Уинстон Грум - Alabama Noir

Cassie opened her eyes and stared at her belly. “He said you’d been nothing but decent out here, quietly processing your deer and raising your brother alone. Said there wasn’t anybody to take care of Darrell if something happened to you. I let him feel the baby kick. Did you know the sheriff and I are the same age?” With a thumb, she began tracing the shiny purple veins and closed her eyes again.

“Darrell felt the baby? Or do you mean Sheriff Turner?”

“Getting the car fixed is going to be expensive. Daddy’s going to be pissed. He stays furious with me since I didn’t get an abortion. He said, Sired by a Sutt, there’s no telling what you’ll give birth to .” She pulled herself up against the table leg, her midriff bare and round, and leaned back. “I’d forgotten how things feel out here. All this death makes a body feel more alive.” She shifted the fawn in her lap and tucked the hem of her shirt under her arm to hold it in place. Through the thin cotton of her bra, Jimbo saw the complete outline of her nipple. Its roundness appeared to be straining against the material. “I feel free out here. I can let everything go.” She rubbed the fawn’s nose around her nipple and closed her eyes. As she arched her back, the center hardened to a point. She smiled. “I’ll have milk soon.”

Weak as it was, the fawn made a perfect rag doll. She lifted her breast over the top of the bra and rubbed it against the fawn’s nose. When she pushed her nipple into the fawn’s mouth, she started humming some song that sounded familiar.

“The fawn’s sick, Cassie. It has TB. Not your fault but it can’t live.” The smile disappeared from her face. “We’ll name our baby Fawna, though. It’s perfect, isn’t it?” he whispered, as he spread her legs and began rubbing the inside of her thighs. Now his brain spun; no longer paused — fast forward, rewind — it was playing and recording simultaneously, it was running at different speeds. Wasn’t he being gentle as he laid her on her side? Wasn’t he being careful as he pressed the fawn between them? If he could’ve, he would’ve crawled all the way inside Cassie to his baby, where he could touch and hold and kiss her, his perfect, perfect daughter, his Fawna. His . What would she smell like? He would stay there, inside, and be born with her. A perfect daughter deserved a perfect father, didn’t she? The kind always there to protect. He could not wait. He would never let Fawna out of his sight. Such warmth. Such softness. With the fawn still between them, he unzipped his pants. The warmth turned to heat.

Maybe when someone loses their mind, it’s like floating in space. Maybe there’s no gravity or weight. Or maybe it feels heavy, an anchoring secured by weight. Maybe it feels like finally finding home. Maybe it’s not crazy to discover for the first time as middle age nears what it’s like for something to belong inexplicably to you. Or maybe Jimbo Sutt didn’t lose or find a thing. Maybe he simply fell in love.

Maybe love is where things unravel.

He’d told her he’d talk to her father, hadn’t he? Had she heard? Or had she been listening to the fawn? Did she think death was silent? She’d seen how messy it was in the shop and liked it. That sound was just the lungs struggling. The fawn would quiet soon. He would bury it. He would not feed it to the dogs. He promised. He would do whatever she liked, whatever she wanted. They were going to be a real family. He was going to be a real father. DeBardelaiwin was a fine name. He didn’t care about names. Fawna Sutt or Fawna DeBardelaiwin. Blood was what mattered — his blood, his baby. Had Cassie started crying? Why? Why was she looking at him that way? Could she see how beautiful Fawna would be? God, how he’d missed her. Every night he’d dreamed of making love again. He’d never imagined her with his baby inside while they did it. Fawna was going to be perfect. Josiah would see what a perfect baby Jimbo made. Not like Darrell. Not like the fawn. Cassie didn’t need to listen to her father. It was Jimbo’s turn to make the decisions. He wanted to rock back and forth while Cassie sang all the lullabies in the world. Faster. Faster. He didn’t want slow. He didn’t want to wait. Was that Cassie singing? Was that the Jackal? Was it him? Hold still and shut up for one lousy goddamn moment. Fawna needs me. We need each other. You’ll see. Please God no. Not blood. Please no. I just want to hold her.

Jimbo replays it over and over in his mind, always rewinding, always fast-forwarding. Some things change, but the end is always the same: The knife is sharp. The blood is thick. And Jimbo’s left there, all alone.

When Jimbo visits Darrell at Medical West, he usually parks out front and takes the main elevator. Today, he takes the hospital stairs and walks the four flights to Darrell’s floor. “He’s asleep,” a nurse whispers behind Jimbo, as if he’s too stupid to notice. “Why don’t you come back later?” Jimbo knows it’s not a question.

Darrell looks grown, peaceful, so different than the little boy who haunts Jimbo’s memory. He would unmake every mistake if he could. He will not make the mistake now of waking him. Outside Darrell’s room, the maze of halls makes Jimbo feel like a rat. He knows what the people here think of Darrell, of him. He won’t ask for directions. The ones in the white coats are the worst — pity written all over their faces, thinking they’re better than the Sutts because they have education and big words. Jimbo’ll be damned before he asks them anything. This is where Cassie would’ve been taken to stop the bleeding. These are the people who would’ve taken Fawna.

At the end of the hall, Jimbo sees the automatic door to the parking deck and a sign he can’t read until he gets closer: NICU .

Alphabet code for everything. Just before the door is an alcove and another door with a large window. A pair of colored scrubs hurries down the hall, into a bathroom. There’s a metal cart by the door like the one Jimbo uses in the shop. This one has a plastic bin on top and is filled with pink-striped blankets. Everything around it smells sweet and clean. A sound rises that resonates somewhere deep in his bones. Jimbo reaches into the cart, scoops up the bundle, and walks through the automatic door.

Downtown Mobile

The fishy smell of Mobile Bay came through the open car window. Jackie watched the sun come up, casting gold shimmers on the light chop. She drummed her fingers on the steering wheel of the old blue Plymouth Fury, listening to the radio and waiting. The local AM country station was filled with static and aggravation, but soon the Salvation Radio Hour would be on. Brother Fred March preached the fiery word of the Lord and offered to save sinners who bought his prayer cloths or blessed water. Stupid suckers.

Jackie sank deeper into the bench seat, shifting to avoid a spring. She lit a cigarette and let the smoke roll out of her mouth. She’d never learned to make smoke rings.

“Hey, you alive?”

She sat up taller and caught the image of the big man in her side mirror. Merle Boykin, one of her best customers.

“More alive than you want to mess with.” She opened the car door and got out.

“You a feisty thing.” Merle looked her up and down, lazy and deliberately offensive. “Like those cutoff jeans.”

“If you had gunpowder for brains, you couldn’t even blow your nose.” She brushed past him and opened the trunk. “There it is. You carry it inside if you want it. I’m not your pack mule.”

“Girl, your good looks take you only so far. Push a little harder and see what you get.”