Barry Hannah - Yonder Stands Your Orphan

“Was it correct when Dee Allison took your cock in her mouth?” Mortimer all of a sudden asked.

Frank Booth did not hate Dee Allison, but he was a bit afraid for her now. “You aren’t talking hurting her, are you, truly?”

Mortimer said no, no, probably not. Booth was festering on his nerves. “You old queer. You ain’t no navy man, just a jeweler, you lying son of a bitch.”

A stiletto knife, which he used for a letter opener though mail was rare for him, was tucked in the sun visor, the handle above his right hand. It was a cultural item like from Sicily. It was the first time Mortimer had taken up any deadly weapon.

He rammed the stiletto into Frank Booth’s left side. This was the side of the liver, he thought he recalled from a movie. The liver brought quick death. He did not expect it to go in so smoothly. Booth, he thought, was suddenly a cadaver, promptly delivered out of the night. Wet ghoul. Mortimer was up to the hilt in him. He heard the song “Mack the Knife” in his head. European-like, a jazz killing, so here it was. Or leaving him bad-off wounded.

Booth was effeminate, but he had been an actual lieutenant. He had known contact with heavy metal. He had swum underwater ten feet with a knife in his teeth and a Rottweiler right beside him in a scuba mask with a tank on its back, for two miles. He withdrew the knife from his side and then rammed it right back to its owner, his fingers slipping on the blood of the hilt. His mind was on his own nameless grief, but he was not destroyed. He knew full well where the liver was and he was in it, he thought.

Man Mortimer’s belt buckle had bumped the point to a side. The stiletto faced down straight through his root and went then into one testicle, searching the underloin with its needle point. He left it there awhile, did Booth, then jerked it back and returned it to the crease of the velvet sun visor where it lived, now bloody but not all that much.

Mortimer bawled, then whined. He whimpered. He called to his mother without remembering her first name. Emmie? Lumpkin was his daddy, no use here. He couldn’t see her or hear her.

The last sting to the groin was the worst pain now, beyond the balm of any mother, any history, any face.

Booth thought, I split his cock. I didn’t need the liver, didn’t want it. He’s going insane and I can’t listen. I hated the navy .

Then he let himself down from the huge Navigator, joining a saner planet although garish with lights. Orange, mustard, puce. This paramilitary scout stuff with these people. Like they needed another reason to keep one another’s hands on their dick and their women, he thought clearly, but Mortimer’s pain terrified him. Except for the blood in his jacket pocket, Booth was almost strolling away, down the casino esplanade. He called back, “I won’t be seeing you or your woman again. But I’ll have the law and my own gun so far up your ass if you come close to me, you’ll want to forget this.”

Again Mortimer was convinced this was a dream. Dee, double-tongued. She would laugh now. He cried in a hard sob. Over his middle age, his former life. Smooth, purposeful, prosperous, sane, on the downward slope. Oh Mother, Mother. He needed to put his head above his sunroof and scream. Call somebody. Edie? Lloyd! Bertha! I got too high. Mother can’t see me now .

For God’s sake, what is a man with no dick!?

You go to the emergency room now, Vicksburg, and all the porky and black-root dye jobs going Assembly of God on you at the glass windows, already waiting on you for the paperwork with a Chevrolet dealership cheap-ass ball-point on a chain. I ain’t got any Blue Cross Blue Shield, never had any, never been to that Warren General Hospital but twice when Edie had the Valium problem and wrecked my Mercedes SUV .

The bitch Dee. Giving it up to the old navy nancy. Now she’ll pay. She’ll be vomiting my trinkets back to me and signing every one in blood. Them rotten kids’ll pay too. They never took a kind look at me .

He walked into the concert side of the casino. Even maimed, he was drawn here. The hot Latin music, now slower, the relaxed crowd. Classier. Softness of just folks and glasses and the slowly turning woman onstage, the Coyote. She glistened from a Spanish picture book. It was a family scene. Nobody was hustling, nobody screaming for minutes or colors or change or keno or slots. He wanted to rest here. The Cuban woman sang nearly too well. He wetted up. Tears, blood, pants humidity. What you call the sweat that runs down the crack in your sister-in-law’s ass. Relative humidity . The husband saxophonist managed a pleasant reprisal to the misty Cuban ballads his wife sang. She was not just loins and squalling voice box. Were Cubans a race? Nice folks then. Could she sing while cunnilingusing new little Marcine, who’d never even thought of a woman that way? He could just see it: Cinema Marcineté: New Love . The Coyote, whoa what a moment, in the Now, baby, in her flimsy skirt and strappy take-me-now pumps. Hugh Hefner should be stuffed and cornholed, right here, tonight. Chicago-ass Rodin in some pageant hailing his revolution, set a river on fire in the shape of Raquel Welch.

Larry Flynt was more Mortimer’s style. Office in a black skyscraper in Los Angeles. The man assured him that none of his women were forced — no heroin or cocaine or poverty necessary for a real party girl. Throughout known history, a constant line stood at his door, clamoring to advocate themselves by public acts of eroticism. It was always fresh like a new colony shipwrecked on a far island. The women were like those busty Ph.D. women in rocket-ship movies. Present for no clear reason. Otherwise, they had boyfriends and lesbian lovers who respected their power.

This wisdom pleased Mortimer, especially as he pictured his fleet of SUVs circling down the counties even to Natchez, New Orleans; over to Jackson and Little Rock. These flush homes on the best tires, holding any number of men and women in them. The smoked windows behind which would be revealed to what state trooper or hamlet rubberneck no drugs, no weapons, little cash, the sweetest pop ballad of the minute licking the stereo four ways. An urban chauffeur like Lloyd, locked in his seat belt beside Edie, who could talk chocolate into your ears.

Think of the tiny beginnings from that old white hearse and limo rental in Cape Girardeau. A mom-and-pop affair. Five girls. He could get tearful about it. Somebody should’ve taken a picture. They couldn’t afford a Polaroid.

But now, as a eunuch, what was he to them? Girls smiled over at him. Foxes. Those shoulders, those greedy eyes. Here was Dee, sitting at a long table. Dee was surprised to see him sit down at the table, hunched, hushed. The lying whore saw nothing but mirth. She must be drunk, chattering with Melanie Wooten. He knew Dee envied Melanie her natural style and charity, her clothes and carriage.

The only mistake he’d made was loving this woman.

Before he made his appeal for help and all would change at the table, yes they would love to hustle around as Samaritans, pushing each other out of the way to help, he could watch a bit longer. The Latin music was soft, the singer pliant, sumptuous. You wished she’d sing that way for you. Her husband now a voice of restraint and muted refrain in answer to her. But he looked like a thin prisoner of disgust.

Mortimer continued the casting in his head for a video. You’d take away the oldest here. Not Mrs. Wooten. She still has something that shocks you, that ageless grace, could be the wise elder madam. You couldn’t do with the colored veteran John Roman, though. He’s got a fine name, but you got no appeal with an older black hero. This man looks like he’d sing “Old Man River,” anyway .