know something, smoke-and-horses? Somehow I don’t happen to reckon you’re right about that …
He snorted again before turning on his heel and skipping lightly back up the concrete steps.
–No, somehow I fucking don’t think so, champion, he shouted back.
Slamming the connecting door with his heel.
I managed to put up some kind of a show for him, Ray, Jody had written, but the harsh, bitter truth is that never in my life have I experienced anguish like it, but it wasn’t just the pain of my body, you know? Such loneliness as came over me in there – with all the time I had to go back to places that I really didn’t want to visit – where I found hurt I thought had been safely buried for a very long time. Forever, maybe.
I can clearly recall the return of Red Campbell back into the bar on that occasion – seeming troubled and resentful as he stumbled through the doorway, out of breath, looking combatively all around him.
Then I started imagining things again – that he was lifting his head towards the ceiling, where I lay curled up, with my knees tucked into my chest, the cold chills racing across my back and up the length of my spine.
As I observed him standing there, directly underneath me, just sitting there folding and unfolding his arms, with the folds of his eyes creasing up as he rocked, evenly, back and forth in the chair.
But finding himself, ultimately, unable to settle as he once more rose to his feet and, with his teeth still grinding, leaning against the heavy iron mantelpiece, staring into the embers of the fire.
Before softly remarking, to no one special:
–Maybe some velvet morning it might happen. And it’ll all be golden in the purple morning. Some velvet morning when we wake, fellers. Yeah?
Repeating, obliviously, the words of the record.
–Some velvet morning when we ride, he whimpered, some velvet morning in that purple and golden dawn.
Retracing his steps once more – and, eventually, sitting down.
Chapter 8
Good Times
How can it happen, Ray, Jody had wondered, a heart turn around and break itself in pieces, the way it sometimes does, like Hank or Cline or any of them will tell you.
I don’t know for certain, but this much I do.
Know, I mean.
That the hooch, the jungle, call it whatever you like – in the end it’s going to ruin you.
Sure, for a while it might help, even banish your pain for a while.
But make no mistake, that day you’ve been dreading all along will come eventually.
I’m still terrified of it, to tell the honest truth.
All the same, I reckon that it’s going to be OK. And there can be no doubt but that just keeping this journal, this ‘spiritual’ account – it really has been of the most enormous assistance. Maybe even, like Fr Conway says, the best, most important thing I’ve ever done.
The heart stripped bare, he calls it, the open wound.
–It’s hard, father, I told him, it really can be difficult sometimes.
–No one said it was going to be easy, he told me, when did anyone ever say that?
–So keep on writing, Raymond, he advised me, and don’t flinch from confronting whatever you find inside. Just remember that it couldn’t have been easy for Hank Williams either, reaching down into his soul and coming up with the truth.
Back in Mervyn’s Mountain Bar, well over an hour had elapsed since Red Campbell’s return from the outhouse – and, thanks to the jungle juice, most likely, he had been laughing steadily for close on ten minutes. Yes, smiling and chuckling to himself as he stared, with a twinkle, right into the centre of the smouldering ashes before turning to look at each of his companions in turn.
–Yeah, Tony’ll finish him all right, he suggested breezily. Tony’ll finish him good and proper.
He looked down and examined his nails.
–Ain’t that so, Mervyn?
–Uh-huh, replied the barman.
As Red smiled again, moving into a slanting shaft of moonlight.
–Hughie? he resumed.
–Yup, the small man nodded, producing a hankie. He began mopping his high gleaming forehead.
–Sonny? He’ll finish him.
–Yes, if you say so. For sure, responded Hackett.
Big Barney’s reaction Red appeared to take for granted.
Before, eventually, returning to Sonny.
–Because one thing for certain is – if Begley is anything he’s a professional. Ain’t that so, Sonny, wouldn’t you say?
–Well sure, replied Sonny, I mean if you say it, Mr Campbell, then that must be the case. After all, you are the big authority. You are the main authority on everything. Ain’t that so, Hughie?
–Ah now, gentlemen, here, pleaded Hughie. I mean we don’t want any difference of opinion. Not tonight of all nights …
–There ain’t no difference of opinion, Sonny reassured him. None.
Red elected to pass no comment.
As Wee Hughie Munley grinned from ear to ear, seeming relieved by this response, as he folded the hankie and replaced it in his breast pocket.
–Aw shucks, he said, with his teeth showing and his shoulders rising and falling. Aw shucks.
–Aw shucks, he repeated again, with both eyes twinkling and his shoulders still shaking, laughing like it was just about the greatest joke in the world.
Except for the fact that no one else present was aware – of any joke, I mean.
But then, of course, that was Hughie.
Wee Hughie Munley, the flower of the flock.
Who, at his best, like everyone knew, could really and truly have you in stitches.
Something which he used to do all the time – way back in the old days at the factory, anyhow.
Yep, back in them old meat-packing days, in their late teens and early twenties, when they’d all been employed by Glasson County Meats – working together, as brothers, on the killing floor, close on thirty years ago now.
Back in the day when the Hombres, as they called themselves, back when they’d all been the closest of friends.
‘Los Pistoleros’ – ha ha, they used to laugh.
In those good times of the prosperous early seventies when everything had seemed so sweet and filled with promise.
Unlike now.
But then, that’s the way.
Because things happen, don’t they?
They change over time.
That’s the way it just has to be …
It’s always been like that.
That the water must, inevitably, flow on underneath the bridge.
But some folks they ain’t so happy with it being like that – and Wee Hughie Munley, he was among them. Perhaps on account of the others, back then, they had always treated him kind of like the way you might a kid brother. And, what with him coming from a big family where he hadn’t been paid a whole lotta attention, he appreciated that a great deal.
And so liked to be able to repay them with jokes.
–Aw shucks, he said again, looking around him with his big, circular, hopeful eyes.
As Red Campbell hauled a wallet of shag tobacco from his pocket.
–There won’t be so much lip out of Mr Kane then, he promised, no not so much impudence out of the world champion boxer then, I reckon that is fair to say. Just as soon as Mr Tony comes around.
–He’ll fix him, said Sonny, good and proper Tony Begley will fix him …
Red said nothing, inhaling a long luxurious drag of his rollup.
–He’ll be quiet then, won’t he? nodded Hughie, what do you say Barney?
Barney sighed and said yes he will.
As Sonny slapped his thigh and barked:
–That is, of course, whenever Begley at last does decide to honour us with his presence.
–I’m going to play a number on the juke, said Barney, so does any one of you good folks maybe have a request?
Nobody did.
Then the McHales announced they were all set for another game of pool.
As the balls came racketting into the well.
–Cookin’, said Shorty, as a red sphere went skimming.
–Cookin’, replied the Runt, looking along the length of his cue.
Click-clack-click, was all you could hear.
For quite a considerable period of time.
Before the barman coughed and they all looked over to hear Mervyn say:
–I think, if you don’t mind, that you all ought to have one on the house …
–One on the house? replied Sonny with a smile.
As the twins, although barely able to stand, began fencing boisterously with their sticks.
–Shotsa jungle all a-fucking round, they hollered. Yes please, barman, if you don’t mind! Abso-fucking-freaking-mo-lutley!
As Big Barney, over at the jukebox, decided to make an announcement – standing there, huge, with the neon spangles decorating his face.
–I’ve decided what it is that I’m going to put on, he declared, pressing the buttons.
–Little green apples, sang Roger Miller.
Wondering, almost morbidly, whether or not, in Indianapolis, it rained.
–In the summertime, moaned Red Campbell softly, hiding his face in case anyone would see him.
And, after that, that was about as much as anyone could hear – what with the continuing racket the McHale brothers were making.
–Good times, they bellowed – and then went and shouted it out all over again:
–Good times … yeah!
Before Sonny Hackett silenced them, by lifting a playful, mildly threatening fist.
As then all went quiet – just as before.
Chapter 9
Secrets, Songs and Shadows
In the drifting cloud of smoke that hovered three or four inches over the massive table, music was again the subject under discussion – who liked what and why and how much.
–Love songs, Barney Grue said, more than anything I reckon the best kind of love song is the one that tells a good story, you know? What I mean by that is the kinda tune that tells you things you didn’t know – even about what’s going on inside your own mind, that you find it hard to admit to, maybe. A troubled mind and confusion and all that kinda thing. The things that sometimes go wrong in your life and that you don’t have no control over, you know?
–That’s right, called Mervyn from his post behind the counter, I think that maybe you got it right there, Big B. The type of tunes that you’re talking about there being the kind that go out of their way to try and teach you something. Ones that are, maybe, closer to our experience.
–That’s exactly what I was trying to say, Mervyn – I wish I had the words.
