Sweetgirl (12 page)

I do not remember leaving Portis at the truck. I do not remember anything after the moment he died but a sound like a jet engine rising from the base of my brain and growing louder and louder until I was drowned inside of myself by the roaring.

I suppose I picked up Jenna and walked away, because the first thing I remember is being back in the woods and the baby crying. I did not try to comfort her because she was hungry and I had left the water in Portis's ruck. I hadn't had the wherewithal to grab it, and who knows how much distance I'd already put between us and that hillside.

I realized too that I was on the wrong side of the river. I had thought I was east of the Three Fingers and had planned to walk south back to the shanty, but the woods were too thin around me and the snow was falling hard through the gaps. I was walking in
the open and the clouds helped my cover some but there was no quarter from the cold.

After a time I came to a woodpile, stacked between two birch and covered with a tarp. Beyond the woodpile was a trailer where I could hear a screen door swing on its hinges. The snow in the yard was drifted and there were no lights in the trailer as I came closer.

The forest was thin but the trees around me reached high and I could hear the branches rattle as the wind pushed through. Jenna was awake and she was fussy—thrashing in the papoose and kicking.

“One minute, sweetness,” I said. “And we're going to get you inside.”

The trailer was one of Shelton's. I knew he had a couple stashed in the hills, single-wides he used for cooking, and we were going to have to take our chances and go inside. There were no cars or sleds parked out front, and though I believed we were near the farmhouse I didn't think it likely Shelton would have walked through the storm. I thought the trailer was probably empty and it was the best chance we had to find some water and some warmth.

I went to the back porch, caught the screen when it swung, and pinned it to the wall with my hand. I looked in through a panel window but it was pitch black inside and when I tried the door it was locked. I stepped back, let go of the screen for one second, and it swung loose and smacked me on the back of the head.

I screamed and stumbled off the porch. There was a throb at
the top of my skull and it widened until it filled my nostrils and pushed up hard against the back of my eyeballs. I took a moment to gather myself and then spat at the snow. As I might have mentioned, it starts to seem personal.

I went for the woodpile next, grabbed a log, and propped it beneath a small window on the other end of the trailer. I stepped up and my face was level with the glass. Jenna was crying now and I turned to the side to protect her as I brushed away the snow and came to the crusted ice beneath.

I could not see through the window but I uncurled my fists and put my hands to its sides and pushed. I pushed until the freeze crackled and fell away from the seams and the window rose in its frame.

I stepped down to take off the pack. I got the formula and put it on the windowsill, then slid Jenna's bottle in the pocket of my hoodie.

“Almost there now,” I said.

I peered inside with the flashlight and I could see a rust-stained tub and a sink and toilet. There was a drip coming from the ceiling and it plunked loudly in that small, tinny room. Finally, I took off the papoose with Jenna inside and tried to lower her into the sink. She cried out and reached for me and I snapped her back up.

“I know, baby girl,” I said. “It's just for a minute.”

She cried harder the second time and in the end I had to force her into the sink. I came in next, dropping a few feet to the floor, where I reached for the formula and pulled the window shut behind me. Then I went for Jenna.

It was warm in the bathroom. There was heat pulsing through
the register, but that didn't worry me. I came back to the fact that there were no vehicles outside and figured Shelton must have forgot to flip the switch when he last left. I turned my flashlight toward the darkened hall and there was insulation falling from the ceiling tiles and trash strewn across the carpet. Typical Shelton. An empty trailer full of toxic waste, and he was pumping it with hot air.

There was water, too, and when I cranked the sink handle it sprang fast and hot from the faucet. I filled the bottle, mixed in the formula, and fed Jenna on the floor.

I leaned back against the tub as feeling hit my fingers like small flames at the ends of match tips. It felt good to have the papoose off, to let the muscles in my back uncoil.

“Eat, baby girl,” I said. “Eat.”

Jenna sucked down her bottle and then her breath came slow and steady. I knew she was going to fall asleep and that brought me comfort. I wanted to set her down, but mostly I was glad for our tiny, predictable pattern. She would eat and then she would sleep, and I was glad to have something the both of us could depend on.

I put her down in the papoose after she fell off and let her sleep on the tile. The formula was nearly empty when I filled the scoop; there was nothing left but a little pinch in the corner of the canister and that wouldn't make us so much as a gulp. I hoped she gathered whatever rest she could now, because she'd be running on empty from here on in.

I walked into the hall with the flashlight and pushed through the trash. I was looking for a phone but there was only more filth.
Emptied bottles of drain cleaner and lighter fluid, smoked soda bottles and tubing and black bubbles burned into the carpet.

I walked from one end of the trailer clear to the other and it was there in the hall between a bedroom and a storage closet that I found Carletta facedown on the floor.

Her left arm was twisted and tucked beneath her stomach and both legs splayed behind her in a V. She wasn't dead. I could see her shoulders rise with breath and when I rolled her over she groaned and looked up. She was alive but her eyes were as flat and still as stones.

“It's me,” I said. “Mama. It's Percy.”

“Sweetgirl,” she whispered, and reached for me.

The thing that surprised me most was my own surprise. I couldn't believe I hadn't thought Mama might be there. The trailer was as logical a place as any for her to wait out the storm, and when she wasn't at the farmhouse I should have known she would have gone somewhere nearby to cook up a batch and gotten stranded. I should have known she would resurface at the moment Jenna needed me most, after I'd already lost Portis and nearly forgotten why I'd come to the hills in the first place.

I lifted her from the shoulders and pulled her close to my chest. Her arms had gone limp and her hair was grease-damp and clumped together in strings. She was in a tattered sweatshirt and blue jeans and smelled like burned shit. She looked like she'd been spit out by the storm itself.

“Mama,” I said. “I'm right here.”

Carletta cried in my arms, and when I cried back I couldn't be exactly sure why. I was wild with anger, but I was relieved
too. Or at least I was so emptied out and exhausted that it felt like relief. Mama was alive and I was there to hold her.

“It's okay, Mama,” I said. “I'm here now.”

I backed against the wall for balance and pushed myself up with Carletta's arms draped around my shoulders. She was wobbly on her feet and she leaned hard against me. I told her she was doing great and steadied her against a hip. I put my arm around her waist and walked her down the hall.

“I'm so sorry,” she said.

“It's okay,” I said. “Everything is going to be okay, Mama.”

We walked into the bathroom and I eased her down to the floor. She didn't say anything about Jenna, if she noticed her at all. Mama just hugged her arms close to her chest and sat staring at the rotting tile floor. She was mumbling something about the cold.

I set Jenna in the hall just outside the door and scanned the carpet around her for chemical spills or anything sharp. I checked the ceiling above for leaks and then gave her another glance. She was sleeping deeply. She was as sweet as she could be.

I went back to Mama, flipped the switch in the bathroom, and let the overhead blink on. It was yellowy and dim, and there was a buzzing in the bulb as it burned. Mama coughed and her chest rattled with phlegm.

“Let's get you cleaned up,” I said.

I turned on the shower and the head sputtered and spat until the stream pushed through clean. I put my hand in to test the temperature and it was warm.

“I'm so cold,” she said.

“The water's nice,” I said.

I helped her pull off her sweatshirt and in the light I could see the purple crisscross of veins over her chest and arms and then the brownish, misshapen splotches on her neck and shoulders. Mama leaned forward to step out of her pants and when she saw the sides of her shit-streaked thighs she started to sob.

“I'm so sorry,” she said, and held to the edge of the tub for balance.

“Let's just get you cleaned up,” I said.

I guided her into the shower and asked if she had anything clean to wear. She stood shivering, arms wrapped around her shoulders as the water washed over.

“I've got a bag,” she said. “There might be something in my bag.”

“Where's your bag, Mama?”

“I don't know,” she said, and cried harder. “I don't know where my bag is, sweetness. I'm sorry.”

“It's okay,” I said. “I'll go look.”

The bag was in the bedroom and there were some clean enough clothes inside, but what gave me pause was the baby blanket I found in the end pocket.

The thing is, not all junkies are like you see in the movies. They're not always crashing cars and setting shit on fire. Sometimes it isn't all that dramatic. Mama, for instance, loved nothing more than to sit on the couch and knit while she got stoned. All winter long she'd been working on a blanket for my nephew, Tanner, and I couldn't believe she'd actually finished it.

I held it to my face and felt the softness of the yarn. It was
baby blue and edged in red. Carletta had sized it a twin because she wanted to make something Tanner could grow into, and I will readily admit I never thought she'd see it through. That blanket was a scraggly square of yarn the last I saw, but it seemed she'd used her high in the hills to fuel a cross-stitch binge.

Starr might not have spoken to Mama since she moved to Portland, but I thought the blanket could be enough to get her to drop a card in the mail. Maybe a nice little thank-you note and a photo of Tanner to boot. I knew we might never be a family like you see on television, where everybody's tribulations bring them closer and make them stronger in the end—but I believed we could still be something. A blanket might not seem like much to most, but I swear it swelled my heart as I folded it in a square and left it beside the bag.

I found a dusty glass in the kitchen, ran some cool water, then returned to the bathroom to find Mama sitting in the tub, shivering. The shower was off and I handed her the glass and told her to drink.

“The water went cold,” she said.

“That's okay,” I said. “Go ahead and drink. Have a little bit, at least.”

She forced a sip, then another. She gave the glass back, then pulled her legs up and circled her arms around her shins. Her teeth were chattering as she leaned forward and rested her head on her knees.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't think there's any towels.”

“Oh,” Carletta said, and her voice cracked hard. “Oh, sweet one.”

I kneeled on the linoleum and reached into the tub and held her wet body against my own. Mama cried and I could feel the thump of each sob as it rang through her ribs. Mama's sadness was always physical like that—it was its own special type of violence.

“It's okay,” I whispered. “I'm right here, Mama. Everything will be okay.”

“Sweetgirl,” she said, and stroked my hair.

“I saw you finished the blanket,” I said. “For Tanner. It's beautiful.”

Mama started to come in and out then, mumbling about how sorry she was and how things were going to be different from now on. She was dry enough to dress so I got her out of the tub and slid on her jeans. I pulled her sweatshirt on and was startled by a glaring sliver of scalp—a wide, bone-white shore between patches of hair.

I tried to help her to her feet. I wanted to get her to the couch in the living room, but Carletta begged me to let her go.

“Just let me sleep, baby,” she said.

It might sound bad, but I quit struggling and set her down right there on the tile floor. If there was one skill Mama had it was sleeping anywhere her head dropped.

I left Mama and took Jenna down the hall to the bedroom, wrapped her in Tanner's blanket, and set her down on the carpet. She was burning up with fever but the blanket's fit was perfect and I thought it might help her to sweat it out. I sat down beside her and watched her breathe. I put my finger to her cheek and I started to cry. Portis was gone.

The first thing Shelton did when he returned to the farmhouse was tend to Kayla. He needed to keep her down, but decided to bypass the V and go a subtler, more gentle route.

He stopped at his secret drawer in the kitchen for a joint, then sat beside her on the floor and crossed his legs Indian style. He put his fingers to her pulse and felt the faint trace of a beat. He loved her, loved her so much it made his heart hurt, put an honest-to-God ache in his ribs.

The Talking Heads sang,
Check out Mr. Businessman . . . He bought some wild, wild life.

Shelton lit the joint and took a drag, but it was only to generate some smoke to blow in Kayla's direction. So she might be warmed and comforted in her sleep. So if she woke to the waiting terror she might have the edges of it blunted, if only for a moment.

He turned her over on her back, ran a finger down her cheek, and then blew a line of smoke into her mouth with a kiss. He watched it expel through her nose, then she coughed and some trailed out that lovely part in her lips. He kissed her forehead and then heard the phone buzz. It was Clemens.

Shelton wasn't used to Rick's boys calling him up on the phone and the truth was he was a little flattered by all the attention. He picked up and Clemens was breathing hard on the other end.

“We got bodies up on this hill,” he said. “Somebody burned to death. My money's on Arrow McGraw, and Portis Dale is lying dead at the bottom of the hill by his truck. He was gut shot and there ain't no baby.”

“There's no baby?”

“Baby is gone.”

“Where?”

“I don't know.”

“Why don't you know?”

“'Cause it was gone when I got here. Didn't leave no note.”

“Portis is dead?”

“Stone cold.”

“Did you shoot him?”

“No. I found him like this.”

“Krebs said you planned to kill Portis Dale.”

“I did not.”

“Krebs said you borrowed his six-shooter and were ready to pull if needed.”

“Well,” said Clemens. “It sounds to me like we know who killed Portis.”

“Fucker lied to me.”

“Krebs is a piece of shit,” Clemens said. “I've warned you about him before.”

“So what happened to Jenna?”

“I don't hardly want to say.”

“I think you should.”

“I don't have any way of knowing really.”

“You got to say it, Clemens. Whatever it is.”

“I'm worried is all,” Clemens said. “I started thinking like maybe that Wolfdog took the baby. Dragged it off and God knows what. Portis usually does have that Wolfdog with him.”

“You think Wolfdog took the baby?”

“I think,” Clemens said. “But I don't know.”

“Jesus, Lord,” said Shelton.

“I'm heading over right now,” Clemens said.

“To where?”

“The farmhouse.”

“For what?”

“We need to sit down and figure this thing through. We got dead bodies up here, Shelton. We can't just leave them out.”

“I'm not home,” Shelton said, and looked out his window at the raging snow.

“Where you at?”

“Charlevoix the Beautiful.”

He supposed it was as good a place as any to pretend to be.

“Doing what?”

“Talking to some folks, might know something about this baby.”

“There ain't nothing else to know. That baby is somewhere up in the hills.”

“That's why you got to keep looking.”

“I plan to,” Clemens said. “But we've got to get a few things sorted first.”

“Like what?”

“Like, did Rick say any particulars on that reward?”

“Particulars?”

“I guess what I'm asking is, is this a dead-or-alive situation? In terms of the baby's condition?”

“Condition?”

“I hate it has to be this way, but it's a question needs to be asked.”

“You are a piece of freeze-dried shit, Clemens. You are worried about money while a baby has gone missing.”

“These are hard times now, Shelton. I'd appreciate it if you spared me your judgment.”

“There ain't no reward for a dead baby, Clemens. She's not a fugitive of the law. I'll tell you what, though. Bring me back her dead body and I'll give you a quarter, twenty-five whole cents, right before I shoot you through your skull.”

“You'd be a fool to talk to me like that a minute longer,” Clemens said.

“How's that?”

“Because I know for a fact Krebs will try to pin this on you when it don't stick to me. Conspiracy to murder, son. You put out the hit.”

“I didn't put out any hit.”

“According to you, a convicted felon.”

“Krebs ain't no choirboy.”

“No,” Clemens said. “But he didn't beat a man near to death at the Paradise Junction neither. He's not the one deals methamphetamines.”

“No,” Shelton said. “He deals cocaine.”

“Well, you know how it is in the media when it comes to meth. They're biased on it.”

“We should figure a way to put this whole thing on Arrow. Fucking Arrow won't mind.”

“Either way,” Clemens said. “I'm about the best friend you have in this world right now, Potter. You may want to consider them facts before you spout off next time.”

“You really think Wolfdog took the baby?”

“I don't know. It was a terrible thought I had and I do believe it should be considered as a possibility.”

“We've got to keep looking.”

“I'm coming to the farmhouse first,” Clemens said. “We need to get a few things straight before I head back out. I need some reassurances. I have already called Rick and left him a message. He has yet to call me back.”

“That was a mistake,” Shelton said. “You should not have called Rick.”

“Well, I did.”

“He did not want to be bothered.”

“He will be glad to have been bothered when he finds out about Arrow and Portis Dale. I'm on my way over now. We'll sit down in the warm and figure this through.”

“I told you I wasn't home.”

“I'll meet you there, then,” said Clemens.

Shelton hung up, then kissed Kayla's forehead and flipped her back on her stomach. It was her natural position of rest.

Obviously he would not be waiting around to hold some powwow with Clemens. Shelton would go to his nearest trailer instead, to see if he couldn't scrape together a little batch and get himself right.

To be perfectly honest, Shelton needed some meth. He had what they would refer to in the scientific community as a compulsion, though the word didn't quite capture the feeling's significance or strange, sudden power. The way it seemingly arose from nowhere, like a natural disaster or an apocalypse.

Uncle Rick called it jonesing. Well, Shelton was Mr. Jones, stumbling through the barrio. Earlier he was fine, but now he wasn't. To everything there was a season, turn, turn, turn.

Yes, a trip to the trailer would be just the thing. He needed a quiet place to smoke and think through the lies he'd peddle to Uncle Rick before he started spitting them out all willy-nilly. Truth was, he was surprised he hadn't thought to go to the trailer earlier. He blamed the nitrous, which he freely admitted could affect his decision making.

He saw the shotgun leaned in the corner and snagged it for the road. He had finished the pint in the truck and was relieved to find a half bottle of whiskey in the freezer. He grabbed a box of shotgun shells off the top of the fridge, stuffed them in his pocket, and walked back into the cold.

He started the Silverado, then sat inside the idling truck and
consulted his whiskey bottle. Shelton enjoyed his nitrous, let there be no doubt, yet there were times you needed a touch of bourbon to go with it, to settle the nerves a little. Nitrous could be reasoned with, so long as you weren't a habitual user. They called it hippie crack, but it could be managed if you knew what you were doing, like Shelton. He had a few slugs from the bottle, felt a blossom of warmth deep in his belly.

He couldn't remember actually putting the truck in gear, but soon found himself driving down the road. He had already crossed Jackson Lake and made it a good ways down Grain and was now nearing the turn for the trailer. It was hard to see in the snow but luckily he trusted his abilities as a winter driver. He knew these hills, too, knew the two-tracks and the trails, the sudden breaks and switchbacks.

Something was bothering him, though, and it had to do with that Glock on the passenger seat. All of a sudden the Glock was making him uneasy. He couldn't say why, but the weapon had crawled right beneath his skin.

Maybe it was because he'd almost killed Little Hector with it, or maybe it had to do with the laser sight and its space-age complexities. It seemed to Shelton that things were complicated enough. What he needed now was the shotgun he had racked behind him. What he needed now was the clear purpose of that long, cold barrel.

He rolled his window down, picked the Glock off the seat, threw it out into the storm, into the howling wind, and felt a quick flush of relief.

“There it is,” he said, and turned up the radio.

Guns N' Roses was on and Axl was singing about some girl named Michelle. It was a good song, but Shelton wondered if it was really a girl Axl was warbling about. It seemed a strange time for such a thought, but Shelton couldn't help but wonder if old Axl Rose was a queer. Seemed like he might be, skinny boy like that in leather pants and sang like a girl to begin with.

Shelton couldn't recall if there'd been reports about it or not. Seemed like every few years some rock star turned out homosexual, but Shelton couldn't confirm or deny if that population included Axl Rose. Even if he wasn't an outright queer, Shelton bet he'd tried it. Rock and roll was a life of excesses and experimentation, and it seemed to Shelton that at some point Axl Rose must have held another man's cock in his hands. He probably gave it a few tugs too, just to see what would happen.

“Hollywood nights,” said Shelton.

He looked down at the speedometer and realized he was going forty miles an hour. That seemed pretty fast, but then again it didn't.

“It's all relative,” he said.

He pushed down on the gas and the truck surged forward. He drank some more of the whiskey down.
Glug, glug, glug.

He was off Grain Road now but the driving wasn't bad on the little two-track that led to the trailer. It was south of Jackson Lake and west of the river and even with the new snow coming hard through the trees the Silverado's purchase on the trail was solid. His tires were shedding drifts like it was a Chevy Tough commercial.

He gave the gas another punch, a love tap really, then saw a
flash of movement on the periphery. A shape hurtling through the blur of snow. It was difficult to see through the window, fogging now in the heat, but he swore it looked like Old Bo was out there running. The window was still down from before and he leaned over and called out for his dog.

The air came in cold and hard and somewhere within that roar of wind Shelton thought he heard Bo holler out for him in return. He squinted into the storm and the less he could see the more certain he became that his dog was out there with him, charging by his side through the blustery night.

He knew Old Bo was dead and gone, yet Shelton swore his spirit was roaming there in the hardwoods. He could feel him, and when he looked out he saw Old Bo restored to his youthful flesh. He saw Bo bound on all fours just like when he was a pup, when he was pure joy and sinewy muscle.

Shelton was just thinking he should slow the truck down, that he didn't want to hit Bo on accident, when he saw the buck charge. He slammed the breaks and the Silverado swung wildly to the left and he gripped the wheel as the truck slid from his control and he watched the big buck pass through the headlights. He saw the high kick of front hooves and the great, cavernous rack. He saw the white of an eye and the wet, spongy nose. Shelton cried out, and he grieved for the animal in the forever that unfolded before impact.

Shelton's front grille met the buck's flank and then the massive body was rolled up into the windshield where Shelton watched the glass explode into a hundred glints of fractured light, shards rising above him as they spun.