When old Mr. CW drove into the dusty Louisiana driveway and parked his 1992 Ford Ranger beneath a dogwood tree in his yard, the first thing he noticed was that somebody was entering his house. There was a Dodge truck in the aluminum carport; a couple of duffle bags on the pavement beside the front door; and, crammed haphazardly into the utility room trash can, no fewer than three empty Johnny’s Pizza boxes: grease-stained and attracting flies.
In the bushes, chickens and guinea hens clucked and peered at boot prints left recently in the mud, and, taken together, these sights so disoriented the old man that as he stepped from his truck, he dropped his Brookshires groceries and tumbled in the grass.
He shook his head, and wispy strands of silvered hair fell across his face. For a minute or two, he wondered if he had driven to the correct house: but there was the grassy footpath that led to the woodshed, and the red-brick shop — Lorice’s old beauty salon — and beside that the black letters on white cardboard that read, Mr. Charles Wesley Jacobsen’s Property, Trespassers Will Be Shot.
CW nodded, dabbed his sweat.
Charles had better not be back, he said. So help me God, Charles had better not be back.
Next to the Dodge, and leaning against a carport pillar, stood CW’s 25-year-old grandson, Charles Marcellus. He was a big man — at least 300 pounds — dressed in black despite the summertime heat, and with a red goatee and a mustache to match the scraggly hair that curled above his eyes. Around his left pointer finger, he twirled a clattering keyring that scared the chickens and guinea hens so thoroughly that they squawked and beat their wings and abandoned the carport.
Charles, for his part, merely shrugged and shifted his body, his massive leg muscles pressing tightly against his leather pants, and his fleshy paunch threatening to pop the buttons of his taut Oxford shirt.
A nightmare of his grandson’s clothing bursting asunder and hanging torn and frayed from that fat body like the ripped singlet of a B-movie wrestler horrified CW and prompted him to avert his eyes.
With his mouth agape, he contemplated Charles’s ridiculous appearance and marveled that a grandson of his could manage to project such a distasteful image.
What in God’s name are you wearing? CW asked. What kinda get-up is that? What is it?
Aw, Pappy, it’s just clothes, said Charles, wedging his keys into his pants’ pocket. He lifted his feet and displayed a pair of black boots rising halfway to his knees. These here are my special-order European traveling shoes, he added. Cost me some bread, too, I don’t mind saying.
‘Course you don’t mind saying, you never minded saying, CW growled and champed on a toothpick between his teeth. He was a battered-looking old man, wearing Wranglers and a faded flannel shirt, a cap bearing the name of John Deere, and a pair of glasses.
He was so thin that the bones in his fingers could be seen beneath the brindled skin of his hands, so frail that as he crossed the yard to face his grandson, his joints groaned like floorboards in a dilapidated house.
Why’d you come back? he asked his grandson, wagging a finger in his face. Tell me why.
Well, Pappy, said Charles, jerking his head forward and tossing his curls. I guess I just decided I ain’t a Ruston type of guy. I think I’d do better just moving back in here. Whatcha say?
CW muttered something inaudible, set aside his groceries, and reached out to grip his grandson by a lock of his hair. Charles, however, retreated too swiftly and could not be caught.
Why you sorry son of a bitch, said CW, gathering his groceries for the second time and kicking one of the duffle bags that belonged to Charles. What happened to all that talk about moving out and getting your own place? What happened to ‘ain’t never gonna take advantage of y’all no more?’ What happened to making me and your Mamaw proud? Well? Was it all a lie?
Well, no. No, it wasn’t —
Hey! You say, ‘No, sir,’ when you’re talking to me, you hear? Respect your elders!
Aw, please, Pappy, continued Charles, it wasn’t a lie! He eased alongside the duffle bags, stacked them in his arms, and carried them into the house. CW frowned and spat into the grass.
And all them there are my duffle bags, too, said CW. ‘Cause I know you done lifted ‘em out of my closet when you left last year. I know it! God, Charles, you’re a piece of work! Lord!
And yet, even as he accused his grandson of treachery, CW lapsed into a session of harsh, hoarse coughing and pressed a hand to his chest as he gasped for air. His heart, though, was still beating — he made certain of that — and then he rolled up his shirtsleeve and noted the hour on his wristwatch. Already, it was near about 4:00 in the afternoon and past time for his medicine.
CW followed Charles into the house, climbing the carport steps and cleaning his feet on a doormat that his grandson had overlooked. He crossed the dining room and entered the kitchen, unloaded his groceries, and dug through a wicker basket that contained his pills. He found them all in a plastic divider, and as he unlatched Monday evening’s compartment, he jiggled the medication loose and released all 16 of the pills into the palm of his hand.
Occasionally, when taking his medicine, CW would ingest the evening’s offerings and forget for a moment that tomorrow commenced again a vicious cycle of pills, appointments, and doctors’ phone calls. Without reaching for water, he tossed the pills one by one into his mouth, and then he swallowed.
Hey, Pappy, think I’m gonna set up camp in my old bedroom, said Charles. Sound good?
CW emitted a meek protest, but was not heard. He returned his plastic pill divider to its wicker basket, as the grunts and the curses assaulted his ears, and the sound of scrounging through drawers and closets emerged from out of Charles’s old bedroom. CW rose, a bit lightheaded, brewed himself a cup of coffee and sipped it patiently as he faced the hall door.
He scanned the kitchen, and, for perhaps the first time in over a decade, took note of his home, and of the appliances and the furnishings with which he had coexisted for the majority of his life.
Well, Pappy, I think that’s gonna do it, said Charles, as he stomped back into the kitchen. His hands were dusty, his sleeves hiked past his elbows, his skin milky, splotched, sickly white.
Aw, son, sure hate to break it to you this evening, said his Pappy, but that ain’t gonna do it at all! You’re gonna get your goddamned ass outta my house, and you gonna get it soon! I raised your sorry self when you’s abandoned by my daughter, but I ain’t having that sort of thing no more, you understand? Mamaw might have put up with it, but she ain’t here no more. She ain’t.
Charles scowled and squinted and slapped dust from his hands. He stepped toward his Pappy, threw his shoulders back, sucked in his bulging stomach, and struck an intimidating pose.
Pappy, goddamn it, you have always been cruel to me, said Charles. You always have.
He was within two feet of CW, so close that the older man could catch a whiff of fast-food, of reeking onion and barbecue on his grandson’s breath.
CW retreated a step, his spine jutting against the edge of the kitchen sink as he squeezed his coffee cup. Charles continued:
It’s always your house, your world, however you want it. I’m sick and tired of it. I’m sick!
He opened the refrigerator, took a gallon of milk from the shelf, and, with a sly lift of his eyebrows, unscrewed the gallon’s plastic top, pressed his lips to the jug, and drank his fill.
When he had finished, he wiped milk from his lips, returned the gallon to the refrigerator, and laughed.
You raised me, damn it! You raised me! This house is as much mine as yours. I’m staying!
My God, what would your Mamaw think? said CW, as Charles trudged down the hall and reentered his bedroom. CW cursed and poured his coffee into the sink, watched it swirl down the drain, disappear. He chewed his toothpick and leaned on Lorice’s table and ranted at his progeny.
Goddamn it, after all I’ve done for you, Charles Marcellus, and you still turn out a failure, CW shouted. After I pay for your college, you drop out. After I raise you to work, you can’t find a job. After I teach you to be a man, you come back, not once, but twice, to lay ‘round the house and let me take care of you. And, boy, here you are, won’t even admit it! You won’t!
Leave me alone, you crazy old man! said Charles from inside his bedroom. Leave me be!
CW tried stifling a sob in his throat, but still it broke through. He leaned against the wall, stared at the floor, retrieved a cane he used for balance, and then approached Charles’s bedroom.
Damn it, boy, this here’s my house, CW said, and I’m getting you out by tomorrow whether you like it or not, and maybe by tonight. You best start packing, ‘cause I ain’t giving up till you’re gone, till I’ve learned you a thing or two. You ain’t messing with Mamaw. Sure ain’t.
CW heard snoring from inside the bedroom, and so he banged on the door with his cane. He grinned as he heard the groans of his grandson and the angry sounds of Charles’s waking up.
Why can’t you leave me alone? Charles said. Why can’t there be peace? Pappy! Why not?
CW avoided the question. One of us is gonna be out of here soon, he said, as he walked down the hall to his own bedroom. And damn it, boy, it ain’t gonna be me. He glanced out the window at the setting sun. I swear to God, Jesus, whoever else, but it ain’t ever gonna be me.
In his bedroom, the old man sat thinking, reminiscing even. Outside, the sun had disappeared, the sky was black, and through his window CW saw only a handful of stars shining dimly, and wondered how many more were obscured by the clouds, by the evening’s foggy haze.
CW nodded. Not a bad answer, he said, as he exited the kitchen and walked down the hallway to his bedroom. He placed his Mossberg beside his nightstand, fell into his bed, and tried sleeping. From a ways down the hall, he heard the cries of his grandson, the plaintive moans.
He doffed his John Deere cap, placed it on the dresser, looked in the mirror, and contemplated the remnants of his hair. With Lorice he had often joked about his hairline, but that was long ago — decades even — back in his early 30s, when his balding was perhaps premature, or abnormal.
He still couldn’t believe that Charles was back, although it shouldn’t have surprised him.
A similar situation had unfolded years ago when Charles had attended college in Monroe, and, within six months of his enrollment, had skipped so many classes and tests that he was forced to drop out.
Inevitably, Charles had returned to CW’s doorstep, and, for seven years thereafter, had lived with his grandparents in their house, sponging off of CW’s food, sleeping in until two in the afternoon, and ignoring all of his Pappy’s requests for help with worming the cows or repairing fences. For at least three of those seven years, CW reflected bitterly, the boy hadn’t even held a steady day job, but had bounced from gig to gig without learning any of the skills he’d need to succeed on his own.
In fact, it wasn’t even until late last year after Lorice’s funeral that Charles had finally packed his bags and moved to Ruston to reside with a few friends in a camper trailer north of Vienna.
At the time, CW had accepted Charles’s move as a sign of the boy’s late-blooming maturation, but he realized, now, that his meager hopes in his grandson had always been unfounded. He could no more expect a change in the boy than he could anticipate a reversal of present circumstances, for Charles would always be Charles, unquestionably himself.
CW moved away from the mirror and approached his nightstand, eased open one of its drawers, and found inside a package of peanut butter crackers, a late-night snack for those times when he was too weak to walk into the kitchen.
He recalled for a moment his many dietary restrictions, but could not say for certain that his doctors had included peanut butter in his list of off-limits food. He smiled and ripped open the package; ate first one, and then a second cracker; and relished again on his tongue that peanut buttery taste, that roasted gooey sweetness that never failed to bring tears to his eyes.
With every bite, CW re-lived his boyhood in Crossroads, Louisiana, remembering his Mama and how she would sometimes offer him a spoonful of peanut butter, just as long as his Daddy wasn’t around to scold them for wasting.
At nine or ten years old, he had sneaked into his Daddy’s storeroom, filched a jar of peanut butter and devoured its contents, and then suffered later for his indulgence with whippings from his Daddy and a stomach ache that had lasted through the day. He revived every detail of this youthful transgression, but felt no remorse. He laughed, snapped in half another cracker, and feasted on it.
When he had finished with his snack, CW returned the last few crackers to the nightstand drawer, and then steadied himself with a hand against the wall to stare out through his window at the miles and miles of bahiagrass swaying softly into the nighttime darkness like thousands of diminutive swing dancers shuffling to tunes utterly unrecognizable to CW’s ears.
Below him on the window sill, he spotted a yellowed photograph of Lorice — his favorite from their first days of marriage — an image of his wife at 19 with a slight grin and straightened hair and a presumptuous affect. In that captured face from 40 years ago, he discerned a firm and unyielding resolve to fight without ceasing — even against cancer — as if somehow Lorice had anticipated her last days of struggling for breath and watching CW with those dark eyes as big as saucers.
Goddamn it, girl, CW said and turned away from the photograph. His face was rigid, his eyes fixed on the darkness as he trailed his fingers across his chest and felt the slow, steady beat of his heart. I never could’ve done it, he continued. And if I never could’ve done it, then how did you? How did you live with that pain for seven years without losing yourself completely? How?
He received no answer, and eventually returned to bed and lay in the midst of his sheets and remembered his childhood.
It was pitch-black, there, in his Daddy’s pasture, save for those luminous stars that lingered in his memory, that burned brightly in every vision of his youth.
He heard music, now, too — church hymns, fiddle tunes, the songs of Hank Williams — but, try as he might to raise a joyful noise and participate in the chorus, CW soon discovered that all of his efforts at song clashed with the harmony and disrupted the beauty of those voices from his past.
Why . . . why can’t there be singing? he whispered as he drifted into sleep. Why not?
When he awakened in the morning, CW opened his eyes and spotted Charles in the room.
You said these were yours, said Charles and tossed to the floor the three duffle bags he had stolen from CW’s closet. I thought you might want ‘em back. I thought you might need ‘em.
CW eyed his grandson suspiciously, but merely gathered up the bags and put them away.
Son, I appreciate that, said CW, feigning a cheerful and trusting demeanor as he continued monitoring Charles’s every move. Yessir, I’m glad you learned yourself some manners.
His grandson, though, had approached the window and held Lorice’s photo in his hands.
Hey! Put it down! said CW. Put it down! He ripped the photo from Charles’s grasp and squirreled it away inside his nightstand drawer.
Now, boy, by God, I may let you live here, CW continued, but there ain’t no way in hell I’m gonna give you free rein to meddle with my shit!
He crossed his arms, sniffed loudly. Hear me, boy? he shouted and waved a finger in the air. Good!
Charles tried not to laugh at the old man. He reentered the hall, walked back to his room.
Oh, Pappy, I’m sorry, forgot to tell you, he said. My bandmates, they’re coming to practice tonight, we need food, some things to eat, we’ll take it from the freezer, we’ll borrow it.
Borrow it? said CW. You’ll . . . borrow it?
I promise it won’t be too much, said Charles. I swear, Pappy, it can’t be helped. It can’t.
He closed his bedroom door, and his Pappy remained puzzled and stunned by the audacity of this grandson.
Outside, the fresh fingertips of dawn tickled the dewey hayfields and awakened a new day, but CW couldn’t see this sunlight, for to his eyes the sky seemed as gray as always, as if darkness had never ceased.
On impulse, he opened his nightstand drawer, peeked again at the photo of Lorice’s face. It was as unyielding as ever, forever the same, unshifting.
Can’t be helped? he said and clenched his fist at the sky. We’ll see about that. We shall.
At lunchtime he set out across the pasture, dodging holes and cow patties as he followed the fenceline for a mile and a half and trudged through knee-high bahiagrass with only his cane for support.
He halted to catch his breath, leaned against a wooden fencepost, and surveyed the fields. All around him, pigweeds and briars clung to the fence, and tall green thistles sprang up from the ground like disfigured church spires.
He was en route to the house of his neighbor, Roland Hyams, a retired mechanic with a passion for tinkering on cars and trucks and junky old tractors.
Every so often, CW made a point of visiting Roland’s place and admiring the old man’s latest project, and yet he realized that it had been more than a year since he had taken this path.
As he neared his neighbor’s property and unlatched Roland’s gate to enter the yard, CW encountered three black and tan coonhounds, barking, baring their teeth, and signaling distress.
Hey there, girls, hey, it’s just me, said CW, as he retreated to the barbed wire fence. He extended a quivering hand and stooped so that each of the dogs might see his face and perhaps recognize him. Yeah, y’all all right, now, y’all all right, said CW, easing close to the oldest of the hounds and allowing her to sniff him.
It took a few minutes to gain her trust, but soon the coonhound licked CW’s face and hands and ceased her barking. Aww, yeah, said CW, scratching the hound’s ears and recalling his boyhood romps in the woods with his Daddy’s redtick coondogs and Jack Russell terriers. You know, babies, I sure did used to love y’all back then, said CW to the dogs as they approached him for pets. Y’all don’t believe that, do you? Y’all don’t.
Hey, CW, what in the hell? came a voice from the porch. Are you ruining my dogs?
It was Roland, a red-faced man in overalls with a full head of white hair. He carried a bowl of freshly-picked vegetables, and his soft laughter sounded to CW like the hum of a motor.
Naw, Roland, I wasn’t doing a goddamned thing, said CW, brushing the dog hair from his hands. But much as I done fed these sons of bitches, I ought to have a right to ruin ‘em. Yessir.
Well, I see you’re feeling light as a feather today, said Roland, descending the steps into the yard. Whatcha say, CW, ‘bout going on inside and getting us some whiskey? I’ll pour her.
I’d say damn it to hell, said CW, ‘cause that whiskey there ain’t too healthy for me. Sorry.
Ain’t healthy? said Roland. Shit. You and your doctor’s orders again, huh? Well, damn.
Together, the two of them climbed the porch steps and made their way into the house.
I’ll brew us some coffee or something, Roland said and vanished into the kitchen, as CW grunted his approval and seated himself at the upright Chickering in the middle of the hall.
The keys of the piano were worn and yellowed, and in the dining room the large brick fireplace with its gaping mouth — endless and dingy dark — entranced CW so thoroughly, that it wasn’t until Roland gripped the older man’s shoulders and shook him, that CW was able to register his whereabouts.
Here we go, CW, here we go, said Roland, beckoning CW to a seat at the dining room table. Now, see, we’ll have us a few cups of coffee, and, maybe, just maybe, a thimble of whiskey.
Somehow, the furnishings around him in the room seemed darker and grayer and more oppressive than CW had remembered, but he decided to keep this feeling to himself and made no comment. Instead, he simply accepted a warm cup of coffee from Roland, and he drank from it.
I take it you’re here this morning because of your buddy Charles, Roland said, cognizant of his friend’s discomfort, as he opened a fifth of Jack Daniel’s whiskey, poured a shot into his coffee, and stirred it with a spoon. He studied CW and took a sip. Now, I ain’t got no clue to what kinda trouble he’s causing, but you know I’ll help anyway that I can. Just tell me how. Just say it.
Oh, Charles Marcellus, that stupid son of a bitch grandson of mine, he’s always been a problem, CW snarled, propping his cane against the table leg and ignoring Roland’s offer. He was shaking his fist, wagging it in Roland’s face as he had done to Charles just yesterday.
I tell you what, though, I think he’s finally done bit off a little more than he can chew, messing with me. I used to wouldn’t have cared ‘bout none of this shit, but ever since last year, ever since —
You mean, ever since the funeral? Roland suggested. Since what happened with Lorice?
Yes! Yes, of course! said CW and pushed away his coffee. Since then. Since it happened.
CW slowly tugged the edge of the dining room table and lifted himself from his seat, then trundled into the front room and approached a window to gaze outside with scientific eyes at cars and tractors in Roland’s equipment shed and at a tow truck parked beneath a small catawba tree.
It’s just a damn shame that the boy ain’t understood what he’s dealing with now, CW continued. ‘Cause no matter how I try and teach him, he still ain’t comprehended the concept of change, ain’t realized or nothing that he’s grown now and no longer my problem. He wants everything the same as it once was, with me and his Mamaw feeding him and wiping his goddamned ass every time he needs it. But Roland, I swear, it just can’t happen no more. It can’t.
Right you are, said Roland, somewhat reluctantly. But at the same time, CW, maybe, just maybe, that boy Charles ain’t so crazy as he sometimes seems. Heck, maybe you and me, maybe we’re all like that, maybe we’re all just trapped somewhere inside ourselves, and ain’t no way out, you know, except through our own wiles. It’s chaos, maybe, the way of the world. The way.
Way of the world! said CW, and he began to cough. What are you, some kind of preacher? Are you trying to save my soul? Trying to get me to start gardening or raising coon dogs or playing the piani or fixing up cars? He leaned on his cane and looked Roland square in the face.
Now, now, said Roland. You don’t have to get angry. I’s trying to help. And you know that.
A cold and awkward silence descended upon the room, interrupted only by CW’s cough.
For a few minutes, neither man spoke, but by now CW had readied the reason for his trip and had summoned in words the logic of his request. True, he half-expected a rejection, but so be it.
Roland, he said to his friend as he squeezed his cane. I want to borrow that tow truck.
Jesus, CW, I should have known, said Roland. He lowered his eyes, stroked his chin.
Well, hey, it was you who said you wanted to help me, wasn’t it? said CW. Wasn’t it?
Right, right, yes, I guess I did say that, said Roland. At the same time, though, CW, if I’m being honest with you, I didn’t think you had this deep, dark vendetta against your grandson!
Oh, Roland, come on, it’s not a vendetta, it’s fairness! said CW, as he snatched a swig of his coffee and moved across the room and halted in front of the fireplace. That boy is my flesh and blood — flesh and blood! — and I can’t help it, I’ve had enough of him. I have! Too much!
OK, OK, said Roland. So you’ve had enough. I won’t interfere. You can borrow the truck.
You see? said CW. Now, that wasn’t that hard. Thank you, Roland. Thanks for your help.
But I want you to hear something first, said Roland, and he seated himself at the piano. It’s the start of a song I’ve tinkered with for a couple of weeks, and I think you’ll appreciate it.
All right, sure, said CW, fine by me, but Roland was no longer listening. He was engaged instead with the instrument, brushing his fingers across the keys and occasionally pounding the ivory as if to force out some evil spirit that resided in the corner of the room and must needs be expelled.
As for CW, he listened to this music as if utterly transfixed, and it seemed he could see bright colors — yellows, blues, and greens — flashing before his eyes and descending in waves. How long these sensations lasted, CW could never have said, for in this place and this time — unaccountably — all assessments had been overthrown, all measurements voided. At last, he held a hand to his heart and felt for a long moment the warm blood that flowed within his chest.
So, CW, what did you think of it? Roland asked him when he had finished with his song.
What did I think of it? CW repeated. What did I think? Well, I guess I just thought . . . .
He stopped at the fireplace and gazed through the open window at the unending line of junky cars outside and at the tall pine trees tilting skyward from the woods. He stepped past his friend and traversed the hall to the front door, but Roland remained there and awaited his answer.
Never seen a night so long, said CW to the puzzlement of his friend. Never, never, never.
In the tow truck, he adjusted the driver’s seat, slid his cane beneath his chair, and practiced with the hook and the chain until he felt confident in his abilities and ready to act. He could tell from the sun’s height that it was nearly 5:00, and he recalled that at around 6:00, Charles would probably drive uptown for pizza, or else call his bandmates and invite them over.
CW cranked the ignition, released the corroded parking brake, strained to turn to the left the stiff steering wheel, and then guided the tow truck out through Roland’s gate and onto the road. In the distance, he could see the Dodge parked unattended beneath the carport, an easy target. Goddamn it, boy, your time has come, CW said as he stroked his unshaven face. Oorah!
He had reached his house and the carport, and, although he had intended to tow his grandson’s truck to the dumpster, he realized now the futility of this goal, as from under the hood of the tow truck a dense white smoke wafted upwards, clouding the windshield and obscuring his sight. He slammed his foot on the gas, to which the tow truck bucked a bit and lurched forward.
Christ, it seems the whole world’s against me, CW said and hammered his fists on the dashboard. He parked the truck in a ditch along the side of the road, killed the ignition, and then gasped in the smoke like an infant choking on its food.
From behind him, he heard the sound of a revved engine and the voices of young people — Charles’s bandmates, he was sure — shouting obscenities as they wheeled a Jeep Wrangler into his driveway and then dispersed into the house.
Those damn kids, said CW, as he heard the beginnings of their rock’n’roll music and raised a middle finger to the inhabitants of his house. That son of a bitch Charles. I’ll show him.
By now, he had abandoned the tow truck and wandered into the yard, and, after a short walk, arrived at the woodshed where he kept his shotgun. He felt strange here, silently reverent, and there was something about this woodshed squatting beneath its twin oak trees that inspired more awe in him than Lorice’s entire Church of Christ congregation ever could have with their sermons, hymns, and prayers.
Perhaps its age intrigued him — it was the oldest building on the place — for when all else in his life had failed and collapsed, the woodshed had lived on, smelling of dried pine lumber as it had in 1901, or ‘02, or whenever it was built, standing as an image of the tearing of the wilderness, as a minor monument to man’s perverse and destructive urges played out in grand style on the beauty of Creation, on the tranquil and astonished earth.
He waited a few minutes and then followed the worn path to the woodshed door and pushed it open. Inside, all was dark, but CW, envisioning his past visits, navigated the woodpiles and the toolboxes littering the floor until he had reached the gun safe beside the small cans of off-road diesel in the far corner of the shed. He bent down and worked the safe’s lock until the door creaked open to reveal his gun — barely visible — a pencil sketch in the shed’s blackness. It required both of his hands to lift from the rack this 12-gauge Mossberg — a beautiful shotgun — reminding him of his youth, of hunting with his Daddy in the woods and the creekbeds, of searching for game and firing at their dogs’ signal.
Lost in this reverie, CW leaned against the woodshed wall, caught his breath, loaded the gun from a box of shells, and reentered the yard.
Got’s to be prepared, he said. Got’s to watch. He left his cane at the door, steadied his gun, flicked off its safety, and steeled himself emotionally for the coming apocalypse. He prayed.
Father God, I know you and me ain’t been too close in the last couple of years, and in fact I have to say I kind of resent you for them things you afflicted me with in the twilight of my life. All the same, I beseech you for your help, for the courage to pay back what is owed. Give me strength, Lord, to show what needs to be shown, to do what needs to be done, to accomplish it.
As he concluded his prayer, CW crept across the carport slab, placed an ear to the front door, and listened to those happy childlike voices emerging from the house.
With the butt of his Mossberg, he hammered on the door until he heard the shrieks from within, and then barged inside the kitchen and demanded his grandson.
A blonde girl with smeared lipstick and a low-cut skirt twisted her face into an expression of terrified disgust, as the old man loomed above her and waved his gun. Within seconds, the rest of the young people had collapsed to the floor, covering themselves as best they could with dining room chairs and electric guitars, although CW did not care to frighten them and paid them no mind. Instead, he sought only Charles, and he found him.
Hey there, Charlie Boy, CW said, raising his shotgun to his shoulder and pointing at his grandson. It’s time for you to get the hell out of my house, you hear me, before I shoot your ass.
Pappy, you have lost your mind! shouted Charles as he cowered before the oven and concealed his face beneath his meaty hands. But if you’re gonna shoot me, you’d better just do it.
OK, said CW. Here goes. He counted one . . . two . . . three . . . and then fired, as Charles, terror-stricken, rolled across the kitchen linoleum amid screams and shouts of Murder! and the pell-mell escape of the young people through the unguarded front door.
CW, too — startled by the noise of the Mossberg and its hefty kick — recoiled and fell backwards against the wall and groped for his cane with his right hand as his heart beat frantically and his breath quickened.
Abandoned to his Pappy’s wrath, Charles examined his own sweat-drenched body and searched in vain for a death wound as he shivered in a heap and pressed his face to the floor.
CW, by this point, had righted himself and was approaching his grandson, and, much to Charles’s surprise, the smokey eyes of his cheery old Pappy twinkled prettily like dark dancing flames.
You thought I done killed you, didn’t you? CW said. Naw, boy, not yet! We’s just starting.
He pointed with his Mossberg at a fresh-hewn hole in the wall, at its shattered pine wood.
Naw, boy, you ain’t hurt none, said CW, and I’s just trying to scare you. After all, you done told me to shut the hell up, remember? That your Mamaw’d be ashamed of me, that I’m an old coot and a sorry bastard, and then you and your friends, y’all mocked me! Remember that?
Pappy, what in the hell? said Charles. I ain’t said none of them things. You’re insane!
Insane, huh? said CW. That’s a new one. Well, hate to break it to you, boy, but I don’t think I’m the insane one here, or the one your Mamaw would be particularly ashamed of. Sorry.
He nudged Charles with the toe of his boot, rapped his knuckles on his grandson’s head.
After all, son, I ain’t the one laying face-first in the floor with damn tears in my eyes.
You’re crazy, said Charles. Out of your mind. I don’t think you can live like this. You can’t.
Jesus Christ, CW said and contemplated the evening’s events. What a goddamned mess.
That night he dreamed mysterious and strange dreams of Lorice, a patchwork vision of the real and the fantastic. It appeared that she was young — 18, perhaps — with her eyes as vivid as the sunlight or the gleam of the stars, and whenever she spoke to him and patted his hands, CW cried out with immense happiness and thanked her for the touch. She led him into the Semmesville woods along a path of uncertain provenance until they reached the banks of Ten Mile Creek and a small field enclosed by barbed wire. Around them in the oaks, the wind whimpered mournfully as Lorice cradled CW like a child and ran fingers through his hair and whispered incomprehensible phrases from a world beyond that fascinated and terrified him and left him confused.
For hours, it seemed, he lay in the dark, until a figure immersed in flame emerged from out of the trees and bid him rise. Frightened, CW clung to Lorice as tenaciously as he could, but with each passing second he lost his grip on his wife and slipped back to the world. A wound in his side and the pangs of his heart compelled him into that fiery trap, and a taste of dried pine lumber accumulated in his throat as he coughed awake in his bedroom, a bit surprised.
Goddamn! CW screamed, sitting up so quickly in bed that he bumped his elbows against his own headboard. With a howl of pain and a kicking of blankets, he roused himself from the mattress and analyzed the room like a caged beast. He noticed at once that the Mossberg had disappeared from beside his nightstand, and as there was nothing to be done, no easy fix, CW calmed himself as best as he could, squatted again at the edge of his bed, and thought of Lorice.
Again, he witnessed scenes of pain and agony, of cancer and chemo, of Lorice’s last years, for CW could not rid himself of such visions, but fought to no avail against their daily reoccurrence. He could not escape the day waning to dusk, the coughing, the panting, Lorice’s struggle to uncoil herself from the world of the living, and her ultimate success. She had held his hands and whispered: Stay, stay in the sun, and had hummed a verse of her favorite hymn, “Revive Us Again,” but CW had bowed his head until the song had ceased, and he was alone.
Damn you, Lorice, damn you, damn you, he said in the throes of deepest heartsickness. He opened the nightstand drawer, trembled at the sight of her photo, and buried his face in his hands. I’m sick of it all. Sick. Sick. Sick! Do you hear me, God? Do you hear me? Sorry bastard.
The sun had returned outside, and sparrows chirped, but CW saw it not, heard nothing.
Why that stupid-ass boy, CW said, thinking again of his stolen Mossberg. Hurriedly, he dressed himself and marched down the hall to his grandson’s bedroom and pounded on the door.
Damn it, Charles, where in the hell’d you put my gun? Get out here, boy! Go on, open it!
CW’s grandson, however, refused to obey his Pappy’s orders and remained safely inside.
I took it away, Charles said through the door. I called the sheriff, and then gave it to him.
CW, for once, appeared completely dumbfounded by this information, but also appalled.
How . . . how could you? he sputtered. A man’s gun . . . his self-defense . . . his integrity?
Pappy, please, you’re a danger to yourself and others! Charles screamed. You’re sick!
But a gun, a gun, CW whispered. The Mossberg. Sheriff Willis, I’ll talk to him. I’ll go.
For a short, uncharacteristic moment, CW was a defeated man, but then, only a few hours later, after having retrieved his cane and gathered his strength and arrived at the sheriff’s office in downtown Semmesville, CW explained his situation with such verve that even Sheriff Willis was impressed. The old man was out of his mind, and yet so sublimely confident as to be dangerous.
You see, Willis, CW said, rattling his cane on the sheriff’s desk. My goddamned good-for-nothing grandson has got a few things mixed up. He thinks it’s proper for a 25 year-old to bust inside an old man’s house and to do whatever he likes. Now, that ain’t the law, is it? Is it?
Across the desk, Sheriff Willis paused and scratched his head as if deliberating. He was a big-bellied man in uniform, with a badge he shined regularly and a pair of glasses that drooped over his nose whenever he spoke.
Naw, CW, that sure ain’t right, and I don’t think it’s the law neither, he said in his deep Southern drawl, folding his hands in his lap and smiling. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket, mopped sweat from his face. Coffee, Charles Wesley? Just a bit?
CW avoided an answer, then advanced with effort from out of his chair and paced the room. He stopped, read plaques and certificates on the wall with a skeptical eye, and pointed at Willis.
Now, Sheriff, boy, I don’t think you understand, said CW. I’ll be needing me my damn Mossberg if I’m gonna have me a chance in this goddamned world, you hear? I need it back.
But Sheriff Willis simply stared at this amusing old man and kept his hands in his lap.
Goddamn it! CW shouted and slammed his cane on the desk. Would you at least wipe that goddamned smile off your face? Don’t you understand that this is an emergency for me? A crisis!
Now, Charles Wesley, it’s all gonna be OK, you just calm yourself down, said Sheriff Willis. He rested his chin in his hands, clicked his tongue. I mean, look, I know you want justice and all, but in this particular case, it just ain’t so clear-cut, you understand me? I mean, it ain’t.
He raised his fist in the air to silence CW’s protests and proceeded with his explanation:
Now, please don’tcha get me wrong, said Sheriff Willis, ‘cause I know your character, Charles Wesley, I’ve known you for years, but for your own good, I’m gonna support your grandson on this one. He ain’t brung us no guns, but after hearing from him last night ‘bout your stunt with the Mossberg, I done told him to confiscate that weapon and to keep it away from you. So, I want you to reflect on this, I want you to think. He grinned. Coffee, Charles Wesley? A cup?
Why you sorry son of a bitch, said CW. I don’t care if you’re the sheriff, ain’t nobody in Semmesville gonna call me ‘Charles Wesley’ without my goddamned permission, you hear me? And, secondly, a 70 year-old man deserves better than this shit. He deserves justice, not some goddamned run-around. He paused and was panting and coughing again. So, don’t make me, he said, speaking haltingly, don’tcha make me take matters into my own hands. Don’tcha push me.
Charles Wesley, you listen, said the sheriff. I ain’t pushing you to do a goddamned thing. He gripped the arms of his chair, sucked in his chest. Naw, my friend, I ain’t getting into no goddamned family quarrel. This is your fight, Charles Wesley, not the police’s. But at the same time I’m the law in this town of Semmesville, you understand, and I can tell you one thing, if I find out you been using that damn Mossberg again, gonna come out there, gonna lock you up.
Lock me up? said CW. Seriously? You ain’t gonna do nothing for me, huh? Nothing?
I guess not, Charles Wesley, Sheriff Willis said. ‘Cause you’ve done heard my answer. He dismissed CW with a wave of his hand. Have a nice day, he said. And stay out of trouble, hear?
Oh, why don’t you just go to hell? CW said and left the office.
Without another word, he descended the courthouse stairs and crossed the road to the parking lot where he’d left his Ford Ranger. Outside, among the cars and the pedestrians, he swayed in the noon-day heat and felt the sun on his back and shoulders like an oppressive weight. Beneath his boots, the black pavement sweltered and cooked, and CW, growing ever dizzier, sought refuge in his truck and struggled to breathe. He realized he had been pushed into a corner, drawn into a world of perpetual conflict, like the horrorshow vision of his dreams, with Semmesville and the woods and the fields and the houses of his homeland engulfed in a fiery darkness as hot as the concrete surrounding him here.
Enough, he said. I’ve had me enough. He grabbed the steering wheel, cranked the truck.
When he was less than a mile from his house, CW pulled his Ford Ranger to the side of the road and let it idle. Thoughts of his confiscated Mossberg reminded CW of the woodshed and of the many cans of off-road diesel he’d kept there for decades. He began to formulate a plan, somewhat frightening, punctuated by the images of its consequences and its destructive potential.
But what else am I supposed to do? he said to himself, or perhaps to Lorice. What other options could I possibly have? I mean, how else am I gonna drive a goddamned rat from its lair?
He turned the truck around and pulled into Roland’s driveway. Avoiding the hound dogs’ uproarious welcome as best he could, he climbed the porch stairs, apologized for the tow truck fiasco, and accepted this time a tumbler of whiskey as he seated himself at the dining room table. He caught sight of the deep, dark well of the fireplace, but then averted his eyes from its sooty emptiness, and thought only of Charles and the woodshed and of the excitement soon to come.
CW, I know it sounds strange to say it, but I am glad you’re drinking again, said Roland. You just need a shot or two to loosen you up, to keep your mind off of all of this trouble. Cheers!
They raised their glasses, and each took a sip. Roland was dressed in his overalls, with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his white hair wilder than usual. Between them on the dining room table, a basket of ripe tomatoes reminded CW of his friend’s vegetable garden, of the day’s labor.
Roland, what in the hell am I supposed to do? CW asked his friend. I have to be rid of this shit. It has to stop. He turned to the window, sighed deeply. What would you do? CW asked.
Roland massaged his forehead as he examined the problem.
I think I’d talk to that grandson of yours, he said. Work something out. Negotiate. I would settle with him, make peace. A man can’t live forever at war, CW. He has got to move on.
Yeah, guess you’re right, said CW. Except you and me, Roland, we ain’t the same. We just ain’t. CW pressed the whiskey to his lips, and then threw it back. I mean, I can’t just “settle,” you hear? It’s not in my nature, it’s not me. I won’t do it, can’t. I will not bend, scrape, nor serve.
Roland smiled sadly and finished his drink. All right, CW. All right. He left the table and approached the piano, uncovered its keys. Want me to play you something? he asked. Perhaps —
No, said CW. No music, no. He could see as he stared into the blackness of the fireplace, or into the whiskey that lingered in his glass, Lorice’s cancerous image lit up suddenly like a candle and burning as a coal-black flame exactly as that dark figure had appeared in his nightmare. It seemed she leaned toward him, beckoned him forward, called his name in a deep echo that resounded through the woods. It was a nudge, he knew, a push from above toward an action inescapable and irreversible, to an end as yet unfathomable, but undoubtedly necessary.
CW? whispered Roland, increasingly alarmed. CW, are you there? Can you hear me?
CW nodded, laughed aloud. Of course, I hear you, he said. But Roland, friend, I must leave now. I must return home. Yes. He walked with his cane, trundled out, descended the stairs.
Well, OK, CW, said Roland, reluctant to see his friend go. But you know as well as I do that you and me, we ain’t what we once were. We’re older, CW, more rigid. That’s our problem.
Maybe, said CW. Or maybe we’re how we always was, and that just ain’t good enough.
Maybe, said Roland, with a pain in his heart. Maybe you’re right.
He embraced his friend, and there amid the barking of the dogs, he bid him goodbye.
CW worked slowly in the woodshed, crumpling bits of newspaper and old grease rags and stuffing them into his pockets until he could fit no more. He strolled through the room, glared at the gun safe and at the cans of off-road diesel he had stored in the corner. The scent of pine lumber was in his nostrils as outside the sun set red and bloated. He offered a benediction.
Now, CW said, rising and dropping his cane to the floor. It’s the time now. It’s past time.
When he entered the house, CW emptied his pockets onto the kitchen floor, then poured his can of diesel onto the walls and the furniture until the entire room smelled of fumes. Upending the can, he splattered the diesel across the bar and the refrigerator, but then stopped as he neared Lorice’s dining room table. All around him, the reddish fuel dripped and collected on the linoleum floor, forming dark stagnant puddles like regurgitated food. He paused, rubbed his face with both hands, and then lifted the can of diesel again and smothered the table with the last of it. On his face was a look expressionless and empty, pitiless, undisturbed, a complete blank.
He searched for a Zippo lighter and, finding one near his pills, bent low to set the dining room table ablaze. Before his eyes the flames sprouted like weeds, covering the table and chairs faster than he could escape the heat. He felt burns in an instant, his hands twitching from the sting, as he coughed and wheezed and stumbled to the door. Around him, the fire danced and leapt, a creature summoned from unseen darkness, unleashed from below, forever unrepentant.
Help me, said CW. Help me, please. Someone! Someone, please help!
Pappy? Pappy, what in hell are you doing? shouted Charles above the crackling of the flames. CW could no longer hear him, but distinguished only the voice from his dreams, those rough words from that pitchblack figure that called to him now and hounded him into the abyss.
Charles Wesley Jacobsen? the voice asked. You are Charles Wesley Jacobsen, aren’t you?
Yes, goddamn it, yes! CW shouted, raising his fists and charging at the voice. He ran at Charles, pummeled him with blows, then wrapped his arms around his grandson’s waist and tried pinning him. No, you can’t take me, damn it! he screamed again, feeling Charles’s big hands on his shoulders as he recoiled from the attack. CW howled and sank his teeth into his grandson’s arm, pulled at Charles’s scraggly whiskers, and then dug his fingernails deep into the boy’s wrist.
Pappy, Jesus Christ, you have got to let me go! Charles shouted as he grasped CW’s head, lifted him from the ground, and pushed him in the direction of the fire. CW, of course, fought back, but his arms were too incredibly weak, his heart throbbing too fiercely. Enraged, he leapt again at his grandson, but tripped as Charles side-stepped him and ducked out of range.
Why you sorry son of a bitch, CW shouted, but it was too late. With one strong flick of his arm, Charles landed a heavy blow against CW’s thigh, collapsing the old man’s legs and knocking him to the floor. Falling to his knees, CW whimpered, and the smoke irritated his eyes.
Goddamn, goddamn, goddamn! CW yelled. He pressed a hand to his heart, understood what was coming, but couldn’t accept it. No, please, not now. Not yet. Oh, God, no. No, not yet.
Above him, Charles screamed, then rushed across the kitchen to dial for the ambulance and the fire department. CW, though, saw and heard none of this, for all was silent to him, and all was black. Shaking and trembling, he wiped his eyes, squinted out at the world, but saw nothing.
And when the end came at last, CW was surprised, for the flames had transformed before his eyes into a light that fell like dew drops upon the kitchen and upon the dining room table. He saw everything in a kind of flux, a coming together of scenes and people and events in a sequence he’d never before experienced. Surveying his home, where only minutes before had stood the figure from his nightmare, CW saw yellows, blues, and greens mixing together and forming a single shining spectrum.
Within this gleaming vision, CW discerned Charles and Roland, even Willis and himself talking like old friends. And then, among all the rest, CW noticed Lorice, and he reached for her. For the first time in ages, he heard music echoing from all around him: the sound of dogs barking, birds chirping, rock music and church hymns, the tinkling of pianos, too, and Hank Williams. For once, he knew where he was and didn’t fight it.
Goddamn it, CW said. Goddamn it, I didn’t know. I’m sorry, sir. I’m so sorry.
The emergency services arrived, and the EMTs lifted CW onto a stretcher, checked his pulse, pronounced him critical, and rushed him into the ambulance for medical attention. CW, though, never noticed their presence, but felt himself raised and carried by the same white light he’d observed in the house.
As they rolled him into the ambulance and set off into the night, the EMTs monitored CW as he lifted his arm and pointed at a sunrise they could not see, heard him whisper of light and music, of hunting trips and hound dogs, of gardens, tow trucks, and peanut butter crackers.
They did not understand any of it, and as they drove north at 90 miles per hour, CW stared through the glass window and watched the darkness dissolve before his eyes as he barreled down that winding road toward the town of Semmesville, and to whatever lay beyond.//
ABOUT THE AUTHOR:
John Cody Bennett is an English and World History teacher at The Birch Wathen Lenox School in New York City, a graduate of Sewanee: The University of the South, and a Fulbright scholar from Louisiana. He has published fiction in Across the Margin, the Bookends Review, The Militant Grammarian, and others, and is currently pursuing a Master’s in History at the City College of New York.
About the Author
