Sewerville Page 10

  Don’t be sorry, Boone. I think about your Daddy all the time. We all do. And we all should.

  The funeral was nice. Was Daddy’s funeral this nice? Maybe Jimmy’s funeral could be that nice. There sure are a lot of flowers here. What are the names of all these flowers? Those are orchids. Mountain orchids. Speaking of Mountain orchids, I wonder where Karen Slone is now? She was the prettiest girl I ever saw. She thought I was dumb, but I wasn’t really dumb, I just didn’t know much about flowers. Karen did though. God, she was the prettiest girl I ever saw.

  Jimmy and Boone always share a seat on the school bus. A lot of brothers on the bus, they don’t share a seat, and Boone doesn’t really understand that. Brothers should share a seat. Yet, some brothers don’t like sharing. Some brothers shove each other out of the way and punch each other in the back and yell Eat my ass and fight to be the one to sit next to pretty blonde Karen Slone, even though she always just smiles and turns them away.

  But Jimmy and Boone don’t worry about Karen Slone. They worry about what Mama would say if she found out they didn’t look out for each other. So, they sit together in the back seat and watch the trees go by and talk about whatever they feel like. Usually only big kids sit in the back seat, but nobody says anything to Boone because Jimmy won’t let them say anything bad to Boone. Not without saying something to him, too, which nobody ever does. Nobody ever says anything bad to Jimmy.

  The bus bounces along the road, rolls over loose gravel and fallen hazel nuts and jumps with anger every time it comes across a pothole, which is fairly often, because these roads need a lot of work.

  Jimmy? asks Boone. Do you remember Daddy?

  Course I do, says Jimmy.

  Do I look like him? asks Boone.

  Why?

  I was just wondering, says Boone.

  Boone often asks if he looks like his father. He sees the pictures of Daddy that Mama keeps around the house, but they don’t tell him anything. That person in the pictures doesn’t even seem real. His wide, easy grin and shiny eyes that almost look silver don’t seem real. The person in the pictures that Mama and Jimmy call Daddy could be anybody; Boone doesn’t think they would lie to him, but you never know.

  Why were you wondering? Jimmy asks.

  The sun beats hot through the bus window.

  Boone shrugs. I don’t know, he says. Don’t you ever think about Daddy?

  Sure I do, says Jimmy. I think about him every day. I think about him as much as you do, Boone.

  So do I look like him?

  Jimmy stares out the window. Haven’t you ever seen the pictures? he says.

  Yeah, but the pictures are different, says Boone. I want to know what he really looked like. Did he look like me, Jimmy?

  I guess so, says Jimmy.

  The school bus hits another hole in the asphalt, bounces hard. These roads need a lot of work. When the bus pops out of the hole, Boone’s books fly into the aisle, spread open and lay there dead, but he doesn’t care much about the books right now and he just lets them be dead. In the seat up ahead, Mike Powell laughs and taps Karen Slone on the shoulder to get her attention; but when Mike taps her on the shoulder, Karen does like she always does – she turns around, smiles, and says nothing.

  Hey, Karen.

  Hey, Boone.

  Jimmy said I could borrow his car this weekend, says Boone. He just got a new one. It’s a Chevy.

  I don’t know much about cars, says Karen.

  Me neither, says Boone. But Jimmy likes Chevy so I guess they’re pretty good. What are you doing Friday night?

  I don’t know yet, says Karen.

  Want to go to the drive–in? asks Boone. They’re showing that new Arnold Schwarzennegger movie with the robots and the guy that turns into aluminum foil, Terminator 2, I’ll be bock, you know.

  He’s a robot, says Karen.

  Right. Sorry, says Boone, I ain’t much on robots. Anyway, what are you doing Friday night?

  I told you. I don’t know yet, says Karen.

  Want to go to the drive–in?

  Not really.

  How come?

  I don’t really like the drive–in, says Karen.

  I thought everybody liked the drive–in, says Boone. Well, maybe we can go somewhere else. Do you like anywhere else?

  Not really, says Karen.

  We just gotta do this one thing, says Jimmy. One thing and then we’re done.

  I don’t want to do this, says Boone.

  We already said we would, says Jimmy. Walt expects us to do it and we gotta do it. Jesus, we already got half the money.

  Let’s give him the money back, says Boone.

  We can’t do that, says Jimmy.

  Sure we can! says Boone, frustrated and scared now. Just give it back to him and tell him we’re out. We can’t do this, Jimmy. Why did we think we could do this? This is way, way over our heads. He can get his own son to do this. Let John do it. We are such dumb boys.

  Jimmy stands there, shaking his head. Boone can tell his brother is pissed now. He knows he’s let Jimmy down, and he’s sorry for that, but he just doesn’t think he can do Walt Slone’s kind of business. It’s a bad business. Two thousand dollars seems like a lot of money when somebody offers it to you, but when you find out what you actually have to do to earn it, two thousand dollars isn’t very much at all. Maybe Jimmy can do Walt Slone’s kind of business for two thousand dollars, and that’s fine if he wants to do that, but Boone can’t. Won’t.

  We ain’t got a choice now, Jimmy finally says in a low voice. We have to do it. There’s no backing out. You know who we’re dealing with here, Boone. I know you’re scared and hell I’m scared, too, but this shit is real. This shit that we’re dealing with here is real, brother, and we got to do it. It’s just that plain and simple. Now, go to the car and get the stuff and let’s just get this over with.

  But Boone isn’t listening anymore. Jimmy’s voice fades into a dull hum, shapeless and wordless. It’s cold out tonight, especially cold for this early in the autumn, the weather man said the temperature would get down into the thirties but the thermometer on the bank clock said it was actually twenty–seven. There’s a frost on the ground already.

  Is it too cold for Mountain orchids? Probably. When do they bloom? No idea. But whenever Mountain orchids do bloom, they look like tiny hands, clasped in prayer. That is the truth.

  Boone says, Did you know that Mountain orchids only grow in Seward County, and nowhere else in the world? It’s an amazing place that we live in.

  Go get the guns, says Jimmy.

  Boone collapses backward, falls, sits. The frost crunches beneath his body. The gun in his hand feels cold as the ground beneath him.

  He stares at the dead body in front of him and thinks strange, distant thoughts, thoughts that don’t seem to be really bouncing about inside his own brain. He thinks that in real life, a dead body does not live up to expectation. A dead body does not look scary. A dead body does not look disgusting. A dead body kind of looks like a person, but it doesn’t really look like a person, either. It just looks like a dead body.

  Boone wonders what his Daddy looked like when he was a dead body.

  It’s hard to look at a dead body and see much of anything. Even if you knew the person that the dead body used to be, it’s still hard to see that person in there because really, they’re not in there. They’re not in there.

  Even when the dead body lays on the ground only five feet away from your right leg, even when you try to look away but it won’t let you look away, even when the dead body is facing you and even when the dead body has its eyes open and stares at you and judges you and seems to say Look at me, Look at what you did to me, Look at what you’ve become you dumb little boy you still look at the dead body and you don’t see an actual person. At least, you try not to.

  Hey Boone can I borrow some money? says Jimmy.

  What for?

  I wanna build us a cabin.

  What are we gonna do with a cabin?
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  We’ll have us a place, says Jimmy. A place we can go won’t nobody know about. Somewhere we can get away from the shit.

  I ain’t got no money, says Boone.

  Bull fuck! says Jimmy, and he laughs.

  Not for no cabin, anyways, says Boone.

  The funeral was nice. There were a lot of orchids, orchids of all colors and varieties, blue and yellow and red and pink, some sturdy, some weak, some upright and proud, some bent to the earth. Most especially, there were Mountain orchids, plenty of gorgeous white Mountain orchids.

  Boone showed up late to the chapel. He sat with Walt and Karen, and he held Karen’s hand and she cried into his shoulder and in one way, that was really nice because it made him feel closer to her than he’d ever felt before, but in another way, it wasn’t so nice, either.

  Karen, do you like orchids?

  Yeah.

  These are called Mountain orchids. The old lady at the florist shop said these only grow in Seward County and nowhere else in the world. Have you heard that?

  Yeah, I’ve heard that. They’re my mom’s favorite.

  What are you doing Saturday?

  Nothing.

  Want to go somewhere with me?

  No. Sorry, Boone. I can’t.

  Why not?

  You’re just a dumb boy.

  Oh. Right. Yeah, I guess I am just a dumb boy.

  You boys did a good job, Walt says. It had to be tough for you, but you did a hell of a good job.

  Look what you got yourself into, dumb boy.

  Walt hands Jimmy an envelope of cash. Jimmy takes it, counts it, and immediately gives Boone his half.

  Boone accepts the money. As he puts it in his pocket he feels like he might throw up. But he doesn’t throw up.

  Walt says, Jimmy, give me and your brother here a few minutes.

  Jimmy looks at Boone, tilts his head like a curious hound. He counts his share of the money again – Boone has no idea why Jimmy did that – and then he walks away to the car.

  With Jimmy gone, Walt talks in a more serious tone. I know you didn’t want to do that, Boone, he says. I can’t imagine how tough it was for you. But it was tough for all of us, something like that is always tough. It don’t come easy but sometimes, you know, it just has to be done. Sometimes bad things have to be done. I wish there was another way but there just isn’t. But now that you’ve gone through it, Boone, I want to tell you, you can really go far with me. And if you can go far with me, you can go far with Karen, too. She’s a good girl, Boone. I don’t want her with just any man, I want her with somebody that can go far. You know what I’m saying, son?

  Boone doesn’t answer. Walt asks him again – you do know what I’m saying son, don’t you? – but Boone doesn’t hear him now. One more time, he feels vomit rising in his throat. Rocks hammering his ears. Gauze in his eyes. Hot hot hot, everything is so hot.

  But he doesn’t throw up.

  He stops listening and pretends he is standing somewhere else, talking about something else, talking to someone else. He imagines that he’s talking to his Daddy, looking at Daddy’s easy grin and shiny eyes that were almost like silver, at least they looked that way in the pictures Mama kept around the house, which was all Boone had to go by since God came down and took Daddy before Boone was even born.

  He wonders if he looks like his Daddy.

  He wishes he had a cabin.

  He wishes he had a place they can get away, a place nobody knows about, a place where all this shit don’t matter.

  He wishes Jimmy was here with him now.

  He wishes he never met Walt Slone.

  He thinks about orchids and also about Karen Slone. She knew about robots. She knew about orchids. She knew about everything. All the boys tried to talk to her and she just smiled and turned them all away. She was so pretty. The prettiest girl Boone ever saw. Why did she think he was such a dumb boy? Maybe she was right. Look what you got yourself into, dumb boy.

  BUSINESS

  While Boone slept his fitful sleep, life in Sewardville went on unimpeded by the previous night’s tragedy. People wondered and whispered and dramatized their own theories about Jimmy Sumner, the damn sonofabitch that shot Sheriff Slone and Deputy Caudill. The cops would catch up to him soon enough, or the state police, or the FBI, somebody. Roadblocks were in order, with plenty of heavy artillery and of course those spiky metal chains strung out across the road. Helicopters, SWAT teams, the National Guard. A swift trial, then Death Row for sure. Hell what do they need a trial for, he did it right there in front of God and everybody. Give the fucker the electric chair. No wait, now they just give injections. Whatever. Shove a rubber hose up his ass and get it over with. He’s going down.

  Rumors and conjecture spread throughout the community.

  The day moved on. The gas stations and fast food restaurants served their customers with great aplomb, as did the pharmacies, the churches, and the second–hand clothing stores.

  Walt Slone’s business interests maintained their routine, even without Boone or the sheriff to help them along. After closing time, the daily receipts were totaled and the cash wrapped neatly with rubber bands. Then the bag men arrived, some in pickup trucks, some in old sports cars, one still in his off–duty sheriff’s department cruiser. The receipts and the cash got collected. Deliveries were made to the house on the hill that overlooked the town. There, the cash was counted, the figures reconciled.

  The father and the daughter sat at the kitchen table that night, same as they did every night. The ledgers were open in front of them, stacked six high on the flat wooden surface.

  He knew the ledgers were archaic, dusty remnants of business long usurped in the technological age, but he liked them precisely for that reason. The small notebooks with red binding and green cloth covers gave him comfort; he thought them solid, dependable, always there when needed. The papers did not require broadband connectivity, or flash drives, or terabyte hard drives – they required only sharp pencils and basic mathematical abilities.

  He provided certain pencils, but he trusted her with the mathematics. While she worked, he stayed quiet, and leaned back in his chair with his meaty, weathered hands folded in his lap.

  Across the table, she punched numbers into the calculator and scribbled figures on lined paper.

  Samantha slept upstairs, which made things easier, and was another reason they preferred to crunch the numbers late at night.

  “How’s the store doing?” he asked.

  “Fifty–eight hundred and change yesterday,” she said.

  “What about the girls?”

  “Fifteen thousand this week.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Flu’s going around, I guess. A couple of the girls caught it.”

  He grinned. “I hope that’s all they caught,” he said.

  She closed one ledger and opened another. “That truck from New York ought to put us over a hundred grand for the month. Did you talk to the guy?”

  “Yeah, I talked to the guy. He’s running late but it will still be here tonight. Might be midnight, but it’ll be here.”

  “Who do you want to meet it, now that John’s out for a while?”

  “Send Boone.”

  “Okay.” She hesitated. “Do you think you can call him?”

  He knew what she meant, and nodded his head in agreement. She didn’t want to talk to Boone herself. He considered for a moment longer and then offered a compromise. “Send another one of the deputies. Rogers.”

  She scribbled down a note to do that.

  They went through a few more figures. The renters, the cigarette store, the weed, the poker game, the quarter machines, the damn thieving bookies. She scrawled down the final figure and handed it to him.

  The numbers were still down.

  He studied the number carefully, but it did not change. The handwritten digits sat there in front of him, an insult to all his work done over the years. Frustration boiled in his stomach, up his throat. He ripped the pap
er in half and threw it in the floor. He smacked his palm on the table so hard that it sounded like a tire blowout, echoing around the expensive hardwood.

  They sat there, as the smack faded.

  She decided to change the subject. “You’ll be glad to know, I got the election signs ordered today.”

  He brightened. “What color this year?”

  “Same colors as every other election. Red, white, and blue, just the way you like it. The proofs will be in next week, and once you give the go ahead on those, they can start printing. We should have everything ready in time for the primary. Come spring.”

  He liked thinking about elections. They warmed him. The numbers were down, the ledgers much lighter than he preferred, but the primary loomed just a few months away and that warmed him up just right.

  “Anybody running against me this time?” he asked with a chuckle.

  “Does it matter?” she shrugged

  Someone would run against him. Someone always ran against him, just for appearances if nothing else. Of course it didn’t matter. The signs were red, white, and blue.

  The telephone rang.

  It was odd for a call to come in so late, and she could tell that the call annoyed him. When she moved to answer, he waved her off and took it himself.

  He said his hello into the receiver, then listened for several moments, nodding his head, asking only vague, occasional questions.

  “What time?”

  “When?”

  “How long?”

  Soon enough, he hung up the phone. Before she could ask about the caller’s identity, he said, “That was the hospital.”

  She sat up. “Is it John?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Is he all right?“

  “He’s awake.”

  She jumped out of her chair and ran up the steps to get her sleeping child. He walked briskly across the kitchen, towards his car keys, which hung on the hooked board plaque by the door.