Joe Lansdale - Freezer Burn

“I thought Christ was supposed to have risen. Ain’t that how the story goes? That was true, wouldn’t be no body.”

Frost nodded. “If he was just a man, then there would be a body. He may not be the son of God, but he would still be one of the most important human beings to have ever lived. And if he was in fact the son of God, the body is his shell, not his spirit. It would have been his spirit that rose, not the shell.”

“You’re saying that… That’s really the body of him?”

“I’m saying I bought the exhibit and the story. The body may in fact be the body of the previous carnival owner’s kin. A bum who died and was preserved. It doesn’t matter, Bill. Not really. It matters what you decide to believe.

“I’m going to go now, and I’m going to clean that mess on the side of the trailer. Then I’m going to try and find a place to have Conrad embalmed and buried. He was always a good and close friend to me, and now I intend to help him leave this world.”

“He’s already left it.”

“I suppose he has.”

Frost got up and went outside. A little later Bill heard him working alongside the trailer. Bill took the paperbacks off of the freezer and placed them beside his bed.

He got the hair dryer. He turned it on and blew away the frost. The figure inside didn’t look much like most pictures of Jesus, but it did look a bit like the picture on the wall of the Pickled Punk trailer, but with eyes like Frost’s. It had scars on its forehead, as if from thorns, and there were marks on its side, and Bill thought he could see some kind of mark on one of its feet. A nail wound?

Maybe it was just a wrinkle.

Frost canceled the carnival that weekend and got permission to stay in that spot until he could take care of Conrad and have a time of mourning for himself and the carnival members. Most of them thought they ought to take the day Conrad went into the hole off and get back to work the next. They liked Conrad, some even loved him, but a buck was a buck, and you had to eat, one dead Wonder Dog or no. But it was, as usual, Frost’s way or the highway.

It turned out things didn’t go so slick for Frost. In town the body was held and it was insisted that next of kin be searched for. No one wanted to take Frost’s word on the matter. Things like that had happened before, only to result in dire consequences for town officials. They put the dog on ice and Frost and the authorities started a search.

It turned out Frost was wrong. There was a cousin in Idaho. She was found easy. She wanted the body but was too much of an invalid to come down and get it. She asked if Conrad could be stuffed and a name plaque attached so he could be made into some kind of exhibit, and would this be easier for mailing? Frost lied and told her the body was too much of a wreck. She asked Frost to bring the corpse and, being Frost, he agreed. He wanted to be there to make sure Conrad went into the ground, not next to a door and an umbrella rack. He made arrangements to have Conrad embalmed and placed in a coffin from the animal cemetery, because those were the only coffins small enough to properly accommodate him and not have him rattle around in there during transit like a BB in a boxcar. It took two days for the embalming and fitting in the coffin, the one commonly used for collies and German shepherds. Frost had to go back the next day and load the coffin in the back of the station wagon and drive back to the carnival.

He came to Bill and told him about the cousin.

“I’m going to be gone for a while. I have to go to Idaho. It’ll take me a week to get there, do the funeral, help out, and come back. You and Gidget are in charge.”

“I don’t know nothin’ about being in charge.”

“Others do, but they don’t want it. Gidget’s the one, but she’ll need help. Little things. She’ll tell you what to do.”

“I could drive Conrad to his cousin’s in Idaho.”

“I have to do this, and for my sake, and Conrad’s sake, I need you to help Gidget. Will you do it?”

Bill and Frost were standing outside the Ice Man’s trailer. Bill walked over to the station wagon and looked in the back at the small blue coffin sitting on the old creased upholstery. Goodbye, my friend. Peace to you. And I’m sorry. But I can see that ditch coming and I don’t even know how to steer.

Frost left that afternoon and that night, late, Gidget came to the Ice Man’s trailer and scratched like a cat on the door.

“I know it’s you,” Bill said, then considered it might in fact be Pete come for his blow job.

“Let me in?”

“No. You go on.”

“He’s gone, Bill. We can be together.”

“I killed my friend on account of you.”

“It was on account of an accident.”

“Wouldn’t have been no accident without you and me.”

“That’s just it, Bill. It was you and me. Not me.”

“No more, Gidget. Just leave me be.”

“You want me, Bill. I know it. You know it.”

Bill could see that ditch looming large.

“You let me in, let me take care of you the way only I can. You hear me, Bill?”

“I hear you.”

“You let me in, honey, and I’ll give you a taste like you haven’t ever had.”

“No.”

“You’re thinking about it-”

“No.”

“ – aren’t you, Bill? You know what I can do-”

“Go!”

“ – for you. It’s not just what I can do, it’s what you want. There’s no use pretending you’re worth something, Bill. You aren’t. You’re just like me, rotten to the core. You’re tryin’ to wear some kind of halo, like Frost wants you to. But that isn’t you. You got any halo on, it’s made of aluminum foil and a coat hanger, baby. You’re who you are. You and me, we got rotten souls, and that’s all there is to it. And there isn’t anyone can make you and me happy, but you and me. Together.”

“Please, Gidget.”

“Bill. This is the last time I ask. I’m not one has to ask much, you know that. There are plenty out there ready and willing. Open the door.”

When Bill opened the door Gidget leaped in, swung her fist and hit him over the ear and knocked him down and tried to kick him in the balls. He rolled and she caught his side with another kick. He got up and she kicked at him again, and he grabbed her foot and pulled her to the floor and jumped astride her and slapped her across the face, back and forth, back and forth, and she said, “Yeah, baby, yeah, do it,” and he hit her again, and this time it wasn’t anger, it was pleasure, and she shared the pleasure. She used both hands to grab the sides of her white blouse and rip it open, loosing bra-less titties on the world. Bill jammed his fingers in her worn-out blue jean shorts and tugged with all his might, ripping, exposing one beautiful thigh, then he ripped again, showing the rest of her. She scratched at him and ripped through his T-shirt and tore his flesh and he bled and she ran her hands over his chest, smearing the blood, poking the red fingers in her mouth to suck. He slapped her and she groaned. He tugged at his belt and she swatted his groin. He unfastened his pants, pushed them down, got on top of her. She tried to pull her thighs together. He bit her nipple and she spread her legs with a little squeak. She was hot and wet and sticky. He went into her and she said, “Have you now, you sonofabitch!”

And have him she did. Up one side and down the other. When it was over they lay together, she in the crook of his arm and he breathing heavy, feeling satiated.

“It didn’t work out,” she said. “It happens.”

“It was terrible.”

“I know. You lost a friend. We got the wrong one. We tried too hard. We got to know he’s the one to get it, not hope he’s the one.”