Jeff Jacobson - Wormfood

I wasn’t sure what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.

After a few seconds, Fat Ernst turned and forced his bulk through the back door. He hollered over his shoulder, “Hurry and finish cleaning up. Then you and me are gonna go for a ride. I’m gonna close up early today. We got a lot of work to do before morning rolls around.”

CHAPTER 19

Fat Ernst had a huge old Cadillac, with fins and everything, a fat white whale wallowing in a sea of mud. The inside was the color of pomegranates that have been left in the sun too long. Everything was this deep dark red, and I mean everything. The carpet, the seats, the dashboard—even the steering wheel. Only the slivery glints of the metal knobs broke the monotony. I sat down on the edge of the impossibly long bench seat, feeling like a frightened toddler placed upon a pew in some musty old church for the first time. And just like I was in church, I prayed. I prayed there wasn’t too much mud on Grandpa’s boots to soil the pomegranate carpet. I prayed Grandma was okay. I prayed we weren’t going back to Slim’s pit.

And I prayed that someday I would forget how Heck’s ruined face looked as he landed in the bottom of the Dumpster.

Fat Ernst dropped into the driver’s seat like a bomb going off in slow motion. Waves of flesh rolled down, then rippled back up his arms and under his shirt. The car’s suspension gave a short shriek of pain, then gave up. Fat Ernst twisted the key and we were off. He didn’t say anything and neither did I.

The Cadillac followed the highway up into the foothills by the lake. I thanked God that we were headed in the opposite direction from Slim’s ranch, but I still got a bad feeling when Fat Ernst stopped the car in front of Heck’s store. A rusted gas pump stood outside the store like a stubborn sentry who refused to leave his post. A wooden sandwich board had been propped up near the door and loudly proclaimed LIVE BAIT—FRESH WORMS.

Fat Ernst ignored the “Gone Fishin’, Be Back Later” sign hanging behind the glass front door and opened the door using Heck’s keys. I decided to stay outside, by the gas pump. Heck was dead, and I didn’t need to be inside his store, going through his stuff, looking for God knows what. Behind the store, off to the west, the clouds were churning across the sky, hanging low and fat. It wouldn’t be long before the rain started again, flat-out serious this time.

Fat Ernst reappeared, carrying a chunk of cast iron about the size of a basketball. It was bulbous and heavy, with three stubby legs protruding out of what I thought was the bottom. A thick plastic hose grew out of the top and looped over Fat Ernst’s shoulder. He carried it to the car, breath coming in short, quick bursts.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Sump pump,” Fat Ernst replied, as if that explained everything. He opened the trunk and dropped the thing inside. “See boy, that’s how you make it in this world. You gotta always be thinking ahead.”

I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about but figured it wasn’t the time to ask, because Fat Ernst was settling in behind the wheel. I hopped back into the car and Fat Ernst pulled out in a wide U-turn, heading back down into the valley. Before long, I realized that we were headed down Road E, down the narrow road to the gravel track and out to the Sawyers’ ranch.

The road didn’t improve much in the faint daylight that was still left. It just illuminated the dead trees, broken fences, and scattered litter of tossed beer cans, cigarette packs, fast-food wrappers, and junkthat didn’t have any logical explanation. A La-Z-Boy recliner, lying on its side. A shopping cart. Broken sawhorses. A pile of microwaves. An old dishwasher, still swathed in fiberglass insulation. Much later, I found out all this was actually dumped by people from town who couldn’t be bothered to take their junk to the dump and pay the fee. Instead, they drove out here when they knew the brothers were gone and unloaded their trash.

The Cadillac crested the small hill and rolled down into the hollow filled with deep shadows. As we got closer to the house I could hear the incessant, skin-crawling buzz of the wasps, even through the thick windows. I kept checking and rechecking the passenger window to make sure it was rolled all the way up.

Fat Ernst killed the headlights as he got close to the edge of the house. “Don’t want to spook ’em,” he said. “Heard they started shooting at a UPS truck that got lost once.” After a moment of consideration, he shut the engine off too. We sat quietly in the Cadillac, parked about fifteen yards from the house. Two of the downstairs windows had light spilling out of them onto the tangled grass. But the front door stayed shut. Then Fat Ernst looked over at me. “Why don’t you go say hello.” Then he told me what to say.

I knew it was coming. Knew it was useless to argue. Fat Ernst would probably just break my nose, then make me go up to the house by myself anyway. So I took a quick glance out at the fig trees, now just splintered, twisted silhouettes against a purple sky, and climbed out of the car. I thought about leaving the door open, thinking it would serve Fat Ernst right if I let a swarm of wasps loose inside the car. But I shut the door and started toward the house.

It still reminded me of a spider; a squat, sick arachnid with broken legs, still waiting patiently in its web of fig trees. A thin strip of cracked concrete took me to the front door. I couldn’t feel my legs; they seemed to be moving on their own, and I floated along through the weeds growing in the ragged crevices in the concrete as if I were standing onsome crumbling conveyer belt. I just eased on up to the front door and before I could stop myself, I reached out and pressed the doorbell. Nothing happened.

I swore under my breath and raised my fist to knock.

The door opened and Junior grinned out of the shadows at me. “Well, well. If it isn’t the sharpshooter. Hiya, Archie.”

He stood there wearing nothing but a pair of jeans. A chicken drumstick was clamped in one hand. He glanced over my shoulder at Fat Ernst’s Cadillac and took a chomp out of the chicken leg. He pulled his head away, like a dog, and I heard the gristle snap. He said, “Come back for some more shooting practice?”

“Uh, no. Look, I’m sorry about that—I, uh, didn’t mean to do it,” I finished in a small voice. Uncomfortable silence. I had to say something. “Fat Ernst says he’s got another job for you.”

“Is that right.”

A light flickered on somewhere behind him, to the right, illuminating the foyer of the house. A small, antique table stood against the wall behind Junior. A tall mirror hung above the table. It looked old and dark, as if bubbles and smoke had somehow infected the glass, twisting and obscuring the reflection. And I heard the voice, out of the room to the right. Her voice. It sounded like rusty iron being slowly pulled apart.

“What’s that pig fucker want?” Dry as death, the words sounded a little slurred and mushy. I wasn’t sure if she was talking about me or Fat Ernst.

Junior called back over his shoulder, “Says he’s got another job for us, Ma.”

In the mirror behind Junior, I caught a glimpse of something pale. The mirror must have been tilted somehow, maybe hung crookedly, because I could see into the room to the right. Maybe it was the living room, I wasn’t sure. It wasn’t until much later that I began to suspect it was hung that way on purpose, so anyone in the living room could see who was at the front door without leaving the room. The pale shapedrifted through the smoky glass like a ghost, but I knew it was her. “What kind of job?”

Junior looked down at me and asked, “What kind of job?” He stuck the now-clean drumstick in his mouth and, in one quick jerk, broke it in half.