Cormac McCarthy - Suttree

All right, said Suttree.

He reached down and tapped Suttree’s knee with his forefinger. You, my good buddy, are a fourteen carat gold plated son of a bitch. That’s what your problem is. And that being your problem, there’s not a whole lot of people in sympathy with you. Or with your problem. Now I’m goin to do you a favor. Against my better judgment. And it’s not goin to make me no friends. I’m goin to drive your stinkin ass to the bus station and give you an opportunity to get out of here.

I dont have any money.

I never reckoned that you did. I intend to put up five dollars cash money out of my own pocket to get you started. I aint interested in where you go, but I aim to see to it that you go five dollars’ worth in some direction and you and me both are goin to hope that you dont never come back. Now do you want to know why?

Why what?

Why I’m puttin up the five dollars.

No.

I thought maybe the economics of it might interest you. I hear tell you’re supposed to be real smart.

I dont care.

The reason I’m investin five dollars in your absence is because the man whose daughter’s life you ruined happens to be a friend of mine and a man I not only like but respect. And I’d like to see him have some peace of mind. I know he aint goin to thank me for this. What he’d like is to see you hung. But I know him for a fairminded man and a peacelovin man and I know that he’ll be happier in his mind if he just gets you out of his sight. He might even come to forget there ever was a lowlife like you although I doubt it.

What do you get out of it?

Not a thing, good buddy.

You said I ought to be interested in the economics of it.

I said it but I dont believe it. It’s not much economics anyway. About the only thing to be said for gettin fucked out of five dollars this way is that you wont catch the clap. I never expected you to understand.

No one cares. It’s not important.

That’s where you’re wrong my friend. Everything’s important. A man lives his life, he has to make that important. Whether he’s a small town county sheriff or the president. Or a busted out bum. You might even understand that some day. I dont say you will. You might.

The sheriff turned in the seat and reached for the key and turned it. But the motor was already running and the starter made a sudden wild screeching sound. He muttered to himself and shifted the gears and they went on down the street.

The bus station was in the back of a cafe and when they pulled up in front there were two buses idling in the alley. The sheriff shifted and took out his billfold and lifted a five dollar bill from it and handed it across.

I suppose I have to take it, Suttree said.

You suppose correctly.

Suttree took the bill and looked at it.

Now, the sheriff said, I want you to take whichever bus out of here best pleases you and I want you to ride five dollars in that direction and I dont want you back. You got that?

I’ve got it.

Suttree was holding the money in his hand. The sheriff looked at him. You all right? he said.

Yeah. I’m all right.

I’m puzzled that you’d have the face to come here.

Well. You’re puzzled.

I will say one thing: you’ve opened my eyes. I’ve got two daughters, oldest fourteen, and I’d see them both in hell fore I’d send them up to that university. I’m damned if I wouldnt.

How many sons have you got?

Not any. Look Suttree, I’m sorry as far as that goes. These people did want me to put you in jail.

I know.

Well. You get your ticket right in there. Dont let me see you on the street. You stay in there till your bus runs. You hear?

Suttree opened the door and climbed out. He looked down at the sheriff and then he shut the door.

You take care, the sheriff said.

Okay.

The sheriff had bent forward to see his face. Suttree turned and walked into the cafe.

He left the bus in Stanton Tennessee with three dollars still in his pocket. It was ten oclock at night. He walked down to a cabstand and bought a pint of whiskey from a driver and put it in his shirt and hiked out to the edge of town and stood in the road holding his thumb up at the lights that passed. None stopped. After an hour he walked on. It had turned cool. He could see lights far up the highway, a roadhouse or cafe.

The sign said it was a truck stop and there was a diesel rig pulled over on the gravel with the motor running. Suttree peered in through the plateglass window. A cold hall of a place. Plastic tables. Two boys playing a pinball machine. The driver sat at the counter drinking coffee. Suttree searched his pockets for a dime but he had none. He went in anyway.

An ancient waitress was cleaning out the coffee urn with a short-handled mop. When she saw Suttree she climbed down off the chair she was standing on and came shuffling up the aisle behind the counter. Suttree leaned on the counter next to the driver. The driver looked at him.

Is that your rig? said Suttree.

The driver set his cup down. Yeah, he said. That’s my rig.

You reckon I could get a ride with you?

Where you goin?

To Knoxville.

I aint goin to Knoxville.

Well where are you going?

I aint goin to Knoxville.

The driver bent and sipped his coffee and Suttree stood looking down at him and then turned and left the cafe. He started back down the highway toward the town. The lights had dimmed, the town seemed farther at this midnight hour. Partway down the road he stopped and opened the bottle and drank.

The first building he came to was a church. There was a small illuminated glass case standing in the yard, white letters on a black plastic board within. Insects were swarming over the dimly lit church news. Suttree turned across the lawn and went to the back of the church and sat in the grass and drank the whiskey. After he had drunk a little of it he began to cry. He began to cry harder and harder until he was sitting there in the grass with the bottle upright between his knees, wailing aloud.

He must have slept. When he woke he was lying in the grass looking up at the heavens. A cloudless night strewn with stars. Salt taste of sorrow in his throat. He saw a star spill across the sky, a light trail of fire and then nothing. Hot spalls of matter rifling through the icy ether. Misshapen globs of iron slag.

The night had grown much colder. He lay in the grass shivering and he tried to sleep but he could not. After a while he rose and took the whiskey and went to the rear door of the church and tried it and it opened.

He was in a cellar. There were stacks of old newspapers and magazines along one wall and he stretched out on these and lay there. Then he sat up and took some to spread over him and lay down again. Then he started to cry again, lying there in the dark of the church cellar under the old newspapers.

It was midmorning when he woke. A truck gone out the pike had rattled the cellar door. He sat up in a flurry of newsprint and looked about. Light fell from a high window. Some kind of small bird was pecking in the grass there. Suttree rose and ran his hand through his hair. His throat was dry and his head hurt. The rest of the whiskey stood in the bottle on the floor and he fetched it up and held it to the light. It was about a third full and he unscrewed the cap and took a drink and shuddered and shook himself and then took another drink. Then he went out.

It took him all day to cross the state. He was unshaven and he looked bad. Toward evening he was in a nameless crossroads high in the Cumberland Mountains. A quarter mile down the road in the dusk stood a figure like his own, a wanderer longmirrored in the black asphalt, one arm aloft. Suttree walked on. It was a husky young boy and he had stationed himself in front of a small country store to try for a ride. Suttree walked on past. The store was closed and the windows boarded up and some twisted pipes grew from the concrete apron in front where a gaspump had been ripped up.