yame (7 page)

Speak for yourself...
He looked at her one more longing time as she pulled her smock back up and, more than anything, it was unconscious when he grated, "You really are beautiful, Easter..."

Her smile beamed as a tear glittered in her eye. "That just makes me feel heavenly 'cos it reminds me of what Noot used ta tell me all the time, and the way you been lookin' at me all day? Same way Noot used ta look at me..."

Westmore was stifled. The entire ordeal
—and the entire day—seemed so odd, unlikely, and fascinating.

She rechecked her rucksack, making sure the memo-corder was there, and then some sadness seeped into her smile. "It's time fer us ta part, Westmore. We won't be seein' each other again, but...thank you fer all ya done."

Westmore stared at her. "I'd like to stop by sometime. I could...take you to dinner or something," but then he winced at the ludicrousness of what he'd said.

"Naw, see, with Noot dead now, I'll be movin' on
— movin' out the area I'se mean..."

He didn't know why, but her response seemed either stilted or ominous. He wanted to ask her where she'd be moving to but then he realized that would be futile. It would put her on the spot, so all he said was, "You have my best wishes."

"And you got mine!" the spirit of her voice returned. She gave him the tiniest peck on the lips. "And good luck with yer book 'bout Crafter..."

He laughed despondently. "The only reason I'll be able to write the damn thing is because of you."

But her eyes narrowed suddenly as if through some reflection. "Well, wait a sec. Now's that I think of it..." She rummaged through the rucksack and from the binder slid out the loose manuscript sheets and her grandfather's phonetic translations. "It just now come ta my mind that I don't need any'a this, so..." She offered him the loose
—and possibly
priceless-sheets.
"I want you ta have 'em."

Westmore was waylaid. "Easter, there's
no way
I can accept those sheets. They're your most valued family possessions; they're your
heirlooms."

"Naw. Please make me happy'n take 'em. What I need 'em for? But, you, you got a interest in 'em, and smart as you is
—a book-writer—you can study 'em and one day find out what they'se all about."

"I can't take them," Westmore said as much as he would like to.

"You
can,
Westmore. It's only 'cos of the way you are, that's how I trust ya with 'em. It's best that you have 'em, and Grandpop Orne'd shorely
want
ya ta have 'em. I trust in my heart that a good person like you'd
never
use none'a this fer somethin' bad."

She put the sheets in his lap.

As he stared at them, he could hear his own watch tick.
I
can't!
his thoughts thundered, but when he looked up to object, Easter was already out of the car. She closed the door and smiled in through the window.

'"Bye, Westmore. May all yer dreams come true..."

He opened his mouth to speak but she was already fading away, blending into the moon-tinseled dark that cloaked her ramshackle abode. She waved briefly at the front door, then was gone.

Westmore let out the longest sigh of his life. He started the car, gave the house a final glance, and drove away.

***

You're beaming when you come back into your shack. The after-taste of Westmore's jism seems to
hum
in your mouth. You feel light on your feet, not because you gave a man an orgasm but because he
wanted
you to. You're determined now, and confident, that you can make Noot want you to as well.

Because, even after all of this heartbreak, he is your everything.

Blubber thunks into the front room, his warped, corpulent face glowing faintly from the candle he holds. "Hi, Blubber. I'se back like I said I'd be."

The boy stares, drooling.

"You put Linette in the ground?"

He nods jerkily, and snorts, "Gyuh-gyuh-gyesss."

"Thank you, Blubber. What a fine boy you are." You set down the rucksack on the table Noot built with his own hands. You remove the little recorder, and also the fifty-six dollars that your daughter had earned so filthily. "Oh, I'se plumb fergot. Take this money'n buy yerself somethin' tomorrow. It's fer all ya done fer me," and then you give it to him.

His grimly hand takes it; his crossed eyes register some aspect of explosive acknowledgment. Bits of spittle fly off his swollen lips when he attempts: "Thhhhyak-thhyak...thhyank you."

"Why, you're quite welcome," but your eyes turn more serious. "A'course, there's still a few things I need ya to do fer me 'fore ya earned that money proper. Like I 'splained the other day?"

He nods again.

"And ya gots ta do these things
'zackly like I say, 'cos
if'n ya don't... Why, that'd just mess me
all
up, and you wouldn't want that, would ya?"

The question stirs an obvious frenzy in the bed-immed mind. "Nuh-nuh-nuh-nuh-nnnnnnno!"

You smile, and pat his flinty cheek. "I know ya wouldn't, Blubber. Now go outside'n pull the cord on the gas generator like ya did earlier, then come back inta the bedroom."

Blubber hands you the candle and staggers out the front door.

You seem to glide to the bedroom. It's a good thing you'd left the door and window closed because Noot's collapsed corpse shows no signs yet of insect infestation. The room smells sour, however, sour and pissy and rank, but that's no matter. Soon such things will mean nothing. You drop the straps on your garment and it slides down your body. The faint yellowy candlelight illumines your reflection in the old mirror, and your image smiles back at you, soft and sedate and nude. Your nipples and sex tingle.

You kneel at Noot's body and push him over on his back. The fan of gore on the wall and floor have congealed. Noot's mouth hangs open while his eyes remained closed. The hole in the side of his head looks like a crater full of chunks of meat but even in the visual atrocity, your smile fixes on his serene face and enticing body.

Your hand plays with the dead genitals. It's such an odd notion but you simply can't abide the knowledge of what's on it, so you lower your face and begin to suck it, limp and shriveled as it is. You suck it clean because you don't want any of Linette's private juices on it. The very idea offends you.

To anyone else that act would be unspeakable: you're sucking a
corpse's cock.
But
to you...

You're giving succor to the man you love.

The room's single lamp flickers several times, but then the bulb glows steadily bright. Outside, you hear the chugging of the generator.

You're standing when Blubber fumbles into the room. His heavy lower lip hangs, showing ruined teeth. He snorts a whine in the surprise that you're naked now; he rubs his crotch.

"None'a that now, hon. You can do that later, after you're back home, okay?"

He nods dumbly.

"'Cos right now? Ya still got a few things ta do." You walk to the nightstand where you've placed the recorder, and as you address Blubber, you choose your words wisely. "What'cher gonna see now, Blubber, is somethin' ya ain't gonna be able ta understand. All ya need ta know is it's, well, it's magic." Your eyes look at him more deeply. "So's don't be alarmed by what'cha see," and then...

Then you press the small button on the recorder, and Westmore's words begin to issue out...

***

Westmore drove wide-eyed down dark, winding roads. Some of his daze lingered.
Did any of that really happen?
he wondered, but then his damp, semen-redolent shirt told him yes.

So did the evidence of the manuscript pages on the front seat.

"Jesus," he muttered.

But now his work was more than cut out for him. Who knew what was on those sheets? With any luck, he'd get another book out of it. The prospect made him almost giddy.

But he was also exhausted.

The tires hummed over old asphalt.
Gotta find that motel,
he thought. The Gilman House.
What town did she say?
then, he remembered,
Luntville.

The name rang a bell from his brief geographical research but he didn't know exactly where the town was.
Map,
he thought at once and reached under the passenger seat.

His hand landed on the map but...something else, too.

What the...
His fingers pulled out an oblong locket
— silver-dollar sized—on a chain. Where had it come from?
Probably something left accidentally by the person who rented the car before me,
he reasoned. He pulled onto the shoulder and turned on the inside light.

Oh, no...

A cursive inscription on the locket's back read: FOR EASTER, HAPPY ANNIVERSARY - LOVE, NOOT, and then a date: Feb. 2, 1991. Westmore opened it to find a tiny photo of a much younger Easter, smiling radiantly, and a lean, dark-haired, roughneck-looking man. Cradled in Easter's arms was a baby.

Shit,
he thought. Obviously the locket had slid out of Easter's rucksack, and he'd missed it when he'd retrieved the other things that had slid out.

I'll have to take it back,
he knew, tired as he was. Clearly, the locket was something she held near and dear, and after giving him the manuscript pages, he'd be a perfect scumbag if he didn't return it simply because of the inconvenience.

Westmore sputtered, lit a cigarette, and turned the car around.

The dark road seemed to conjure him back the way he came. One turn, then another, then the trees appeared to lean inward, making an arcane tunnel of the crude roadway. Stars struggled to flash through laden boughs. He had to squint as the car slowed before the barely visible access. He turned slowly and made his way up the dirt-paved drive.

At once, the oddity struck him: lights glowed bright in all of the windows in Easter's shack
—no doubt
electric
lights. He thought sure she'd hear the car pull up, but when he doused his own lights and cut the engine, he heard a steady chugging, like a lawn-mower motor.
I
guess that explains the electricity and why she didn't hear me pull
up... Earlier, she'd mentioned some kind of generator, which obviously
ran now.

God, I hope I'm not disturbing her,
he thought and got out. Backwoods people were known to be very
private
people.

Locket in hand, Westmore approached the primitive porch and front door. At the corner of the house, he spotted the modest generator sitting next to an altered hot-water heater.

Something seized him then, not something physical but...something arcane. He winced, scratched his head. A drone seemed to enter his mind so profoundly that it dimmed the sound of the generator. He would never know why but instead of knocking on the front door...

He walked over to the window.

When he looked in, it was
madness
that looked back at him.

His thoughts stilled, and his mouth fell open.

Easter stood nude and sweat-glazed in glaring incandescent light. The image instantly made Westmore's libido shout. She was talking but the drone in Westmore's head, plus the generator noise, precluded any chance of hearing her words. However...

Who was she talking to?

Very carefully, Westmore took one step back, then one to the side.

Yes. Madness.

A young, bald, and very obese man in overalls stood in front of a bed. He was staring cockeyed at Easter as she talked to him. His lower lip was so heavy it nearly folded over to his chin, and from the maw of a mouth, ropes of drool dangled.
A retardate,
Westmore thought.
Inbred or defected or something.
Fat bulged from the stained overalls.

What the fuck is going on?

It was then that Westmore took another gingerly step to the side, to see who else might be in the room, and, indeed, there
was
someone else.

The guy in the locket...Noot,
he Knew immediately. The man was naked.

Yes. It was Noot.

The man Easter had told him was dead. Half of his head was blown out from one side, yet still, he stood there, much like the retarded man, listening to Easter.