Our Love Will Go the Way of the Salmon (14 page)

They pile in, Jesse driving, Andrew riding copilot, Myrtle in the back with the coffin.

They’re rolling down the dirt driveway to the highway that will take them far from here when Jesse hits the brakes.

“Huh,” he says.

Andrew turns in his seat. “What?”

“That hearse is stolen.”

“Yeah. So?”

“Seems like we might wanna do something about it before we go.”

***

Myrtle hoists the rocket launcher over her shoulder and takes aim.

There’s a great kaboom.

The hearse goes up in flames.

Jesse takes the rocket launcher from Myrtle as Andrew looks nervously from the highway to the charred remains of the police cruiser beside the flaming hearse. “You think anyone will spot the copper’s car from the highway?”

“Naw,” Jesse says. “It’s pretty burned out. But just in case…” He reloads the rocket launcher from a nearby case of missiles, hands the rocket launcher over to Andrew. “The honors are yours.”

Andrew blows up the already destroyed cruiser.

“I want to do it again,” Myrtle says.

“Fine by me, honey,” Jesse says, setting about reloading the rocket launcher for Myrtle.

Now Myrtle takes aim. There’s a second explosion from the hearse, something small inside exploding, and the sudden, unexpected noise is enough to startle Myrtle just a bit.

She pulls the trigger, sending a rocket straight through the front window of their house.

The house explodes and Myrtle sails backwards, landing in the dirt in her pretty dress.

Flames from the house lick the dead, dry grass.

“Think that might spread?” Andrew asks.

“Probably,” Jesse says.

“Figures,” Andrew says.

Jesse helps Myrtle to her feet and for a split moment, her arms around his neck, his hands on her waist, their home going up in flames, Jesse understands that what they have together is a thing that will endure beyond anything else. They have not lost a home because they are home, in each other. But the authorities don’t understand that kind of shit, so they get into the ice cream truck with the rocket launcher and the coffin and some luggage and they hit the highway fucking stat.

***

Myrtle’s weeping.

She speaks between gasping sobs. “Everything was in there and I burned it all down.” Gasp. “I shot a rocket launcher at our house.” Choking for air. “And now I’ll never remember what my mother looks like.” Biting her knuckles. “Her picture is gone. And our save-the-dates…” Eyes pinched shut as if to call back all her tears. “They were so beautiful.”

Jesse tries to soothe her. “Myrtle, it’s okay. We can buy another house and replace all that old junk. We’re gonna be rich, remember?”

“Really? We can buy another one?”

“Sure we can. Anywhere in the world you like.”

Myrtle smiles through her tears. “Can we move to Vegas?”

“Absolutely. Soon as we drop these snakes off, we’ll buy us a brand new Cadillac and cruise on down to Vegas, get hitched, maybe win some on blackjack, and buy ourselves a big-ass Las Vegas mansion.”

“And brand new wardrobes,” Myrtle says, even laughing a little.

“That’s right. All the dresses you can dream of.”

Myrtle wipes her nose on the sleeve of her dress, which between the hard fall she took from the rocket launcher, grime and spider webs in the ice cream truck, and her fit of tears, looks like something very old and very worn, but she doesn’t mind. The misery of the present is fading. A fantasy of the future begins to show. “Out-of-towners will see us cruising the strip, having cocktails with exotic dancers and casino owners, and they’ll say, ‘Look at those folks. They must be big important people in Las Vegas.’”

“That they will,” Jesse says. “We’ll be the cream of the Las Vegas crop.”

Andrew interrupts the reverie. “In the meantime, if it makes either of you feel any better, I remembered to grab the car phone. We can make telephone calls to anyone in the world.”

“I want to call the supermarket,” Myrtle says.

Jesse cranes his head to look at her. “What do you want to call the supermarket for?”

“I don’t know. Just because.”

“Forget the supermarket.”

Andrew dials a number and then holds the phone to his ear, an anticipatory smile on his face. “Hello, operator? Connect me to the nearest pet store.”

“Pet store?” Jesse says.

Andrew gestures for Jesse to be quiet, then speaks into the phone, “Hi, I’m just wonderin’ uh…what sorts of food do snakes eat?”

Andrew nods, listening to someone on the other end of the line, before responding. “Rats, fish, insects…okay. What about bacon?”

Andrew listens some more, says, “I mean snakes eat bacon, don’t they?”

He nods vigorously, as if impatient with the pet store employee on the other end. “So you think they might, but you can’t say. Okay, well thank you very much.”

He ends the call.

“What was that all about?” Jesse asks.

“It occurred to me the snakes might get hungry before we reach Oregon.”

Myrtle frowns. “The doctors didn’t tell you what to feed ’em?”

“I’m not in communication with the doctors,” Andrew says.

“Then whoever gave you the snakes. The snake suppliers. They must’a told you something or given you a bag of snake food. Come on, think man,” Jesse says.

“Maybe they’re like Gandhi and they don’t eat food,” Myrtle suggests.

“What kinda stupid idea is that?” Jesse says. “Snakes like Gandhi.”

Myrtle shrugs. “I don’t know. I just thought because they’re medical snakes…”

“Gandhi wasn’t a doctor anyway,” Jesse says.

Myrtle disagrees. “Gandhi was too a doctor. A healer.”

Jesse turns to Andrew. “A girl reads some magazines and suddenly she’s an authority on everything.”

“I didn’t learn about Gandhi from any stupid magazine. I learned in college.”

“You didn’t go to college.”

“My sister did, and sometimes when our mama was working, she took me to school with her.”

“Yeah, but you were just a little kid. You weren’t doing any learning.”

“I did too learn. Kids younger than five learn the most.
That
I did read in a magazine.”

Jesse’s face is reddening. He’s getting angry now. “If kids under five are the smartest learners, then why isn’t a five-year-old president of the United States? Huh? Answer me that, smartass.”

Andrew’s on the car phone again.

“Big Jer, it’s Andrew.

“Sure has been a long time, Big Jer. No, I don’t remember the money I owe you, but listen. I got a favor to ask.

“I knew you’d say that. Come on, Big Jer.

“That time in Dallas was an exception.

“That time in Tijuana don’t count.

“Hey, you and I remember that time in El Paso a little bit differently and frankly, I side with me.

“Look fine, I’ll put my cards on the table. I got a girl.

“Yeah, a real fine bitch.”

Jesse and Myrtle say together, “What?”

Andrew winks at them, continues. “Yeah, she’s real pretty. Young, blonde. Oh yeah, good tits.”

Jesse slaps Andrew in the arm, mouths, “Cut it out.”

But Andrew doesn’t cut it out. He’s still talking to Big Jer. “What I’m askin’ is simple. You got catfish. I got pussy. I’ll trade you ten cats, filleted and iced in a cooler, for half an hour with the broad.

“An hour? I’m askin’ for catfish, not honey-baked ham.

“Fine. Forty-five minutes. I’m an hour-twenty from your place. Be ready.

“You sick ol’ dog. Sure, I’ll warn her,” Andrew says, laughing and making a grossed-out face.

Andrew ends the call, still laughing.

“What the fuck was that?” Myrtle says.

“Yeah, what the fuck, man?” Jesse says.

Andrew raises his hands like presto, I just pulled a white rabbit out of a black hat. “That, folks, was my good friend Big Jer. You’ve been out of the game for a long time, Jesse, but if you’d stayed in another couple years, you woulda had the privilege to meet the greasy, gross specimen of a man known as Big Jer.”

“I don’t like this,” Myrtle says. “I don’t like this at all.”

“Calm down. Everything is under control,” Andrew says.

Jesse, who was already getting worked up over the Gandhi thing, is pissed. “Everything ain’t under control if you’re sayin’ what I think you’re sayin’.”

Andrew doesn’t back down. “Hey now, Big Jer may be greasy and gross, but that comes with his trade. He’s a catfish farmer. He ain’t no scumbag. He’s a trustworthy dude. Hell, if he wasn’t such a fatass, I may’ve invited him along on this adventure instead of you. Big Jer would be the one making a mint, not you. So you shut your mouth about Big Jer.”

Through gritted teeth, Jesse says, “Fine. Tell us the plan.”

“Here’s how it is. We need snake food and we need people food ’cause as you dummies might have noticed by now, we forgot to pack food for ourselves. I don’t know how much money you’ve got on you, but personally I’m broke. I’m assuming we’ll need all the cash you got in your wallets for gas. That means, if we want to keep these snakes alive
and
maybe eat a little somethin’ ourselves before we reach Oregon, we need to pull a favor or a robbery. Personally, I think favors tend to be a little less fun, but I never miss an opportunity to see Big Jer.
Especially
if I can fuck him over good.”

“Why bacon?” Myrtle asks.

“Pardon?”

“Why’d you ask the pet store if snakes ate bacon?”

“Oh, that. I was just curious if snakes ate bacon.”

“Do they?”

“Sometimes. Maybe. Nobody really knows for sure.”

Jesse makes a big ‘Mmmm’ sound and smacks his lips. “I could do for a bacon sandwich right about now.”

“Forget about bacon! I scored us all the catfish we can eat.”

“But what you’re not telling us is
how
. Goddamn, I’ll buy us all bacon sandwiches if it keeps my soon-to-be wife from fucking a catfish farmer. That’s not what I signed up for.”

Myrtle agrees. “It would make for a terrible honeymoon.”

“Right it would, honey.”

And so Andrew explains the plan. “Here’s how it goes down: Before we roll up in front of Big Jer’s farm, we’ll switch it up. Myrtle, you’ll drive. Jesse, you’ll sit in back, making sure the rocket launcher is out of sight. When we roll up, Myrtle, it’s important that you back up to take the delivery. Big Jer’ll waddle out and stand in front of his place, giving our ride the once-over. If he waves at you, you wave. I’ll step out and talk to him. Now it’s of utter importance that you two stay in the vehicle. He shouldn’t know about you yet, Jesse. If he finds out too early, he’ll smell something fishy and call the whole thing off.”

Jesse raises an eyebrow. “So it’s not fishy at all that you might be traveling with some pretty young thing and trade her ass for a little fish?”

Andrew ignores the remark, carries on. “I’ll tell Big Jer that we’re having some engine trouble and that my hot broad’s an ace mechanic—best I’ve ever seen—and that I want her to take a look at the engine before anyone bumps uglies. His men will have already bonked and cleaned ten catfish, each fine specimens because Big Jer is a fine man.”

“Men? His men?” Jesse says.

“Here’s where things get complicated. Big Jer doesn’t get laid a lot. He’s doesn’t like missing out on promised pussy either, especially when he’s upholding his end of the deal. He’ll have two men carry the cooler full of catfish out to our truck. Big Jer will escort us and he’ll most certainly be armed. Meanwhile, Myrtle, you’ve been pretending to inspect the engine. When we come around back with the cooler, you call out to us that the engine’s all good and that you’re just gonna hop in back to change out of your dirty rags into something clean. Big Jer will insist that we finalize the deal right then and there, in the ice cream truck. I’ll pretend to disagree, saying you’re a classy lady and all, but eventually I’ll give in under the condition that his men leave ’cause I don’t want them hearing Big Jer pounding my girl. He’ll give the okay and then I’ll open up the back. And here’s the real tricky part ’cause Big Jer’s a big guy. If we can get him in the truck without seeing Jesse, we’re golden. Myrtle, you scream when Big Jer climbs in back. Not too loud, but loud enough for his guys to hear. That way, when Big Jer screams next, they’ll think it’s just part of the fun. Myrtle, you’ll say something like ‘Sorry, you startled me. Let’s do it in this coffin.’ Big Jer will have his eyes fixed on you, but hopefully his lecherous stare will’ve been too fixed to move on to touchin’. When that coffin lid opens wide, that’s your cue to pop up and point that rocket launcher in his face, Jesse. Now, Jesse, it’s important that you say, ‘Don’t move, motherfucker’ or something to that effect as opposed to ‘Get the fuck out, motherfucker,’ because Big Jer has a fear of snakes—a snakeophobia or whatever you call it—so it will be much more piss-shittin’ scary to him for a man to point a gun at him and say ‘stay here with these snakes’ as opposed to a man pointing a gun saying ‘hey, get out and save yourself from these snakes,’ because then you’ll seem like a nice guy and he’ll realize we’re duping him before we can actually make our escape.”

“So then…”

“If he’s smart, which he is, he’ll hop out of the truck and run like Mexico’s invading Texas. Myrtle will slam the coffin shut, letting no snakes get loose, I’ll load the catfish cooler, and we’ll drive like bats out of hell.”

Myrtle stares ahead at the highway passing quickly by. “All this for some catfish,” she says.

Jesse doesn’t like the plan either. “We do got money. Why don’t we just buy some bacon sandwiches. The snakes eat bacon. You said so yourself.”

“I said they might eat bacon, sometimes. Nobody knows for sure.”

“Good enough for me. I mean…”

“Do you want the half mil or not?”

“Yeah, of course I do, man. But c’mon. At least let us count our cash.”

Jesse reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and hands it to Myrtle.

“Count our money, honey.”

Myrtle removes a wad of bills from Jesse’s wallet. She counts them aloud, finally arriving at the grand sum of ninety-three dollars.

“That’s a start,” Andrew says.