Facing the Music Page 5
Mr. P.’s even tried paying his kids to get out and help him work, but they won’t do it. They say he doesn’t pay enough. Mr. P.’s raised such a rebellious bunch of youngsters with smart mouths that they’ll even tell him what the minimum wage is.
Even if his oldest boy would help him with the fence, it’d still be an awful job. First off they’d have to move all the cows to another pasture so they could tear the whole fence down and do it right. And the only other pasture Mr. P.’s got available is forty acres right next to his corn patch. They’d probably push the fence down and eat his corn up while he’s across the road putting up the new fence, because his wife won’t run cows. Mr. P.’s run cows and run cows and tried to get his wife out there to help him run cows and she won’t hardly run cows at all. She’s not fast enough to head one off or anything. Plus, she’s scared of cows. She’s always afraid she’s going to stampede them and get run over by a crazed cow. About the only thing Mr. P.’s wife is good for when it comes to running cows is just sort of jumping around, two or three feet in any direction, waving her arms, and hollering, “Shoo!”
Mr. P. can’t really think of a whole lot his wife is good for except setting his kids against him. It seems like they’ve fought him at every turn, wanting to buy new cars and drive up to Memphis to shop and getting charge accounts at one place and another and wanting him to loan money to her old drunk brother. Mr. P. doesn’t know what the world’s coming to. They’ve got another damn war started now and they’ll probably be wanting his boys to go over there in a few more years and get killed or at the very least get their legs blown off. Mr. P. worries about that a good bit. But Mr. P. just worries about everything, really. Just worries all the time. There’s probably not a minute that goes by when he’s awake that he’s not worrying about something. It’s kind of like a weight he’s carrying around with him that won’t get off and can’t get off because there’s no way for it to get off.
The whiskey hasn’t done him any good. He hoped it would, but he really knew that it wouldn’t. Mr. P. thinks he knows the only thing that’ll do him any good, and it won’t be good.
He wonders what his wife’ll say when she comes in and sees him still on the couch. Just him and Jesus, and grandpa. She’s always got something to say about everything. About the only thing she doesn’t say too much about is that guy who sells the siding. Mr. P.’s come up out of the pasture on the tractor four or five times and seen that guy coming out of the house after trying to sell some siding to his wife. She won’t say much about him, though. She just says he’s asking for directions.
Well, there the bus is to get his kids. Mr. P. can hear it pull up and he can hear the doors open. He guesses they got it out of the ditch all right. He could have taken his tractor down there and maybe pulled it out, but he might not have. A man has to be careful on a tractor. Light in the front end like they are, a man has to be careful how he hooks onto something.
Especially something heavy like a school bus. But the school bus is leaving now. Mr. P. can hear it going down the road.
It’s quiet in the house now.
Yard’s quiet, too.
If old Frank was in here now he’d be wanting out. Old Frank. Good little old dog. Just the happiest little thing you’d ever seen. He’d jump clean off the ground to get a biscuit out of your hand. He’d jump about three feet high. And just wag that stubby tail hard as he could.
Old Frank.
Mr. P. thinks now maybe he should have just shot his wife instead of old Frank when she first started talking about shooting old Frank. Too late now.
Mr. P. gets another drink of the whiskey and sees Jesus looking down at him. He feels sorry for Jesus. Jesus went through a lot to save sinners like him. Mr. P. thinks, Jesus died to save me and sinners like me.
Mr. P. can see how it was that day. He figures it was hot. In a country over there like that, it was probably always hot. And that cross He had to carry was heavy. He wonders if Jesus cried from all the pain they put Him through. Just thinking about anybody being so mean to Jesus that He’d cry is enough to make Mr. P. want to cry. He wishes he could have been there to help Jesus that day. He’d have helped Him, too. If he could have known what he knows now, and could have been there that day, he’d have tried to rescue Jesus. He could have fought some of the soldiers off. But there were probably so many of them, he wouldn’t have had a chance. He’d have fought for Him, though. He’d have fought for Jesus harder than he’d ever fought for anything in his life, harder than he fought on the beach at Okinawa. Given his own blood. Maybe he could have gotten his hands on a sword, and kept them away from Jesus long enough for tHem to get away. But those guys were probably good sword-fighters back then. Back then they probably practiced a lot. It wouldn’t have mattered to him, though. He’d have given his blood, all of it, and gladly to help Jesus.
The kids are all gone now. Old Frank’s gone. His wife’s still at the beauty parlor. She won’t be in for a while. He gets another drink of the whiskey. It’s awful good. He hates to stop drinking it, but he hates to keep on. With Jesus watching him and all.
The clock’s ticking on the mantel. The hair needs sweeping off the hearth. He knows that cow’s still got that white stuff running out from under her tail. But somebody else’ll just have to see about it. Maybe the guy who sells the siding can see about it.
Mr. P. figures he ought to make sure it’ll work first, so he pulls it out from under the couch and points it at the screen door in back. Right through the kitchen.
He figures maybe they won’t be able to understand that. It’ll be a big mystery that they’ll never figure out. Some’ll say Well he was making sure it’d work. Others’ll say Aw it might have been there for years. They’ll say What was he doing on the couch? And, I guess we’ll have to go to town for a haircut now.
They’ll even talk about how he borrowed it from Hulet for rats.
Old Frank has already gone through this. He didn’t understand it. He trusted Mr. P. and knew he’d never hurt him. Maybe Mr. P. was a father to him. Maybe Mr. P. was God to him. What could he have been thinking of when he shot his best friend?
What in God’s name can he be thinking of now?
Mr. Parker, fifty-eight, is reclining on his couch.
BOY AND DOG
The dog was already dead.
He was in the road.
A kid watched behind trees.
Tears shone on his face.
He dashed into the road.
Then a car came along.
He retreated to the sidewalk.
He heard his mother calling.
More cars were coming now.
The dog was really dead.
Blood was on the asphalt.
He could see it puddling.
The hubcap was bloody too.
It was also badly dented.
It came off a Mustang.
He ran to the dog.
A car drove up fast.
He caught up the tail.
He pulled on the dog.
It slid in slick blood.
The car got even closer.
He dropped it and ran.
His mother called to him.
She was on the porch.
Johnny what are you doing?
She couldn’t see him crying.
His Spam was getting cold.
Bozo was the dog’s name.
Bozo was an old dog.
The boy was only eight.
Bozo would be eleven forever.
He ran back to Bozo.
Then he pulled Bozo closer.
But another car came along.
It was the killer Mustang.
It was hunting its hubcap.
The boy had seen it.
He picked up a brick.
The driver was going slow.
He looked out the window.
He really wanted that hubcap.
It was a ’65 fastback.
It was worth some money.
It had bad main sea
ls.
Black oil leaked each night.
The dipstick was always low.
It had clobbered the dog.
The wheel hit him hard.
The shiny hubcap said BONG!
The kid held his brick.
He was hiding behind trees.
The driver was slowing down.
It was around here somewhere.
The brick was antique lemon.
It had three round holes.
But it was still heavy.
The car got awful close.
The kid held his brick.
The guy turned his head.
He didn’t see the kid.
The kid threw the brick.
It landed on his head.
The driver fell over unconscious.
He jammed the gas down.
The Mustang burned some rubber.
It also burned some oil.
A big tree stopped it.
The tree shook pretty hard.
The windshield shattered in spiderwebs.
The horn started blowing loud.
The guy’s head was down.
The horn blew and blew.
The kid got really panicky.
He ran out to help.
He had always loved dogs.
He grabbed the tail again.
The dog was pretty heavy.
The blood made him slide.
The kid kept looking around.
Something popped under the hood.
A little smoke rolled up.
The horn was still blowing.
Wires popped and something crackled.
Then the smoke turned black.
The kid got his dog.
The dog was messed up.
One of his eyes protruded.
Tire tracks were on him.
He was starting to stiffen.
All right then young man.
I’ll put these Doritos up.
She didn’t hear him yelling.
He couldn’t yell very loud.
She went back to lunch.
The smoke wasn’t bad yet.
The kid ran back across.
The horn was still blowing.
It was weaker than before.
The battery was getting tired.
Flames leaped under the car.
The guy blew the horn.
He looked sort of dead.
He had this big hole.
It was in his head.
The yellow flames went WHOOSH!
Then the paint started burning.
It was really getting hot.
Nobody would want it now.
The guy’s hair was curling.
Fire was coming out everywhere.
The gas tank blew up.
There was this big explosion.
It knocked the kid down.
The car rocked with it.
Two of the tires blew.
The car sat lower then.
The kid said oh shit.
He regretted throwing the brick.
He touched the door handle.
Some of his skin melted.
His fingerprints were instantly gone.
It didn’t hurt a bit.
He knew it should have.
It scared him pretty bad.
He could hear music playing.
He rubbed his melted hand.
The guy’s hair was gone.
Smoke was thick and black.
It choked him something awful.
He coughed and gagged some.
He ran across the road.
He was needing the telephone.
The emergency number was 911.
He learned it in school.
His class visited the firemen.
They mentioned playing with matches.
They didn’t mention throwing bricks.
He ran fast toward home.
But halfway there he stopped.
He didn’t have enough time.
He had to go back.
The Mustang had turned black.
The tires were burning off.
Coils of wire fell away.
It wasn’t worth much now.
The guy’s shirt was burning.
The kid could smell it.
It looked like an Izod.
People were pulled over gawking.
One man came running up.
He was evidently a hero.
A shirt swaddled his hands.
The man grabbed the door.
The hero screamed a little.
The door handle had him.
It wouldn’t turn him loose.
The fire rolled around him.
It started curling his hair.
He tried rescuing the driver.
The driver was buckled up.
He was also shoulder-harnessed.
The hero finally got loose.
But he screamed a lot.
His clothes were smoking bad.
He fell and rolled over.
The grass was scorched black.
He was beating himself silly.
His arm had turned black.
The kid watched all this.
The hero flailed the grass.
Somebody needed to get help.
But of course nobody did.
Some people won’t get involved.
The car was fully involved.
It wasn’t worth twenty bucks.
The motor was probably okay.
The aluminum transmission had melted.
The hero was still screaming.
Suddenly they heard an airhorn.
A big red truck arrived.
Firemen jumped off the truck.
They started hollering Jesus Christ.
One fireman hollered holy shit!
The driver was pretty nervous.
It was his first run.
He didn’t set the brake.
The nozzlemen pulled the hose.
They were ready for water.
They were holding it tight.
The driver engaged the pump.
This disengaged the rear wheels.
Nozzlemen were screaming for water.
The hose was pulled away.
The truck was rolling backwards.
The firemen were chasing it.
They were really yelling loud.
It rolled into a ditch.
It was a deep ditch.
It was really a canal.
The canal held deep water.
The truck was pointing up.
The motor had already quit.
They couldn’t pump any water.
The hoses wouldn’t work now.
The Mustang driver got smaller.
The kid took it in.
He looked for the brick.
It was under the Mustang.
He tried to get it.
He thought about his fingerprints.
But he didn’t have any.
So he let it go.
The firemen were screaming loud.
One had sense and radioed.
A crowd of spectators gathered.
A van with newsmen arrived.
There was an anchorman inside.
They started setting up cameras.
The announcer straightened his tie.
The Mustang was solid black.
The fire department came running.
They carried some powdered extinguishers.
They weighed almost twenty pounds.
They started mashing the handles.
White clouds of chemicals rolled.
Fire flashed here and there.
People coughed and almost gagged.
The gas tank kept burning.
They couldn’t put it out.
They ran out of powder.
It was only baking soda.
Most people don’t know that.
Firemen make money servicing them.
These had steak suppers sometimes.
They played bingo
and drank.
Once they had a party.
Some of them got drunk.
Then they had a run.
Their food was barbecued goat.
But the goat burned up.
So did the Mustang driver.
The other truck came then.
A captain of firemen arrived.
He issued orders and radioed.
They stretched lines and attacked.
Only one tire was burning.
Bystanders muttered about their incompetence.
The firemen were pretty embarrassed.
An ambulance pulled up next.
The firemen acted very important.
They bullied the ambulance attendants.
They pried open the door.
One joked about Crispy Critters.
This is a breakfast cereal.
The captain’s face turned red.
He began questioning some witnesses.
The kid sidled off unobtrusively.
His Spam was still waiting.
He went to the dog.
The dog was getting stiff.
He picked up one leg.
It stayed up like that.
He looked at the car.
A wrecker was driving up.
He’d never seen a wrecker.
He stuck around to watch.
The anchorman made eyewitness reports.
Several people were interrogated live.
They rushed home to brag.
They were almost real celebrities.
They would phone their neighbors.
They would phone their friends.
Neighbors and friends would watch.
The almost-celebrities would celebrate.
The parties would be gay.
The kid would see them.
He would recognize them all.
It would all be over.
Johnny Carson would come on.
He would be safe forever.
He would request a puppy.
His father would deny him.
He would make different promises.
His daddy would say no.
There were licenses and fees.
Puppies always grew into dogs.
And dogs sometimes chased cars.
And cars sometimes killed dogs.
And bricks sometimes got thrown.
Boys still go to woodsheds.