Corrosion Page 4

  CHAPTER 6

  There was this one fellow I worked with. Dustin Fender was his name. Usually he was on the bulldozer, but occasionally he’d be on slop duty with me, shoveling refuse. He had a muscular build and a Neanderthal face. He liked to tell stories; most of them were lies. He claimed that he’d survived a jet crash, set the Wyoming record for clean-jerk, fathered a dozen illegitimate children. He was a nice enough fellow and he liked to drink plenty. Every evening after work you could find him at a highway roadhouse called The Watering Hole sucking down gasoline, talking about the old days.

  On this particular afternoon he was lounging on a vomit-damaged couch, smoking a cigarette down to the filter. Me, I was busy working like a son-of-a-bitch. Sweat was dripping down my forehead and landing in my eyes. Damn, boy, he said. You work too hard.

  I wiped off my forehead with the crook of my arm. Just my nature, I said. Learned it from my old man. Besides. Hard work never hurt anybody.

  Dustin killed his cigarette and grinned. Shit. Why take chances?

  I gripped the shovel tighter. You ought to spend some time in boot camp, I said. Then you’d learn a thing or two about hard work. The sergeant used to wake us up at three in the morning, make us do fifty pushups, tell us to go back to sleep. Then he’d come in twenty minutes later and tell us to run a mile in the muck and mire. And if every last one of us couldn’t do it in under seven minutes, he’d make us strip our clothes and lie on the floor and he’d just start kicking us with those steel boots until we were bleeding and puking and shitting.

  Goddamn, that don’t seem right.

  You wouldn’t get it, I said. The toughness that’s needed to be a soldier. You just wouldn’t get it.

  Yeah. I guess not, he said. He rose to his feet, stuck a handful of Hot Tamales into his mouth, and stuffed the box back into his shirt pocket. Then he glanced at his watch. Four thirty. What you say we duck out of here a little early?

  Well, I don’t know…

  Come on. It’s just a half an hour. The trash will still be here tomorrow. Christ, there’ll be even more of it. We could grab a drink or two.

  I shrugged my shoulders. Yeah, sure, why not? It’s been a long week. It’s been a long life.

  * * *

  The Watering Hole was located out on Highway 52 right across from the rendering plant. The bar was in bad shape. The linoleum floor was warped and so were the walls. The wooden chairs were rotting, a couple of them lying dead on the floor. The jukebox was playing Tammy Wynette, but it was too slow and she sounded like Johnny Cash. There was an old man sitting at the bar with a bottle of bourbon and a wooden cane. Around his neck hung a sign: My name is John Holton. I suffer from Alzheimer’s Disease. I live at 42 Steele Street. There were several Mexicans from the rendering plant still in white uniforms and hard hats. In the middle of the bar, a fat man was spinning a fatter woman round and round. She was laughing hysterically, her breasts jiggling like Jell-O. Dustin said: It ain’t the Taj Mahal, but they serve good whiskey.

  We sat down at the bar and he ordered a couple of Jim Beams and Budweisers. The barmaid was a skinny lady with spaghetti blonde hair. She must have known Dustin pretty well because she didn’t mind when he accidentally/on purpose touched her left tit while reaching for his drinks. You’re a naughty boy, she said. Then: Who’s your friend?

  This here is Joseph Downs, he said, an Iraqi war veteran, and the finest shovel man at the landfill.

  She smiled at my burnt face and stuck out her slender hand. Pleasure to meet you, Joseph. Army? Navy?

  Marine, I said. 1st Battalion, 7th Regiment, 1st Division. Stationed in Mosul. Still have scars on my face and sand in my lungs.

  How exciting.

  I shook my head. Wouldn’t call it exciting. I saw terrible things. I saw men come apart from their limbs and heads and souls. I saw children mangled beyond recognition. I saw Christ’s lonely hand reaching out from beneath a ton of rubble.

  Dustin laughed and patted my back. Hell of a guy, ain’t he? Fucking war hero!

  The barmaid nodded her head and smiled. Yes. Yes, he is.

  * * *

  Dustin and I played shuffleboard. He was better than me. He kept buying me drinks. An hour passed, then another. We destroyed a pint of booze, maybe more. He told me more lies and I ate them up. I liked this Dustin. I liked the way I was feeling. I decided that I would start drinking more often.

  And that’s when I saw her. Lilith. My little hellcat. She came crashing into the bar, a roller-coaster grin on her face, a gangly Mexican on her arm. He wore a black cowboy hat and a black mustache: a real vaquero. She wore a rhinestone-studded Western snap shirt, tight blue jeans, and pink cowgirl boots with tassels and silver stars. Her hair was still blonde, but there were fresh streaks of black. From the way she was slurring her speech, I figured she’d been to a bar or two before this one. They were getting plenty friendly with each other. She waved down the bartender and whispered something into the vaquero’s ear and they both laughed. I stayed in the shadows drinking Yukon Jack and thinking, thinking.

  They sat at the bar for a while and had a hell of a time. He kept trying to kiss her and she didn’t do much to stop him. Meanwhile, Dustin kept talking and laughing. My head was full of unpleasant thoughts. I drank more.

  I didn’t know what to do. I thought about confronting the vaquero. I thought about confronting Lilith. I didn’t. I didn’t do anything at all.

  They didn’t stay too long. Just long enough for a few drinks, just long enough for Lilith to dance sloppily to a Dwight Yoakam song before collapsing to the floor like a broken marionette. When they left, she was dry heaving and the vaquero was screaming out a grito Mexicano: AY YA YAY YA!

  As for me, I wasn’t feeling good at all. I stumbled toward the back of the bar, blood trickling from my right nostril. Inside the bathroom everything was mixed up. The sinks were spilling whiskey, the urinals were upside down, and rats were crawling on the ceiling. I stared into the mirror. It was cracked badly and my face was a Picasso painting, parts everywhere. I slicked back my hair with water and squeezed my eyes shut.

  Dustin was standing outside the restroom. Jesus, boy, he said. You all right?

  Yeah, I mumbled. Just not used to drinking this hard, I guess.

  I was going to drive back to the hotel, but Dustin wouldn’t hear of it. C’mon, pal, he said. I’ll give you a lift. You can pick up your hunk of junk tomorrow.

  Dustin swerved through town, running red lights and crashing into curbs. He wouldn’t stop talking. I closed my eyes and slept drunkenly.

  Eventually we arrived at the hotel. The sun was setting, the sky a bloody tarp thrown over the world, and the leaves were dancing in waltz time. Okay, buddy, Dustin said, shaking my shoulder. Home sweet home. Wake up, Sleeping Beauty.

  Somehow I managed to stumble inside the hotel and up the stairs. My stomach was lurching, bile burning my throat. I thought about Lilith and felt good and mad. All I wanted was a lifetime of slumber. I roller-skated down the hallway, the walls swerving from their foundations. I came to my room. My heart gave out. A transplant was years away. Leaning against the wall was a man I’d never seen before. He was tall and wiry with a red slit for a mouth that looked ready to curse. His eyes were gray and his skin was leathery. He wore snakeskin boots, tight slim blue jeans, a jean jacket, and a felt cowboy hat.

  He also wore a shiny sheriff’s badge.

  CHAPTER 7

  He took a couple of steps toward me. Mr. Downs? he said with a backcountry drawl.

  Yes, sir. It was hard for me to speak. My tongue was bloated and black.

  He stuck out a thin hand without a callus visible. Name’s Sheriff Baker, he said. I apologize if I startled you. Didn’t want to miss you. Night’s slow, so I figgered I’d wait for you here. Figgered you’d show up eventually. Figgered right.

  I shook his hand. His skin was as soft as a concert pianist. No problem, I said. No problem at all. What do you need? Am I in trouble? I was drinking tonight. Just to pass
the time.

  No, you ain’t in trouble, he said. You ain’t in trouble a’tall. Mind if we go into your room? Don’t want to wake up all the fine folks that call the Hotel Paisano their home.

  We went inside, me first, followed by the Sheriff. He took off his hat and tossed it on the bed. His brown hair was thin and straight, neatly parted to the side. He moved slowly forward, the floorboards creaking under his feet. He pulled back the window curtain and stared down at the street below, his own image twisting in the glass.

  He spoke: Wasn’t so long ago that this was a respectable little town. Good, honest, God-fearing folks. Folks that were willing to help a stranger just as certain as their own family. Oh, sure, there was the occasional tragedy, but for the most part it was a good town. A safe town. A white town. And now…All sorts of trash being dumped in our little town. Guess you could say that most of us don’t like it one bit. Speakin’ of which, how you likin’ work at the landfill?

  Fine, sir. It’s a good job.

  He turned around and faced me. Where you from, Mr. Downs?

  Ohio originally, I said. But I’ve been all over. I was on my way to the Mountain when my car broke down. I’ve liked your little town okay so I decided to stay for a while.

  He smiled, but there was no humor in it. You know a fellow named Nick McClellan?

  I shook my head. Should I?

  He didn’t want to answer right away, wanted to make the moment last. You got in a fight with him a few days back. Over at Del’s.

  I didn’t know his name, I said. He was beating on his wife. I told him to cut it out. He didn’t take too kindly to my suggestion. So I showed him a thing or two.

  Baker grinned. I guess you did. And I don’t blame you none. Man shouldn’t treat a woman like that, not most of the time anyway. But that fight ain’t my concern. Shit, if I investigated every fight in Huerfano County, I’d hardly have time to piss and shit.

  So what is your concern?

  His eyes met mine and they were hard and mean. Dead hog, he said. Couple days back I got a phone call from Nick. Told me one of his hogs had been butchered. Said somebody slit her throat from end to end. Went down and took a look. Nasty stuff. Ol’ Nick was good and pissed. Folks down here don’t take too kindly to people destroyin’ their livestock. You understand.

  I nodded my head because there was nothing else to do. And what does this all have to do with me?

  Don’t know for sure. When I talked to Nick, he mentioned your name. Mentioned the fight and all. Said he wouldn’t be surprised if you was the one. Now I ain’t sayin’ you did it, but I ain’t sayin’ you didn’t either.

  I didn’t have anything to do with his hog, I said. Fellow is probably just sore that I whipped him at the bar.

  Probably.

  Well, I said. Did you want to talk to me about anything else?

  He smiled. No, mister, I guess that does it. And you’re probably right. Ol’ Nick was probably just sore about what happened at the bar.

  So then? What do you want from me? I was good and sober now, but my head was throbbing.

  Just wanted to have a chat, that’s all. Introduce myself, you know.

  Pleasure, I said.

  We both stood there for a while, and he watched me unblinking.

  If there’s nothing else, I said, I guess I’ll be getting some sleep.

  Sure, sure. He took a step forward, stuck out his hand again, and I shook it. When I tried pulling away, he kept on gripping it. He was stronger than I thought. Your truck fixed? he asked.

  Yes, sir.

  Well, then. You might want to consider movin’ along, you know? Just so you don’t get into any more trouble.

  You ordering me to leave your town?

  No, mister. Just a friendly suggestion, that’s all.

  I pulled my hand from his grip. Have a good evening, Sheriff.

  A smile and a wink. You do the same, Joseph.

  * * *

  The days fell in number and everything was wrong. I worked and I drank and I slept. I even paid the hotel whore a few times because I was lonely.

  The stranger and the sheriff kept their eyes on me. My brain was bouncing around in my skull.

  I didn’t see Lilith at all. I thought we were through. It was just as well. I had some cash, the truck was fixed, and the Mountain was waiting. But I couldn’t go. I don’t know why.

  And then one night I was sitting on the hardwood floor of my hotel room, being drunk, listening to the rain and the radio. The Louvin Brothers, Satan is Real.

  That’s when I heard pounding on the door. I sat there, unable to move. The pounding continued. Unsteadily, I rose to my feet, walked across the room, and pushed open the door. Lilith McClellan stood there, a pathetic heap of a woman.

  She was wearing a blue prom-style dress, torn at the shoulder. Her hair was soaking wet, she was shivering, and blood was tricking from her nose. Her cheek was swollen and bruised, her eyes vapid. Oh, Joseph, she whispered, her voice filled with despondency and broken glass.

  I pulled her inside, shutting the door behind us. We sat down on the bed and I grabbed a hold of her. What happened? I said. Did your husband do this to you?

  She didn’t say a word, but the tears began to roll down her battered cheeks, mixing with blood and drugstore mascara.

  I’ll call the cops, I said. Tell ’em what the old bastard did to you. Then we’ll get you to a hospital. I’ll drive you there.

  No, she said. That’s not what I want. I don’t want cops. I don’t want hospitals.

  What are you talking about? You’re hurt. Gotta get you taken care of.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. Then she spoke: You once said that it takes courage to kill somebody.

  Yes. I believe it does.

  So I was wondering. Have you ever killed anybody?

  It was all wrong. The mood was pitch-black, and there were strange shadows dancing on the walls. I took a deep breath. I didn’t answer right away and when I did, I spoke slowly, cautiously. War changes you, I said. It causes you to do things you didn’t think you could do.

  Like killing?

  Yes. Like killing.

  A long pause. Then Lilith reached into her purse and pulled out a pistol. .38 Special. Revolver action.

  I eyed the gun dispassionately. Returned my gaze to her face, jaw trembling, nostrils flaring.

  She placed the .38 in my hand. My fingers closed around it.

  He’s a monster, she said.

  The world is filled with monsters, I said.

  Believe me, I’ve thought this through. It’s the only way. You might think I’m just emotional right now, but I’m not. I know what needs to be done.

  And you want me to do it.

  Yes. I want you to do it.

  I smiled, shook my head. I’m not killing anybody, I said. My voice sounded strange, out of place. I’ll take you away with me, but I’m not killing anybody.

  He’s got a life insurance plan, she said. It’s good money. More than we could ever earn.

  I grinned thin-lipped. So that’s what this is about? Money?

  She wiped away a crimson tear. It’s about a lot of things. But the money would help, don’t you think? I mean, let’s be real, how much do you have? Not enough for us to live on, I bet.

  I didn’t answer, just stared at the pistol in my hand. My brain was soaking in kerosene. A strike of a match and…

  Somberly, I placed the weapon on the windowsill. Then I turned back around and spoke, my voice quiet, measured. Let’s talk about something else, I said.

  What…what do you want to talk about?

  Let’s talk about your other boyfriend. I saw you at the bar the other day. I saw you with that Mexican. The two of you were having a hell of a time.

  She rose from the bed, her parted lips coated with blood. Oh, Joseph, she said. That guy, he—

  Means nothing to you, right? Is that what you were going to say?

  I’ve known him for a while. We get together now and th
en. That night, well I was drunk. I was lonely. You weren’t around. I’m sorry, Joseph, I’m so sorry. I know I’m a whore. I’ve always been a whore. But it doesn’t change the fact that I love you. It doesn’t change the fact that I want to be with you.

  It was funny, what she said, so I laughed. I laughed and laughed and hiccupped and laughed. I just couldn’t stop. A minute or more without pause. Lilith begged me to stop. I only laughed some more.

  I…I don’t know what else you want me to say, she said. All I can do is say that I’m sorry and that I love you and—

  My laughter ceased but my grin remained. You don’t need to apologize, I said. You only have to do one thing for me. Just one thing.

  What is it? I’ll do anything for you, Joseph, you know that.

  Just keep lying to me. That’s all I need. That’s all I’ve ever needed.

  I picked up the gun and aimed it at her head. Instinctively, she covered her face with her hands. But I didn’t shoot. I didn’t want to hurt her. She was a broken angel and I loved her. I said: I’ll do it. I’ll shoot him in the skull and then we’ll be together for a spell. You just keep on lying and I’ll keep on lying and we’ll be happier than hell.

  CHAPTER 8

  The next morning, I sat on the windowsill and stared down at the street below.

  An old man with overalls and a washed-out face stood on the curb reading a newspaper. A couple of high school kids sat on the hood of a truck; he was pulling her close and she was resting her head on his shoulder. A woman wearing a long flower dress and carrying a grocery bag in either arm trudged down the sidewalk, a ragamuffin little girl following a few steps behind. And there was the whore from the hotel, her face wind-chapped and spiteful…