The Incurables Read online

  Chapter 8

  Scent stood in her bedroom in front of a mirror, naked except for her black socks. She looked like a little girl, flat chested, hair tied into pigtails. She hadn’t showered since the killing and she felt good and filthy. The image of the fat man staring at his bloody hands kept slithering through her consciousness. But she didn’t much mind. Once upon a time, when she’d gone to church every week and said her prayers every night, she might have felt some guilt. But no more. A fellow like him didn’t deserve to live. She only worried that this was becoming a pattern for her. Because it had only been six months or so since she killed that boy from Mississippi.

  He’d been passing through on his way to California. He said he was a writer, but Scent had never heard of him or anything he’d written. Which wasn’t that surprising, since she didn’t read much besides crime pulps and Archie comics. She thought he looked like James Dean except he had bad skin and one of his ears was deformed. It was spring and they went down by the river and he gave her a kiss on the cheek when they were done. After that, Scent asked to go west with him and he just laughed it off, said it wouldn’t work because he already had a girlfriend and wouldn’t she be mad if he showed up with a skinny girl like her. And Scent told him that he sure wasn’t a very good boyfriend, screwing some whore in Oklahoma. And he said he guessed he wasn’t. And that was when Scent shot him three times in the chest sending him toppling into the river, washed away, washed away. It was stupid and she felt badly for his girlfriend, who would wait and wait for a dead man. For a long time she wondered what his name was and then a month or so later a fisherman discovered the body, skin all eaten by fish, and she found out his name was Tom Hartwood, and she thought that sure was a nice name for a mean boy.

  The world was filled with mean boys. But maybe not that Durango. Maybe he was kind. She pictured them together and felt happy. Pictured them walking along the beach like she’d seen in movies, pictured him pulling her toward him and kissing her long and deep.

  A single knock on her bedroom door. Scent stared at the door and shook her head. Her mother. The pathetic boozehound. “Go away!” Scent screamed. And there were no more knocks, but Scent knew the bitch was standing outside the door, rocking back and forth, wearing that soiled wedding dress, clutching that ragged teddy bear, her face filthy, her hair a rat’s nest.

  Scent returned to her bed and buried herself beneath the covers. She pictured Durango’s face and got to touching herself, but soon Durango’s face was replaced by the fat man’s, and it was no good. She clenched her fists until her muscles were sore and bit her lower lip until it bled.

  She reached across the nightstand and grabbed a magazine, the pages wrinkled and torn. She studied the photographs. So many beautiful girls! And then she thought of her own appearance. Tits too small, teeth too crooked, nose too big. When she got the money, when she finally got the money, she was going to change all of that. Tit job, nose job, and head out to California with Durango, become a movie star or something.

  Durango wouldn’t leave her behind. Not ever.

  Scent finally managed to put some clothes on and leave her room. And sure as shit, there was her mother, crouched outside her door in that filthy wedding dress.

  “Goddamned bitch!” Scent shouted. “You been out there this whole time?”

  The haggard woman, spit caked in the corner of her mouth, eyes wild and bloodshot, skin pale and creased, huddled with her teddy bear in the corner and covered her head as if Scent were going to attack her, something she’d never done, not even once.

  “Ah, hell,” Scent said. “Don’t cower in the corner. Get to your feet, you crazy bitch.”

  The old woman stumbled to her feet, her flabby tits revealed through the torn material. The dress was eighteen years old, Scent figured, because Baby got married the year before Scent was born. And then not long after, when Baby was fat with Scent, he was gone, the lawmen nipping at his heels. He never did come back. But Baby, the goddamn lunatic, remained true. She waited every day at the end of her driveway for him to come home. She often told Scent that one day, when they were least expecting it, he’d show up on their doorstep with roses in his hand. And whenever Baby told that story, Scent would laugh, because she knew it was just a story, just some false hope to keep Baby alive.

  But there was another part to the story. About how he’d stolen thirty thousand or more from Pete Baxter, the fellow he’d killed. And how when he’d skipped town, he and Baby had hidden most of the money in a place where no lawman would find it. “Now listen, darling,” he’d said. “Don’t you spend a dime of that money, you here? I’ll be back before you know it and the three of us will be living large in Mexico. But you gotta promise to leave that money alone.” And she loved him so much, so she promised she would, and she remained good on that promise to this day, despite the fact that Scent had taken to selling her body, if not her soul, to keep the heat and electricity running, to provide an occasional meal for the two of them.

  And maybe the story about the money was also a lie, but for some reason she chose to believe this one. Just some false hope to keep her alive.

  In the kitchen, Scent swiped clean the table of an empty bottle of gin. She made both a late dinner of pork chops, baked potatoes, and milk. Scent didn’t feel much like eating, but forced herself by sealing her lips shut until she swallowed. Baby didn’t have the same problem, using both of her hands to shovel food into her greedy mouth and then swallowing the milk in a hurry until it spilled down her chin and onto her already heinous dress.

  Scent watched her mother with contempt. The crazy bitch. “I made forty dollars today,” Scent said, her mouth twitching into a cruel grin.

  Baby bobbed her head and took one final bite of pork. “That’s good. You like your job, do you?”

  Scent laughed. “I don’t have a job, you stupid bitch. I fuck men for money. Don’t pretend you don’t know this.”

  “Oh, no. Not my little girl.”

  “Yes, your little girl. And you know what else I did? I used my pretty little gun to shoot him three times in the chest. Shot him dead, Mommy, how do you like that?”

  Her mother covered her mouth with her hands and rolled her eyes back into her skull. “I know you’re just joking. That’s a terrible thing to say. You’re a gentle girl. A kind and gentle girl.”

  “Ha! No, no. I’m mean and violent.”

  The pathetic old woman didn’t want to hear anymore, so she rose to her feet. She tried grabbing her plate, but her hands were trembling badly, and it shattered on the linoleum floor.

  As she bent down to pick up the pieces, Scent grabbed her wrist and squeezed hard. “The money, Mom. Where’s the money?”

  The crazy bitch shook her head. “That’s a secret I can’t reveal.”

  “You’d let your own daughter whore her body!”

  “He’ll be back. Any day now. He’ll be back. And I’ll be wearing my wedding dress, and we’ll use the money to buy a dream house in Mexico. Oh, Scent, can’t you see how lovely the world is?”

  Chapter 9

  By the time Durango and Stanton set up their campsite, the sky was an evil black. The old man sat in front of the fire, a bottle of cherry brandy shattered at his feet. The two of them hadn’t talked in a long time. Stanton picked up a piece of charred wood and tossed it in the fire, sparks disappearing into the blackness.

  “You tired, son?” Stanton said, his leathery face glowing a devilish red.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Hungry?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s fine. Tonight we’ll sleep. Tomorrow I’ll go hunting. Plenty of creatures out here. We’ll feast in the morning. Before the preaching. God is here. You know how I know that?”

  Durango shook his head, rubbed his hands. “No, sir.”

  “It’s the town. Out here in the middle of nowhere with all them ghosts whispering from beneath the bloody dirt. A town full of incurables, a town full of sinners, a town run by the devil. And wherev
er the devil is, God is sure to follow.”

  Stanton rolled out his bag and got inside. Durango knelt beside the fire and warmed his hands. Soon the old man was asleep, but every so often his eyes would flutter open, keeping watch even in slumber. Durango stayed awake, watching the devil flames dance wildly. Eventually, the fire burned out, leaving behind only charred wood and dying smoke.

  He listened to the coyotes howling, the owls screeching. Through the darkness he swore he saw yellow eyes glowing and branches moving. If he were the Messiah, if he were really the Messiah, then the forest animals wouldn’t scare him. But he was just a boy, and his father was just a lunatic.

  Durango got into his own bag, but for a long time kept his eyes open, scared of sleep and the nightmares it was sure to bring. Because the sleeping bag wasn’t his—they’d found it in a dumpster just outside of Abilene—and when you sleep in a stranger’s bag still fresh with his stink, you take on his nightmares. You hear the screams echoing in that olden well, see the woman with her eyes cauterized shut, smell the decay seeping from the attic door, feel the blood lathered in your hair…

  But eventually he did sleep, and even nightmares were a respite from the real world.

  The sun shone blood red and hell orange. He felt thick hands on his shoulders, shaking him awake. He blinked the dust from his eyes and stared at a scarecrow burning on the horizon. Another few blinks and it was gone, replaced by his father. And the old man spoke, the never-ending delusions of a believer.

  “The Lord is speaking to me,” he said. “Each night in dreams, he’s speaking to me. These failures are part of his plan, part of his will. They are testing my faith, testing your faith. And most importantly, they are testing the faith of humanity.”

  Durango nodded, but his vision was blurred and his head was pounding.

  “Yes, son, the Lord is speaking to me. And he told me that I must keep preaching and that you must keep attempting to perform miracles. And you will continue to fail. But eventually, you will perform a miracle that will blister the disbelievers’ eyes, that will collapse their souls.” And now the man’s voice changed to a frightening whisper. “Yes, yes, on this day you will turn the dead into the living and the living into the dead. So he told me, and so that is the way it will be.”

  Stanton had made prophecies before and none of them had come true. But Durango couldn’t help but believe, just a little bit. Not because he thought him to be a prophet, but because he was his father.

  On his knees in a haunted prayer, and then the old man left the boy by himself, went into the woods to go hunting. Durango sat up in his bag and pulled back his hair, still damp from nightmare sweat. His head pounded, his stomach ached. His thoughts turned to Scent and the possibility of love. But his father would never allow it. She was delivered from Satan as well.

  Eventually he rose to his feet, the muscles in his legs atrophied. He eyed his father’s leather Bible, badly worn. He picked it up and flipped through the pages. And the verse he was always drawn to: He bound Isaac and laid him on the altar, on top of the wood. Then he reached out his hand and took the knife to slay his son. Because he knew that, like Abraham, his father would slit his throat if asked…

  Some time passed and then Stanton appeared through the branches and brambles, droplets of last night’s rain trickling from the leaves. In his hand he held a swamp rabbit, and it was still alive, nose twitching, eyes blinking. Durango returned the Bible to his father’s sleeping bag.

  “What do you think about this fellow?” Stanton asked. “Plump SOB, huh? Crouched for a while watching him, then snagged him with my bare hands.”

  Durango nodded, said, “Plenty of meat on him.”

  Stanton reached into his back pocket and pulled out his jackknife. With a quick and violent stroke, he sliced the creature’s throat, his own hands quickly covered with blood, then laid him on the dirt floor. Durango knelt down by the rabbit and watched it twitch for too long, its eyes remaining open and staring back at him. At some point it died, but its eyes never closed.

  “You want me to skin it?” Durango asked.

  Stanton shook his head. “No, sir. Not this one.”

  “They don’t taste very good with that fur.”

  “We ain’t gonna eat this one, son.”

  Durango felt that old familiar dread and his jaw took to trembling. “What do you mean, Father? I’m awfully hungry and—”

  “You’ve got it in you, boy. I know you do. It’s time. Miracles will happen.”

  The tears came without warning, and Durango wiped them away with his sleeve.

  “I just want to eat. I’m so hungry.”

  “C’mon, boy,” Stanton said and got down to his knees. He grasped his son’s hand and squeezed. “It just takes faith.”

  Durango couldn’t stop crying. He didn’t know why. He didn’t want his father seeing him weak. But he couldn’t stop.

  “Close your eyes, son,” Stanton said. “Close your eyes and pray.”

  “I can’t. I can’t.”

  “Take off the grave clothes and let him go.”

  And so Durango held the bloodied rabbit in his hands, and he prayed and prayed (to whom?), and soon his clothes were covered with blood, and his sobs were grotesque, but the rabbit remained dead.

  Another failure, and he hung his head. His father, meanwhile, rose silently to his feet, kicked at the dirt a single time, and disappeared back into the forest.

  Durango spent the day reading and writing and crying. He thought a lot about his mother and he missed her. He didn’t remember all that much about her, but she had loved him, of that much he was sure. Hadn’t she whispered promises into his ear? Hadn’t she kissed the tears from his eyes? And then she’d gone and died, just like everyone.

  His old man didn’t come back that morning. He didn’t come back that afternoon. So that evening, the sky filled with mean old clouds, gray and black, the sun gone hiding, Durango finally left the campsite and wandered into town.

  Downtown Burnwood was old and haggard. Storefronts with whitewashed windows and boarded-up doors. A bar, a liquor store, a diner. A rubbled church with a crooked steeple. All in the shadow of the great refinery plant. Everything was silent and still, as if the whole town was in mourning.

  As he walked, he came across a grubby little girl with pigtails and a red ball and she stared at Durango, eyes narrowed and mean. “Don’t you look at me,” she said, “or I’ll tell my mama on you.” An old woman pushing a baby carriage filled with apples asked him if he wanted to buy a bushel, but he thought of Snow White and shook his head, maybe another time. A man with tattoo tears, a woman with track marks, a dying cat. No wonder his father had chosen this place. Everybody and everything needed to be saved.

  Just off Main Street there was a bowling alley with plenty of neon. He’d been bowling before, once or twice, so he went inside. There were four lanes lit, but nobody was bowling, and nobody was behind the counter. Durango called out a few times, but nothing. He figured what the hell and found a heavy ball and the straightest lane. He gave it a roll and knocked down a handful. The pinsetting machine was working and he had nothing much else to do, so he figured he’d bowl a few games. And that’s what he did. Two hours or maybe more, just rolling balls, and nobody ever came by. It was the most content he’d been in a year at least.

  His throne was in the woods, but Durango still wore the crown, and despite the humiliation he always felt with the thorns on his head, he was too terrified to destroy it or toss it in the dumpster. Because what if he really was the son of God? He knew the type of havoc an enraged God could wreak. And more importantly, he knew the type of havoc an enraged father could wreak.

  After a while he’d had enough of bowling. He returned the ball and headed for the exit. Outside the air had turned crazy and mean, wind blowing like hell. Newspapers and trash rose like the coming plague. Soon things went from bad to worse as the rain started falling, first in a drizzle, then in a torrent.

  And that’s when he
saw her, a specter through the mist. Long blue dress, long black hair. Scent. She hurried down the sidewalk, the rain falling. He tried calling out to her, but it was useless, his voice was gone.

  She walked slowly, as if in a trance. The rain fell slantways, and he stuffed his hands into his pockets and bowed his head. She continued walking like a woman condemned, and he remained a half block behind, hidden in the shadows. Off in the distance, lights illuminated from the factory and smoke billowed from the smokestacks.

  A couple of blocks later, the business district ended. No more streetlights. The sidewalk changed to dirt, muddied by the rain. And off to the west, a cemetery and a rail yard.

  She kept walking, never glancing back, never. Did she know Durango was following her? Did she sense a presence? And then, suddenly, she stopped and just stood there, the rain falling harder, soaking her hair, her dress. He hid in the shadow of the refinery. For a long time she was as still as an idol. Then she fell to her knees, her hands on her hips and soon he could hear her sobbing, and it was the most heartbreaking thing he’d ever heard. What had she lost? What had he lost? The tears welled in Durango’s eyes. He tried wiping them away, but it was no good.

  Another ten or twenty minutes and she rose again and continued walking, one step in front of the other. Soon the lights from the refinery vanished and the town was gone completely. Without the moon, without the sky, Durango’s eye sockets filled with only darkness.

  He was scared, and he remained scared until they slid through a crown of trees and entered a residential neighborhood, street lamps glowing dully. The neighborhood was filled with one-story ranches and bungalows, most with collapsing porches and peeling paint. Front lawns were burned yellow with rusted car parts scattered across them. Curtains closed and lights off.