Макс Коллинз - Spree

Thedy Sue was all Georgia peaches and cream, creamy skin, breasts like peaches, a strawberry blonde with freckles and wide blue empty eyes. Thick as a plank she was, but she kept her looks over the years; never ran to fat. She learned to cook and she had a sweet disposition. What did it matter if she thought two plus two was twenty-two, and signed her name with an X? What counted was she fucked like a monkey, and only with her lawful wedded husband.

She died giving birth to Cindy Lou. Sometimes Cole blamed himself for that; maybe they should’ve gone to a hospital. Hell, it was a fluke, the baby coming out feet-first and all that blood and all. Who could’ve predicted it? Cole had never met a doctor who wasn’t a crook, anyway.

And Cindy Lou, she was the spitting image of her mother. She was her beautiful mother back again, only with something of a brain. It was all he could do to keep his hands off the child. But he did. Or at least had so far. He was weighing it in his mind: who better to educate her to the ways of the world than her pa? Who better to usher her into womanhood than her loving father?

Still, some vestige of his Bible-beating upbringing, back in the Georgia sticks, clung to him. Kept him from certain “forbidden” things. He knew it was bunk; he knew there was no God. He’d looked at the world and he knew it was as pointlessly random and thoughtlessly cruel as a child setting fire to a beetle. He’d looked at the sky and seen stars but sensed nobody up there. No grand design. No meaning to this life, at all, except the meaning you make for yourself, in your life’s work, in your family. Then, dying day would come, and it would all be dust. Sweet Thedy Sue, who never harmed a fly, was dust now, wasn’t she? It was stupid to think of her as being in “Heaven” — she’d have left her body behind, and cooking wouldn’t be called for up there, and a good nature like hers’d be a dime a dozen in celestial circles. What use could any God have for a dope like her?

Heaven was hogwash, but his ma’s teachings sometimes came out of the recesses of his brain to haunt him. But right there with it was the memory of Pa, who put the beating into Bible-beating — literally; he used the Good Book as a weapon, slamming it against the three boys’ bare bottoms, hurling it at them from across a room. His older brother Sam, younger brother Daniel, and Cole himself received his boozing pa’s discipline equally: no favorites. Even now the thought of it sent a hand to Cole’s forehead; the memory of the corner of that big heavy Bible cutting into his temple was still there. So was the scar.

People would come calling and remark at how dog-eared the family Bible was. You Comforts must put it to good use. And Ma would smile modestly and Pa would just sort of snort.

Cole hated the thought of his long-dead pa; he had sworn he’d raise his brood better. He had sworn he’d be a loving father, and he kept his vow. For example, he loved Lyle, and only a truly loving father could love such a dipshit.

What you could say for Lyle was this: he did as he was told. He, and Cindy Lou for that matter (but she was less reliable, by far), had pitched in on the food stamp business. Lyle even came up with an idea, a good idea, although it was an accident.

“You’ll be like a postman,” Cole had said, explaining how Lyle would go to mailboxes and remove food stamp envelopes.

“Will I wear a uniform like a postman?” Lyle asked, with his mother’s wide empty eyes.

Cole could hardly believe his ears. “Goddamn, boy, if that ain’t a hell of an idea!”

“It is?”

It was. Cole had both Lyle and Cindy Lou wear postal employee uniforms when they were out collecting mail; that way, no one would question them going up to mailboxes, moving from this mailbox to that one, in broad daylight.

Acquiring the uniforms had been easy; in two separate communities, Lyle followed first a postman, and then a female postal worker, home. He burgled both houses, taking a lot of things among which were the uniforms. Enough things were stolen to make the missing uniforms get lost in the police-report shuffle; it occurred to no one that the uniforms were the purpose of the exercise. Cole had suggested to Lyle that he rape the woman, to further confuse the issue, but Lyle didn’t want to do that. You had to give the kid that much: he may have been a dim bulb, but he had standards.

And this afternoon, Sunday, Lyle had shown signs of intelligence. Initiative, even.

Cole had been sprawled out on the couch, watching a Chicago Bears football game on the big-screen television, sipping a Stroh’s, when Lyle came slowly down the steps, bare feet slapping the wood. The boy was in his T-shirt and shorts. He’d just gotten up. His curly brown hair was sticking up here and there.

“Morning, Pa,” Lyle said, standing at the foot of the stairs. Stretching.

“Afternoon, son. You slept in.”

Lyle yawned; sighed. “Guess so. Got in kinda late.”

“I heard you get in. How did it go?”

“Mr. Corliss was no trouble.”

“Didn’t think he’d be. Look at that nigger! Can he hit !”

“He was hard to drag.”

“What?”

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to innerupp your game.”

Cole sat up; something was troubling the boy. He patted the place next to him on the couch. Turned the sound down with the remote control. “Sit down, son. I don’t mean not to give credit where credit is due. I been taking you for granted.”

Lyle smiled, shyly. “Aw, Pa...”

Cole slipped an arm around the boy’s shoulder. “I’m proud of you. You took care of all of ’em. It wasn’t no picnic, I know that. It’s messy work. It’s work only a real man can do. I’m right proud.”

“Pa, I saw somebody.”

Cole squinted. “You mean somebody saw you...?”

Lyle shook his head no, emphatically. “No, no. Nobody saw me with Mr. Corliss. That road’s real deserted. It’s hard dragging a fat man like that, though. The ground was cold, too. Lots of roots in the earth. Hard digging a hole.”

The boy’s mind did wander, even if it didn’t have far to go. “Well, I’m sure you were up to the job, son. Now what do you mean, you saw somebody?”

“Do you remember a man named Nolan?”

A red-hot poker seared through Cole Comfort’s brain. His hands turned into fists and through teeth clenched tighter than Kirk Douglas overacting he said, “Do I remember a man named Nolan?” He stood. He looked at his knuckle-headed son through a red haze. “He only killed your uncle. He only killed your two cousins. Are you telling me you saw Nolan ?”

Lyle shrugged. “I think so. I only seen him that one time.”

Cole and his brother Sam had been in on an armored car job with Nolan, in Ohio; this was five years ago, anyway, and Lyle hadn’t been old enough to play. But they’d met once, for one of the planning sessions, in a house where the Comforts were staying, Sam and his sons Billy and Terry, and Cole and his boys and girl. So Lyle had seen Nolan. And he’d certainly heard Cole talk about him often enough.

“Was it him?”

“Pa, don’t! You’re hurting me!”

Cole hadn’t realized he was gripping the boy’s arms; but he was: his hands were squeezing the boy’s biceps red, then white.

“I’m sorry,” Cole said, but didn’t let go and didn’t lessen his grip. “Was it him?”

“He seemed older.”

The stupidity of that remark brought Cole back to his senses, more or less, and he let loose of the boy and rubbed his own face with one hand, as if trying to wash away the frustration of having raised such a thick child, and said, “You saw him five or more years ago, Lyle. Of course he looked older.”

“He was fatter. Just his tummy.”