Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

I waited, afraid that if I said anything, Grandma might stop talking.

She sniffed once and wiped at her nose quickly, saying, “You know how we used to have around twenty pigs back then, along with the goats, right?” I nodded. Grandma looked up at the brilliant stars. “Well, your grandfather, ah, he had a heart attack. That part was true. The thing I didn’t tell you was that it hit him when he was feeding the hogs one day. He collapsed, and … well, the hogs ate most of him before I found him.” She swallowed, and when she continued her voice was thick.

“And the strangest thing was, was the first thing that popped into my head when I saw what was left of him, lying in the mud, all tore up like that, was that dead hog and the blood on the front door all those years ago.”

Grandma coughed a little, a dry, rasping sound that sent a small cloud of sweet-smelling smoke into the still night air. I sat perfectly still, still trying to process the story somehow. It didn’t seem real. The man I had thought was my father for a long time, the man who had taught me everything about guns and shooting, the man I had thought was the toughest man in the world, that man, dead in the mud, ripped open by pigs. It was too much to take in. I couldn’t get my head around it, couldn’t even begin to accept it.

Grandma spoke again, her voice dry as smoke. “So I don’t know if it was her or not, and I don’t know if I ever want to know. But I don’t want you getting anywhere near that family. They’re dangerous. And that Pearl, she’s the most … most evil human being I’ve ever come across. I don’t even know if I’d call her human. I ain’t ashamed to admit that she scares the hell out of me.”

I wanted to say, You’re goddamn right. She scares the hell out of me too. I saw her kill a kitten tonight and stare right at me in total darkness, and she scared me bad enough I almost pissed my pants , but instead I just mumbled, “Okay, Grandma, okay. I’ll stay far away from them, I promise.”

We sat in silence for a few moments, watching the stars. I had heard on the news at the bar that another storm front was rolling up the valley, and I wasn’t sure when we might get to see clear skies again.

Finally Grandma spoke up, softer, more gentle this time. “If you don’t mind me saying so, Arch, it smells like you got sidetracked on your way home.”

I shrugged. The last thing I wanted to tell her was about the pit and that I had been at the Sawyer place. “It’s … it’s been a long day,” I said finally.

She tapped her pipe against the steps, knocking the ashes into the wet weeds. “Then why don’t we get you cleaned up a little?” She shook her head, dropping the pipe into a large pocket in her dress. “You sure aren’t going inside smelling like that.”

My knees popped as I found my feet. I reached out to help Grandma stand, but she waved me away.

“Bring that hose over here,” she said. “And while you’re at it, take off those damn shoes. They ain’t fit to scrub out a septic tank. I’ll put ’em out of their misery tomorrow and burn them.”

That sent a tiny, scrabbling shiver up my spine when I thought about the kitten and the burn barrel. But I shoved the image aside, buried it deep as I grabbed the hose and turned the spigot on. The water coming out was cold, but clean. That’s all I cared about. I dragged the hose back over to the steps and handed it to her, keeping the stream aimed at the lawn.

“Now hold still,” Grandma said.

The spray hit my chest and my breath caught in my throat from the sudden shock of the cold water. I pulled off my shirt and flung it to the side. Then I bent down to rip off my shoes. Grandma aimed the spray at the top of my head and for a moment all I could hear was the water hitting my scalp. It didn’t feel so cold anymore.

Later, as I stood dripping on the top steps, Grandma affectionately wrapped a towel around my shoulders. I pulled it together across my chest and met her gaze. “I … I’m just trying to do the right thing,” I said.

She nodded, taking a smaller towel and vigorously drying my hair. “That’s all you can do. And if you ever need any help, you just holler.”

“Thanks, Grandma.”

“Now get in there and take a shower. You need it.”

SATURDAY

CHAPTER 14

I wanted to say to hell with it and sleep in a little the next morning, but Grandma knocked softly on the bedroom door around seven and said quietly, “Arch? You up?”

“I’m up, I’m moving,” I said thickly. For a moment, I thought I’d overslept again and was late for work. And right around then everything from the night before came flooding back, collecting into seared images behind my eyes. The pit. Rotting steers. The worm thing trying to eat into my hand. Junior and his chainsaw. Intestines and worms spilling out all over the table. After all that, I wasn’t exactly in a rush to get to work.

“Yeah, I’m up.”

“You think you could thin out the squirrels a little? Little bastards have damn near eaten all of my squash and since the corn’s getting ripe, they’re just going to get worse. I’d keep an eye on things, but I promised Peg I’d take her some tomatoes.”

Peg was Grandma’s closest, well, her only friend really. She lived down the road about a mile and a half, and scratched out a living by raising mean, thin chickens. Once, when Peg chopped the head off of one of the chickens with a wood axe, I swear that headless chicken ran around for a full five minutes before the body realized that the head wasn’t attached and it was supposed to be dead. Even when it finally toppled over, it fought death the whole way, flapping its wings and kicking up a cloud of blood and dust. Grandma was always trading vegetables for eggs and headless, plucked chickens. I figured that half the time, the trading was just an excuse to get together and puff on their dead husbands’ pipes, filling the chicken yard with sweet-smelling blue smoke. Peg couldn’t walk too well, even worse than Grandma, so they always met at her house.

“Sure, Grandma. I got the time.”

“You still going into work?”

“I gotta, Grandma.”

She nodded and gave me a glimmer of a smile. “You take care of yourself.”

“I will.”

Grandma nodded and shut the door.

I slipped out of bed and took another long, hot shower, scrubbing my skin until it was a bright shade of pink. I stayed in there until the water had gone cold, and only then reluctantly climbed out.

Grandma had dug a pair of Grandpa’s old black boots out from somewhere and set them in the hall. There was no sign of my tennis shoes, and I figured it was for the best. Grandpa’s boots were a little big, but with two pairs of socks, the creased leather molded around my feet just fine.

A giant tomato and onion omelet was waiting for me on the counter in the kitchen. After last night, I wasn’t sure if I’d ever be hungry again, but I surprised myself and inhaled the breakfast.

I checked the clock. Seven-thirty. It was time for a few squirrels to meet their maker. I opened the front hall closet. More than two dozen boxes of shells were stacked neatly on the floor next to the encyclopedias. I could remember when the closet was full of Grandpa’s guns: Winchesters, Rugers, Remingtons, a couple of Browning shotguns, a Colt 1911 .45, and even an ancient Model 1885 High Wall single shot. They were all gone, all sold to pay for rent and food. Grandma cried when she had to sell the Highwall rifle, Grandpa’s favorite. That was the only time I ever saw Grandma cry.

All that remained was the Browning .10 gauge shotgun and Grandpa’s Springfield 30.06, the two guns Grandma refused to sell. I grabbed a box of shells and the rifle case. Nestled in threadbare red imitation velvet waited my grandfather’s 30.06. Bolt action, with a five-round clip. Walnut stock. Iron sights, grooved slots of metal at the end of the barrel.