A Miracle of Catfish (42 page)

“Holy fucking shit,” Jimmy's daddy said, and he let off the gas.

Jimmy didn't even have to ask
what
. He could see the blue lights blinking down the road, and a lot of cars pulled over on the sides of the highway.

“It's a damn wreck,” Jimmy's daddy said, and started drinking his beer really fast. He took a breath and said, “And damn cops all over the place.”

There was a line of traffic in front of them that was slowing down and Jimmy could see all the brake lights of the vehicles in front of them coming on. Jimmy looked over at his daddy. His daddy had the beer can turned straight up against his mouth. He took it down and handed it to Jimmy.

“Here,” he said. “Stick this son of a bitch under the seat.” Then he burped.

Jimmy did what he was told. He stuck it under the seat and acted like nothing was happening in case the cops were watching him.

“Make sure that blanket's over that cooler good,” his daddy said.

Jimmy turned around and checked it. It looked okay to him.

“It's covered up,” he said, looking over at his daddy. He didn't want his daddy to get caught by the cops and mess up the trip to Ripley. His daddy had told him they had pony rides over there and Jimmy was wanting one of them, maybe two. If his daddy had enough money. Maybe a few cheeseburgers. Ice cream? His tooth was hurting.

“All right then,” his daddy said. “Turn back around and set back down.”

As they got closer, Jimmy could see two smashed cars, both on one side of the highway. There was a narrow open space where cars and trucks were creeping through, and Jimmy could see some highway cops in the highway directing the traffic. There was broken glass in the road and what looked like red pieces of plastic. One of the cars was red.

“We can probably just slide right on through,” Jimmy's daddy said.

“I bet we can,” Jimmy said.

“I just don't want these sons of bitches to catch me with that beer in a dry county,” Jimmy's daddy said.

“What would they do if they did?” Jimmy said.

“I don't know. They might take me to jail.”

“Jail?” Jimmy said.

“You can't ever tell with some of these assholes.”

Jimmy could tell that his daddy was getting nervous. He was already lighting another cigarette and he just had put one out.

“Look over there in that glove box and see if there's any gum in there,” Jimmy's daddy said.

Jimmy looked. He didn't see any gum. He did see some small square packets that were stuffed behind some papers and rubber bands and things. He pulled one out and looked at it. It was fat, padded, slick. Jimmy started reading the label and the label said it was a latex c-o-n-d-o … condo? There was a wrinkle in the pack. Hiding an
m
. Condom. Con
dom
?

“This ain't gum,” Jimmy said.

Jimmy's daddy looked over and alarm suddenly showed on his face.

“Gimme that,” he said, and grabbed it. Then he stuffed it in his shirt pocket. Then he reached over and slammed the glove box shut.

“What is it?” Jimmy said.

“Don't you worry about what it is,” Jimmy's daddy said.

They had come to a complete halt now since the highway cops were letting some traffic through from the other side and halting the ones in their lane. There was also another trooper who was talking to people in the cars in their lane, leaning down to speak to some of them. It looked like he was checking drivers' licenses, since Jimmy could see a man three cars in front of them handing his out the window. The trooper glanced at it and handed it back and nodded and another trooper on the other side
of the wreck stopped the traffic coming from that direction and the one who'd been checking the licenses started waving them on. Jimmy's daddy pressed the gas and eased out on the clutch and they crept forward. Two cars went through and then they were stopped again.

“Son of a bitch,” Jimmy's daddy said.

“What is it?” Jimmy said.

“The son of a bitch is checking licenses. Why are they checking licenses at a damn wreck? He's gonna look right in the damn car. Let me get mine out and have it ready.”

Jimmy's daddy leaned toward the left and reached for his billfold with his right hand, pulled it out, retrieved his license from it, and laid the billfold on the seat.

“Goddamn it,” he muttered under his breath. The trooper was checking the car in front of him.

Jimmy just sat there, saying nothing. He knew this was one of those times when he should say nothing. His daddy was nervous and this was no time to engage him in conversation. He'd just wait until later to tell him about the guy in the big red fish truck. Sometime when he was back in a good mood. And they were at home. And safe. This was trouble.

“You sure that cooler's covered up good?” Jimmy's daddy said.

“Yes sir,” Jimmy said.

“And you shoved that beer can up under the seat good?”

“Pretty good,” Jimmy said.

And then the trooper was walking back to their car. He had his hat off and he looked like some of the soldiers Jimmy had seen on the television, the ones who were over there fighting the war, in that he looked like he wouldn't put up with much foolishness. He had on sunglasses and his hair was clipped short. His uniform was full of sharp creases. He was wearing a black gun in a black holster.

He leaned down just a bit as he came up beside the window, and he put his hand on the roof.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” Jimmy's daddy said.

“May I see your driver's license, please,” the trooper said. He looked at Jimmy, but he didn't smile.

“Yes sir,” Jimmy's daddy said, and handed it out the window. The
trooper leaned a little closer before he took it, and then he leaned back and looked toward the wreck. He looked down at the license and then he dropped his hand, the one that was holding the license. Then he leaned in very close to Jimmy's daddy.

“I think I detect a slight smell of alcohol on your breath, sir,” he said. “Have you been drinking this morning?”

“Naw,” Jimmy's daddy said. “I ain't drank a drop.”

The trooper nodded toward Jimmy.

“Is this your son here, sir?” the trooper said.

“Yeah,” Jimmy's daddy said.

“Where y'all headed?” the trooper said, and he turned his attention away from them for a moment to look at the '55. He seemed to be studying it. Then he focused on them again. Jimmy felt like he was in a movie where you couldn't tell what was going to happen next.

“We headed to Ripley,” Jimmy's daddy said. “We going to First Monday.”

The trooper nodded, and he seemed to be thinking something over. He had a look on his face that said maybe he was about to do something he didn't really want to. He moved his head past Jimmy's daddy and looked in the back floorboard.

“What you got under that blanket back there, sir?” he said. “It looks like it might be a cooler.”

“Well yeah it is,” Jimmy's daddy said, and Jimmy's daddy was kind of wincing in the bright sunlight of the morning. Jimmy saw how gray and ragged was his father's hair. And how nervous he was.

And then there was that moment of truth.

“What you got in it?” the trooper said.

And even Jimmy could figure out that his daddy wasn't going to be able to lie his way out of this. And his daddy must have known it, too, but it didn't stop him from trying.

“It's just some Cokes and stuff for him,” Jimmy's daddy said, nodding toward Jimmy.

“Really? That sure looks like a beer can over there under your son's feet,” the trooper said, and Jimmy looked down, horrified to see the Old Milwaukee can that had rolled from under the seat the last time they'd stopped. And when Jimmy looked at his daddy, his daddy's face
had turned red. And he turned his face very slowly to Jimmy. The look he gave Jimmy was one he'd given him before. It said plainly:
You little shit
.

“You want to get out of the car and open it up for me?” the trooper said, in a bored way. And that was the end of the first trip to First Monday. Since they were in a dry county. Any hopes of possibly riding a buffalo that day were dashed as well.

Cleve fried up some of the deer meat the night before he took Montrel down to the river. He'd had to wake up the guy who owned the meat locker that night, after Mister Cortez had come over, after Cleve had hauled the dead deer out of the pea patch under a tarpaulin, and then he had to give the guy three of the deer for the storage fee and for helping him skin them. Montrel wouldn't get up and help him. Laid up there next to his daughter. The little ones didn't take as long as the big ones, and besides that, it was nice and cool in the cooler they used to hang the deer and skin them.

Some parts had to be thrown away: a shattered shoulder here, white bones pulverized by flattened lead slugs still in there and the meat around the bullet holes bloodshot and not fit to eat, a bullet-riddled hind-quarter there. But he wound up with almost two hundred pounds of meat anyway.

The guy who owned the meat locker lived up on Bell River Road and he'd sliced up some of the hindquarters into round steak with his band saw that night while Cleve watched. Then he took some yellow foam trays from a stack of them on his bloody worktable and wrapped the steaks nicely in clear wrap just like you'd get at Kroger except without a price tag. Cleve took eight packs home to stick in the little freezer section of his refrigerator and the meat-locker guy froze the rest of it for him in his walk-in locker. Cleve said he'd be back for some more later and the guy who owned the meat locker said he wished he'd bring a few more of those little ones since they were so tender.

They were gone somewhere again tonight, the two of them, he didn't know where. Somebody had worked on Montrel's car and done something to it, but it was still getting hot sometimes. Maybe they were broke down somewhere. She'd find her way home eventually. He wasn't worried about her. She had her razor in her shoe and she was too damn mean for anybody to mess with her. He was glad to be here almost by himself. He was going to do a little drinking and he was going to do
a little cooking and he was happy that it was quiet in the house for a change, just him and the little brown-and-white spotted feist puppy he'd bought. It was sleeping on a ragged rug over by the pantry curtain. The puppy was small like him.

He'd already made his biscuit dough and now he lifted the half pint from the kitchen table and took a fiery sip. Then he picked up an empty quart beer bottle and rolled his dough out nice and smooth. There was a clean tin can sitting there and he cut his biscuits out with that. Perfect circles of dough. They'd rise up fluffy and light, so good you could eat them by themselves. One more thing he'd learned in prison. He cut five and stood there and looked at them. He couldn't eat any more than that, not with deer meat and gravy. Seretha might want some when she came in. He cut three more. He'd leave the rest of the biscuits and the meat on the stove in a plate and the gravy in a bowl, and if she wanted to eat, she could eat. Montrel had already turned his nose up earlier to some good fresh deer meat. Said he preferred
fillay min yon
, whatever the hell that was. Always talking with his mouth full. He'd get a mouthful.

He squatted in the floor with a few scraps of the dough and the puppy woke up and walked over, licking at Cleve's hands. He wasn't as big as a rabbit yet and he was already four months old. Cleve petted him and gave him some of the biscuit dough and then he stood up and washed his hands at the battered sink, then wiped his fingers dry. He unwrapped the thawed deer steak from its package and put the package in the garbage.

He had a cutting board that he used for this and he put the meat on it and carried it to the kitchen table. The steak was dark red, thickly sliced, and he picked up a sharp knife and started trimming the sinew from it, putting each piece aside as he finished with it. Made a small pile of meat. Very lean, almost no fat. This meat was from one of the little ones. He'd be able to cut it on his plate with a fork.

He cut off a few good scraps and threw them to the puppy, who had to be constantly with him. He'd never let a dog sleep with him his entire life, but he was letting this one. He had to. There was just something about him. He called him Peter Rabbit and you could talk to him, tell him what a good squirrel dog he was going to be, how many he was going to tree, and he'd prick up his ears and seem to know what you
were saying. He definitely knew his name. And if you didn't let him in the bed with you, he'd scratch and whine at the door all night long and never would shut up. And if you got pissed off because he wouldn't stop scratching and whining, and got up in your drawers and took him out on the back porch and closed the door on him, he'd go up under the house and get directly under the planks the bed was sitting on, and stand under there whining and yapping and jumping up, bumping his little head against the boards, and he wouldn't quit because he knew exactly where you were somehow. He'd do it all night. And keep whining. And the other dogs would growl at him.

Open the door and let him get up in the bed with you and he'd curl up and go right to sleep on top of the covers. Hadn't even peed in the floor one time. Four months old and he'd scratch at the door for you to let him out. Acted like he had all kinds of sense. And loved to ride in the truck. Stand there in your lap and put his head out the window and hold on to the door with his feet. Purebred squirrel dogs like this one brought $150 at Ripley, but he'd gone down to the man's kennel below Banner and had talked him down from $100 to $80. He'd already bought him some heartworm pills, and he'd taken him to town for all his shots. Hit the liquor store while he was up there. Save another trip to town. When you didn't have a driver's license you kind of had to watch it. Whitey would have your black ass back in jail.