The Evening Hour (27 page)

“Hey Jody.”

He felt sick as he got closer and saw her damaged face. Two or three of her front teeth were missing, and her left eye was swollen and purple, as fat as a night crawler.

“What happened?”

“Oh, just a little scrap,” she said.

He asked her how she was doing, but did not need to be told. She'd been beaten and she was too thin and her eyes were chalky. She wore a flimsy dress, grubby sandals.

“You want to buy something?”

He looked around. Ratty sweaters, a beat-up radio, a deck of cards, dented pots and pans. All of her belongings.

“No, I don't need anything,” he said.

She asked for a cigarette and he took one for himself, then handed her one of the packs he'd just bought. “Keep it,” he said. Cars and pickups sped past them, sending up waves of dust; nobody stopped, nobody even slowed down.

“I been wondering what happened to you,” he said. “Everyone's spread out all over the place now.”

“Yeah, my trailer got fucked up, but I wasn't home when it happened.” She shrugged. “I moved in with my sister in Zion. For a while, I went to that center there.”

“The rehab?”

“Yeah. I was clean for a month.” She sucked on the cigarette. “But a couple of weeks ago, everything fell apart. I was living with this guy. He's the one that did this to my face. Knocked my teeth out.”

“Jesus. I hope you're not going back to him.”

“Hell no,” she said, her voice flat, unconvincing. “Hey, you got anything on you? I'll give you all of this, just for an eighty. All of this right here, it's yours.”

He looked at her beaten face. “I'm getting out,” he said. “I'm done.”

“No you ain't.” She laughed, showing her battered mouth, the gap where her teeth should have been.

“I am,” he said. “I'm not in it anymore. I don't have anything.”

She put her hand on his crotch and he pushed her away.

“Don't.”

“You don't like it?”

“Jody, you should check yourself back in. I'll drive you over there. Right now. I'll do it.”

She stared at him and he thought maybe she would say yes, maybe she would thank him, but suddenly she grabbed a frying pan and swung it wildly, nearly smashing his face. “Fuck you,” she screamed. “Fuck you.”

He jumped out of the way and she flung the pan and it landed at his feet. “Get out of here, get the fuck out.”

He got in his truck and hit the gas, watching her grow smaller and smaller in the rearview. She would not sell a single thing. She'd drive around on empty fumes to every dealer around until she found one who'd let her suck him off, then she'd melt into her little piece of heaven. He knew all of that. He drove almost all the way back to Dove Creek. Then he stopped and told himself,
You did this to her, you fucker, you did this.
He turned the truck around. He drove fast around the bends and curves, the sun glaring in his eyes, her broken voice ringing in his ears, but when he got back to the spot, she was gone.

He ate supper with his grandmother and mother, cheeseburgers with grilled onions, boiled potatoes, salad. It was mostly quiet, except for the occasional scraping of forks, the hum of the refrigerator.

Then his grandmother said, “Get you another one. I know how you like them.”

“I already had two.”

“You can afford anothern.”

He reached for a third burger, put it between two slices of white bread and drizzled on ketchup. His grandmother watched him. He took a big bite and she nodded with satisfaction. She sat stooped in her chair. Her fingers were sore-looking, knotted with the beginnings of arthritis.

“Your mama told me you got something you're planning.”

He looked from her to his mother. Ruby's eyes told him nothing. She reached for the salad bowl, red flashy nails, jangling bracelets. She asked if he had things figured out.

“I might go up to see Kay for a few days first. I don't know yet.”

“You don't have to know,” Ruby said. “It's a big country, lots to see.”

His grandmother sounded nervous, like she was reciting something she'd been rehearsing all day. “I know you've got to live your own life, I want you to.” He wondered what his mother had said to her, how much convincing she had to do. “But I'm scared,” she added.

“Mama,” Ruby said quietly.

“I won't start.” She spooned out more potatoes onto Cole's plate. “Eat up, put some meat on those bones.”

It seemed that the conversation was already over. It was that simple, and he was grateful. “Thanks, Grandma,” he said.

She looked up at him with teary eyes. “You're welcome.”

After supper he took a shower. He stood naked in front of the mirror. This was what other people saw. Not much to look at. He hadn't bleached his hair since before the flood and a few days ago he cut off the last of the blond. Now his hair was brown and choppy. Made him look regular, made him look old. He stared at himself until he looked strange and unfamiliar, the eyes and face of some other man. Then he dressed. Briefs, socks, T-shirt, jeans, hooded sweatshirt. The remaining Oxy went in an Ibuprofen bottle. He'd been able to sell almost everything and planned to stop by the Eagle later tonight to get rid of the last of it. Or maybe Terry Rose would want to buy it. Maybe Cole would need to use the pills as some kind of leverage. All of the cash he'd made from the sales was hidden under his mattress. He wondered how far his truck would take him.

He went into the family room where his mother and grandmother were watching TV and told them he was going out.

“You be careful,” they said.

The temperature had dropped, and he was glad for the sweatshirt. He took the revolver out of the glove compartment and checked the cylinder, as if bullets might magically appear. But it was unloaded. He set it on the seat beside him. He did not know what Terry Rose wanted, but he expected the worst.

He switched on the headlights, their beam almost invisible in the silvery twilight. On the way up Dove Mountain, rabbits darted along the side of the road, and deer in a field stared at him. He wondered if they would die from drinking the water. The sludge had wiped out thousands of fish, crawfish, frogs, turtles, ducks. The day he'd been digging out the dead, he had seen a great blue heron with its toothpick legs half-stuck in the sludge, its wings folded and wet with the black lava. There was nothing he could do. There seemed to be no end to it. Even now, in the parts of the creek that had been cleaned out, where the water appeared clear, there was nothing living in it, no chubs or minnows, nothing.

He took a sharp right onto the old logging road. It was a muddy mess, tree limbs and rocks strewn all over. He did not know if he should wait here, or walk down to the swimming hole. Was this a setup? Would the cops show? Or would it be Everett and his crew? His heart raced. He told himself to wait fifteen minutes. Not a second longer. He got out of his truck and looked back at the gun lying on the seat. He hesitated, then grabbed it. He slid it in the waistband of his jeans, his sweatshirt hiding it from view.

He walked the narrow path, ducking under low-hanging branches, stepping around brush and sticker bushes, and he came to the part of the creek that was wide and still, where he and Terry Rose had spent so many of their days fishing, swimming, and getting stoned. He stood at the edge. It was black and lifeless. He picked up a stick and churned it, and when he took it out, it dripped with what looked like oil but was not. Heritage would never clean this up, there was no one left to complain. He sat on a log and felt the gun press into him. He'd not been here for years. He'd stopped fishing, let it all go. But now he recalled a time before Terry Rose, when he used to come here by himself, how safe he felt, the quiet, the shade of the tall sycamores, the smell of the dirt. He'd see deer and herons and coons; he'd felt God all around.

Suddenly there was a blast of music, a pair of headlights sweeping over the woods. He jumped up, an icy tingling in his gut. The engine stopped, the music cut out. A door slammed, just one. He heard branches breaking, careless movement.

Then, “Hey, bro, you here?”

“Down here.”

A minute later, Terry Rose appeared, shoving branches out of his way. The trees blocked out the last of the sunlight, and Cole could not discern his face from here, but he saw how his jeans and flannel shirt hung off him, like a boy dressed in his father's clothes.

“I wasn't sure you'd show up.”

“I wasn't sure I would either,” Cole admitted.

“How you doing?”

“I'm all right. You?”

“I could use some sleep, you know what I mean.” Terry laughed, short and forced. “Ain't got much sleep, lately.”

He walked down to where Cole was, and now Cole could see his face and it was thin and pasty. He didn't seem to be cranked out, but Cole didn't know for sure. They studied each other only for a second, then turned their gaze on the swimming hole.

“What a fucking mess.” Terry picked up a rock and tossed it and it sunk. “I ain't been up here in a long time.”

“I stopped coming up here after that day that I walked out of Granddaddy's church,” Cole said, avoiding Terry's eyes. “I thought I'd be leaving for good. Texas, remember? It was stupid, but that's what I thought.”

“Well, we were kids.”

“Yeah. We were.”

Terry flicked his burning cigarette. “You seen Charlotte?”

“She's gone.”

“Where'd she go off to?”

“I don't know. But she's gone. Took a bus.”

“Kathy left me again, took the boy. This time for good.” Terry spit between his teeth. “Shit, I can't stand to look at this anymore. Let's go back up to my truck.”

The front end of his pickup was plastered with weeds and branches, as if he'd bulldozed right through the forest. Cole was parked farther down the road; he could not see his truck from here.

“You hear about Reese?” Terry asked.

“Yeah.”

“I never should have left Kentucky. They're onto me now.”

“Who?”

“The fucking pigs. And fucking Everett. I gotta get out of here.” He scratched his face, fidgeted with his sleeves. Maybe he was high, Cole didn't know anymore. All he knew was that he was stupid for agreeing to this.

“So what's going on, man?” Cole pretended to act casual, as if this was normal. “Why are we here?”

Terry stuck a cigarette between his lips. “I heard you might be leaving town.”

“Who'd you hear that from?”

“Shit, you know how things are around here.”

“I don't know,” Cole said. “I might be.”

“When?”

“Don't know,” he lied. He wished his truck was closer. He just wanted to get out of here. He made himself speak more forcefully.

“Terry. What the fuck are we doing here?”

Terry stared at Cole through a stream of smoke, his face darkening. Now he just looked pissed off. His mouth twitched. The revolver felt heavy, conspicuous, and Cole did not know how quickly he could grab it. The handle of it squeezed into his stomach.

“I need help,” Terry said finally. “Money.” He talked fast, as if he was just now coming up with the story. He knew someone, not Everett but someone else, who would have a package tonight. If Cole loaned him the money, then Terry could make the buy. He'd then split the crank into smaller portions and sell it, he knew a lot of people, he said, Cole wouldn't even have to worry about that part of it. He'd pay Cole back, plus cut him a part of the profit. The more Terry talked, the more angry and impatient he sounded, as if he was annoyed that he had to explain any of this to Cole.

When he was finished, Cole hesitated, then said, “You set Reese up.”

“No man, no way.”

“Bullshit.”

“It had nothing to do with me,” Terry said.

But Reese had bought his last supply from Terry and was busted on his way out of town. Cole knew he could not show any fear. Not now. He flicked his cigarette and the ember flew in an arc across the night. “You talking to the cops? Or you got something set up with Everett, or what?”

Terry's eyes looked wild, like a trapped animal, but then he took a long drag, regaining his cool. “Jesus, brother. Hell no. Would I do that? Hell no.”

“Man, I can't help you.”

“I know you've got the money. I know you do.”

Cole shook his head.

Terry swore, then took a deep breath. This time he started talking in a friendlier tone. “Listen, buddy, you'll get it all back. You're gonna make money off this, way more than you would selling pills. It will help get you to wherever you're going.”

Cole looked away. Could feel Terry's eyes on him. Reese said that Terry had been skimming from Everett, which meant that Everett was probably looking for him. Whatever was going on, Cole did not want to be a part of it. But he didn't know what to do. Should he agree, just to calm Terry down? But then what if he didn't show up with the money? Would Terry come after him? Would he go to his grandmother's house?

“I can't,” he said. “I gotta get going.”

“No, not yet. Wait.” Terry grabbed his arm, and Cole tensed. Maybe Terry was waiting for Everett or the cops to show up, Cole didn't know. It was his own fault for coming out here, for hoping that Terry would still be the kid he used to know.

“Let go of me,” he said.

Terry looked confused, then slowly removed his hand. “Goddamn it,” he said, sighing, defeated. He looked up, and Cole followed his gaze. He could see the light of the moon through the trees. The sky was clear and sharp.

“We could have met at the Eagle, or anywhere else.” Cole felt scared, but he wanted Terry to tell him the truth. “What's the real reason you wanted to come out here?”

“I told you the goddamn reason.” Terry's voice was shaking, and he took a step toward Cole. Scrawny-ass tweaker.
Fuck.
Cole thought he could probably take him in a fistfight, maybe. But what if Terry had a knife or a gun? Should he pull the revolver? What good would that do? If Terry had a gun on him, it would be loaded.