King Scratch Page 3

  Another scene appeared, hanging on the aura of the black mountains. A Halloween many years ago: Keith dressed as Abraham Lincoln. He held a semen-stained pillowcase in preparation for the trick-or-treating. On his feet were his mother’s black boots. She told him that they looked just like the ones Lincoln used to wear and Keith believed her. He started out the door and down the driveway, hoping to avoid the inevitable. His luck ran out. The door to the cellar slammed open. His father came up behind Keith.

  “Lincoln, eh? I guess I’ll go as John Wilkes Booth, then,” his father had said. A hard knuckle-slap landed across the back of Keith’s skull followed by deep alcoholic laughter.

  The asphalt below him stood out like brail and he stared at the road below reading it with his fingertips. Keith’s nerves shivered and he became aware once again of the crash around him. The front seat creaked and his leg came loose. He fell forward, the warm road like a comforting bed. Keith let out an involuntary sigh. Matthew muttered some curses and vomited on the stick shift.

  Keith surveyed the road around him and noticed that there were no passing cars. Silence was draped over the stretch of road as far as he could see and hear. He crawled over to grass on the side of the road and urinated. The piss splattered on the grass so loudly that Keith became worried about waking any animals that may be creeping in the outskirts of the woods.

  As he turned to limp back to the car, he noticed another car about 300 feet back on the opposite side of the road. Its front end had been smashed by what looked to Keith like a mangled piece of deer. He stepped a little closer and then the sizzling heat of recognition fell over him: Holy shit. That’s Jim’s car!

  But where the hell was Jim?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jim

  My first thought was: Just my luck.

  My second thought was: Peggy’s heavier than she looks.

  I assumed I’d have to carry her out of the car because she didn’t look in any condition to walk on her own. Her chin glistened with yellowish saliva. I quickly got out of the car and started to drag Peggy out. She moaned as I loaded her up over my shoulder and started walking.

  For a second I debated pushing the car to the side of the road so I could unload the contents of the trunk. Instead I decided to take one satchel and leave the rest of them next to Fred’s corpse in the trunk.

  After I grabbed one of the bags, I walked past the car, balancing Peg on my shoulder and praying that a car wouldn’t drive past while I was hauling an unconscious girl into the woods. That would look pretty suspicious to someone who was coming in mid-scene.

  I managed to walk about a half a mile with Peg until I had to go into the woods and rest. I gently laid her down and then collapsed from exhaustion onto a pile of branches. I closed my eyes, wanting to melt into the ground, to become one with the grass and the dirt and the crooked twigs. I must have been so worn out from the crash that I could feel my back sink into the soil. My head was swimming in a heated pool of moonlit sweat and pine-scent. As I meditated on the insides of my eyelids, I heard Peggy moving in the grass. She made a purring sound and then coughed. The cough caught in my ears, vibrating the tiny hairs that swayed as if caught in an aural hurricane.

  The sides of my head itched so I rubbed them against the ground like a cat when it’s had a good dose of catnip. The sharp edges of twigs scraped my temples and then I remembered something I was told when I was a kid: if you get hit in the temple too hard, you die. I never found out if it was true or not but it always scared me growing up. I’d always worry that if and when I got into a fist-fight that the other guy would go for my head: a sucker shot right to my temple, killing me and robbing me of the chance to counterstrike.

  That’s what I was thinking as I heard Peg’s cough rush through my ears like the echoes of a waterfall and I scraped the sides of my head. It would have been easier to use my hands but they were at my sides, sinking into the ground, joining the earthworms and spiders in an orgy of peaceful, earthly contemplation away from the non-organic curse of the glass, metal and concrete society that plows its way above ground. I was enjoying my small plot of open space as I sunk into it, serenaded by Peg’s coughing.

  My eyelids trembled from a ripple of vibrations. At first I thought that I had accomplished the task of burrowing myself completely underground and was listening to the roar of an underground river. But then the vibrations got louder and morphed into an orgasmic spurt of crushed metal and rubbery friction.

  The black screen of my eyelids flipped into a dotted green-blue canvas that swayed like the hair in my ears. My body floated up to the surface, a battalion of trapdoor spiders popping out of my pores, crawling their way back to their old homes. I was left feeling like a conspirator with a heart and mind full of secrets.

  I became aware of what had happened and rolled over to shake Peg awake. When I did so, she was already staring out towards the road.

  “Accident,” she murmured, pointing with a limp hand.

  Normally I would go and make sure everyone was alright but under these circumstances I didn’t think it was such a great idea. By the looks of it, someone had hit Fred’s car and it was going to be hell trying to explain why there was a trunk full of dead bodies, one of which I was responsible for.

  So I grabbed Peggy’s hand and dragged her deeper into the woods.

  I knew the area quite well since I used to know someone who worked in the clay pits nearby. Well, not worked in the legal, taxable sense but he put in quite a few hours a day bootlegging and to me, that’s work.

  It took a minute or two to figure out exactly where I was in relation to the cabin. We started walking slowly because Peggy was still pretty out of it. I was too, to tell you the truth, but I was used to pushing myself past the limit of normal exertion. After ten minutes or so, we reached the beginning of the clay pits where the brick industry of the town was born. Now it looked like a wasteland, two square miles of hilly, barren land made of clay. You had to be careful walking through it since there were still soft patches where you could get stuck. Not exactly quicksand but still a hell of a pain in the ass to deal with.

  I knew the best way through it so I held Peg’s hand and walked with her through the darkness until we reached the other side of the pits. I was hoping that my old pal Joe Gurney was still living in his make-shift home but I wasn’t getting my hopes up. I hadn’t heard from him in a while. It's been more than a year and a lot of shit has happened since then but still I assumed that nothing in his life has changed and that he'd still be there, organizing his bottles of moonshine for illicit distribution throughout the central counties of New Jersey. There was, however, a good chance he was doing time up in Rahway. Either that or he was blind and delirious from a bad batch of shine. I could just imagine that: Joe half naked and covered in crab meat and squid goo babbling to an imaginary jury made of invisible clay.

  Peg and I reached Joe's shack. It was built into a small clay hill out of random pieces of plywood and tree trunks. I called Joe's name out but heard no response. Peggy looked dazed but started to come around once I opened the door allowing the stench to hit us.

  Moonlight came in thin lines through cracks in the walls. The floor was made up of wooden planks and under it was holes dug out for storing shine and other contraband. Once our eyes adjusted to the dark we saw that the floor, table, and bed were covered in crab shells, matchbooks, squid-guts, and broken glass. The whole place had a warm, fishy, earthy smell that really dug deep in one's nose and I know from experience that it’s a stench that's hard as hell to get out of your brain. Peggy started to cough.

  "Goddamn it, Jim, what the hell are we doing here?" she asked, her voice scratchy.

  "I don't know. I thought my friend Joe would be here. Doesn't look like he's been here for a while. Shit," I replied, flipping through a moist, brown year-old issue of a women's wrestling magazine.

  "I'm hurt, I need to go to the hospital,” she rubbed her neck. rubbedCnWhat happened to that guy? I thought we were going t
o get a ride."

  I didn't know what to say. I knew I could tell some of the truth, that Fred had wanted to fuck her and that he had some messed-up shit in his trunk. However, I decided it wouldn't be a wonderful idea to tell her what ended up happening to Fred.

  "Fucking guy turned out to be a pervert, wanted to mess with you. I told him to let us out." I lied pretty well.

  She looked shocked as if she knew that while she was unconscious, she had escaped a terrible, sleazy fate. Then her eyebrows went up and she smiled.

  "Aren't you my little hero?" she cooed and rubbed my cheek. I didn't know what to make of it. Women were confusing to begin with but Peggy, shit. Peggy was one for the record books.

  "Hero? I didn't do anything. I just told him to let us out. He was just a horny, old man who thought we were swingers. No big deal," I said, not sure why I wanted to play down my role as protector.

  "Yeah, yeah, sure," Peggy laughed and then got serious again, "but really, Jim, this place fucking stinks. Are we leaving or what? Your friend isn't here. And I thought we were going to check on your dad."

  "He’s not my dad. He’s my ex-wife’s.” Like it mattered. “Yeah, we're going to do that just give me a minute to think," I said, trying to sound fed up even though I loved it when women were pushy.

  At that point I wasn't quite sure what the game plan was. It seemed like the night and its events had pushed us to a totally unexpected route. Nonetheless it all started with Red Henry.

  I actually met Red before I became acquainted with his daughter. It was when I lived in Fisherville. He was my mailman and every afternoon I'd hear his loud, rambling voice as he walked up the street, being friendly with my neighbors. At first it annoyed me but then I realized that it was his way of avoiding the persona of a messenger. Instead of being a guy who had a shitty, monotonous job delivering to people who never looked their mail carrier in the face if they could help it, he became the daily highlight of his route. Kids liked him and adults couldn't help but smile when they heard him coming. Soon I was having short but meaningful conversations with Red about everything from sports (he liked baseball, I liked boxing) to children (he had three; I didn't plan on having any).

  It was a year after being my mailman that he mentioned Laura, his daughter.

  "You know, my little girl Laura just graduated from college." he said while handing me a phone bill and some junk mail.

  "That's really nice, Red, I'm real happy to hear that. What'd she major in?" I asked. Whenever he had talked about his daughters, I always pictured them as little girls in pigtails. Even though he had previously mentioned their ages, it never dawned on me that they were full-grown adults. I guess that's how much I'm stuck in my own little world. I don't know.

  "Psychology. Real smart girl, she is. Takes after her mom of course. Me, I never could figure but my own mind let alone other people's," he laughed.

  "Oh yeah, I hear you loud and clear. Seems useless trying to figure people out," I said.

  After hearing that little tidbit about Red's daughter, I was a bit intrigued. I've always liked smart girls and psychology seemed like a real smart thing for a girl to be into. I made a subtle yet determined effort to get more information on Laura and eventually talked Red into setting up a dinner date. It went well and we were married two months later.

  Peggy's heavy sigh dragged me back into the present and for a minute I saw Laura's face on Peggy's body. What a combination. Laura's face was fuller as was the rest of her body: wide hips, thick thighs, heavy drooping breasts all topped with the most beautiful red hair. A beautiful Irish lass if there ever was one. Peggy, on the other hand was a pale matchstick. Attractive, yes, but not as jaw-dropping as Laura.

  I shook my head and my left ear rattled: a bean in a tin can sound that made my lobes itch. For an instant my nose became my dominant sense organ as the thick, fishy stench continued to force its way up my nostrils. Peggy meanwhile was crouching down, her annoyed sighs still not ceasing as she urinated. Her pantyhose were hanging off her legs, shredded and torn.

  I could barely see the piss on the floor but I smelt it. It wrapped around the squid and crab smell like a warm yellow glove. I thought that maybe the combination would be a good perfume. It wouldn't serve the typical consumer, I know. It would surely have a more discriminating audience. I saw the small dark puddle on the floor get bigger as Peggy's vagina continued to hiss in relief: the snake at the base of her spine in a drenched fury, its acidic venom spiraling out through Peg’s golden canal in a wet splatter of sacred geometry.

  "You're pissing," I said, not sure why I felt the need to state the obvious. We both knew she was pissing. But for another instant I saw the whole world embedded in that act. Her liquid would surely leak down pass through the cracks of the floor and into the soil. Insects would be caught in the cascade of Peg's flood. They would be washed away deeper into the earth, their tiny almost non-existent insect brains never able to contemplate the source of their removal on account of the deluge. Peggy's hissing stopped for a second and then started again but this time in short squirts that were accompanied but short forceful bursts of air from her ass. She looked up at me and gave me a half smile and a wink.

  I squatted down and pulled up one of the floor planks. Below it was a hole filled with jars and bottles. I picked one up. It was half full.

  "What the fuck is that?" Peggy said, wiping herself with the cuff of her shirt.

  "Moonshine," I replied, shaking the jar.

  "Yeah, but what's in it?" she made a disgusted face. It was the type of face that, if made during sex, would turn me on. But otherwise it was very ugly and unbecoming.

  "Squid." I had forgotten that this particular recipe of moonshine wasn't well-known outside of the customers who drank it.

  "That's fucking disgusting. Don't you dare drink that," Peg said. In response, I pried the crusty top open and let some of the liquid splash into my mouth. It was followed by Peg's dry heaving. The moonshine itself was freckled with squid-skin. As the drops slid down my tongue I recalled the first time I drank this particular type of shine.

  It had been back when I was running shine. Joe and I were in his shack, smoking and planning the next run when we heard a pained squeal from outside. I walked outside and saw a short, freckled-face man kicking a kitten around like a soccer ball. I ran to the guy, ready to land a punch on the man’s head. Then Joe ran out, passing me like a track star.

  Joe’s elbow landed on the guy’s jaw, making a crunchy sound like nutshells cracking. Once I caught up with him, I followed with a kick to the kneecap, snapping it backwards. Joe kept punching, half-drunk and all-pissed. The kitten was safe but it was squealing and meowing so I picked it up.

  I went inside, caressing the kitten when I noticed that it carried a strong fishy odor. I wrapped it in a blanket and waited until Joe came back. He opened up a jar of shine, smiling and waving it back and forth. Then we drank some, went outside and dumped the beaten and battered asshole in the woods. Meanwhile, the kitten was too far gone to survive. The poor thing’s stomach was cut open and one of its legs raw. Blood was caked on the top of its head. It was so thick that it raised the fur like a crimson crown.

  At that point, the shine was getting to me. Heat burned through my skull. My sinuses became magma. I looked down at the dead kitten. In the grey fur of the animal, I gently brushed a new doctrine that would become my philosophy, my own king’s law. With my throat, chest and eyes burning from the shine, I mapped out my future. It was there, written in patterns with thousands of grey hairs like primitive calligraphy.

  Joe Gurney and I buried the cat in the corner of the shack. We both said our own separate, silent prayers. It was the least we could do. Afterwards it took a lot of willpower for me not to go back to where we dumped the guy and finish the job.

  But Peggy knew nothing about that shit and I don’t think she cared that much about my past anyway. She was muttering as I finished the liquid contents of the jar along with some chewy bits of old squid.
I threw the jar back down into the hole and then started digging up the kitten.

  "What the fuck you doing now?" Peggy said.

  "Nothing, just shhh.." I couldn't get the words out clearly, "ssshut up."