Joe Lansdale - A Fine Dark Line

I laughed at them awhile, then found myself looking up at the rotting fragments in the trees again. Since last time I had been there, a piece or two had disintegrated and fallen to the ground, shattered into blackened slivers.

The metal staircase still hung in place, however, and I knew I had to climb it. The idea had been with me all summer, and I couldn’t let the summer end without trying it.

It was a foolish thing to consider, but it’s one of the faults of being a boy.

I climbed about halfway up and felt the stairs sway. But only sway. They seemed to be caught up good in pine boughs and vines that had twisted up the trunk of the tree closest to the stairwell.

The stairway had survived the fire in place, the rest of the house burning down around it. Vines, a tree, and time, had lifted it out of the ground and held it just above its former position like a twisty metal worm captured in a giant spiderweb.

Halfway up, the stairs wobbled and I had a vision of some rusted spot giving way. I decided to go back down. When I turned, I saw Mr. Chapman coming through the woods. He was walking, carrying a large walking stick. He saw me on the stairway, came over, looked up, put his hands on one of the rails. The stairway shook and moved much more than my weight had moved it.

“Please don’t do that, Mr. Chapman,” I said.

“That scare you?”

“Yes.”

“Seen that boy of mine?”

“No, sir.”

“You ain’t lyin’ to me, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“I don’t like being lied to.”

“I haven’t seen him.”

Chapman looked around, then looked back up at me and grinned. He shook the stairway. “Tell me the truth now, boy.”

“Don’t. I’m going to fall.”

Nub, who had been occupied with his squirrel, realized I was being threatened. He leaped from his limb, hit the ground, rolled to his feet, darted straight for Chapman.

“Hey, hey,” Chapman said.

Nub bit at Chapman’s ankle. “Stop it!” Chapman said, and he swatted at Nub, struck him with the stick, knocked him rolling.

“He thinks you’re hurting me,” I yelled, starting down. “Leave him be. I’ll get him.”

“Don’t care what he thinks.”

Nub was up again, growling. You would have thought he was a German shepherd. And maybe, in his mind, he was. Nub shot at Chapman like an arrow. The stick swung, missed. Nub caught Chapman by the ankle. Chapman let out a scream.

“Stop it,” I said. “Leave him alone.”

“I’ll kill him.”

“No you won’t.” It was Callie. She was inside the drive-in, standing on something next to the fence, her shoulders and head poking up over the top of it. She had a handful of rocks from the gravel drive.

“I’ll beat him to death,” Chapman said, and he struck at Nub, hitting him, knocking him down and out.

“Now, bury the little bastard.”

It went through my head like a shot that this was the same man we had seen in the woods crying over a dog. It wasn’t a thought I considered long. I started climbing down. I didn’t know what I was going to do, but my eyes were filled with tears and I was crazy mad.

Callie whistled a rock through the air. It hit Chapman on the shoulder. He let out a scream. “You hell-spawn. You Jezebel.”

Another rock whistled, caught him on the side of the head. He jerked a hand to the spot and yelled.

Callie started whistling one rock after another. Chapman broke and ran back a ways. I was on the ground now, and he turned, glared at me. “Don’t you never come around no more, you hear? You see that boy of mine, tell him he’s gonna take a hell of a beatin’. And one for you too.”

Callie threw another rock. Chapman thought he was out of distance of her throwing arm, but the rock hit him in the leg. Another went whistling, struck the tree next to him.

“You better quit, missy. I’ll get you too.”

That was when I saw Daddy on the outside of the fence, coming around on the side closest to Chapman. Chapman didn’t see him. He was too busy taunting me and Callie.

I went over to pick up Nub. He was still breathing. He opened his eyes and looked at me as if trying to focus. He had the same look Buster had when he was coming off his drunk.

Chapman was in the middle of a diatribe when he looked up and saw Daddy. “Now you ought to go on and leave me be. I’m just tryin’ to help these youngin’s get some manners.”

As Daddy neared Chapman, Chapman swung the walking stick. Daddy swatted at it, sucked it into him, moved slightly, and now he had the stick.

Chapman tried to run, but Daddy was on him. The stick swung, caught Chapman on the leg, knocked him down. Daddy tossed the stick away and kicked Chapman in the throat. Chapman went to the ground gagging. I heard Callie yelling at Daddy to stop.

When I looked up he had Chapman pulled to his knees and was slapping him the way he had slapped Chester, but with greater enthusiasm.

“You weasel. You do all right hitting kids and women and little dogs, don’t you, you greasy sleazeball bastard. I get through with you, you won’t know on which side of your face to pick your nose.”

“Daddy!” Callie had climbed over the fence and was running toward him. Me, I didn’t move.

I picked up Nub, held him close to me. He wiggled.

Callie had hold of Daddy’s slapping hand. Dad shoved Chapman to the ground. Chapman, bleeding from mouth, nose, and ears, said, “A Chapman don’t forget.”

“Good,” Daddy said. “Think I wanted this to slip your mind?”

“And that damn girl. Woman ain’t supposed to raise their hand to a man.”

Daddy kicked Chapman in the ribs. “Who says you’re a man.”

“Daddy,” Callie said, grabbing him. “That’s enough.”

“I’ll get you, missy,” Chapman said, tonguing a tooth out of his bloody mouth.

Callie let go of Daddy and kicked Chapman under the chin, like she was trying to make a field goal. Chapman, who had been trying to rise, was knocked back flat. Callie said, “No you won’t, you sleazy little turd.”

“What did you say?” Daddy said.

“You said bastard, ” Callie said.

“Suppose I did,” Daddy said. “Chapman. The Mitchels don’t forget either. Your boy is welcome anytime. But don’t let me see you. Even in town.”

Chapman wobbled to his feet. Daddy bent quickly, picked up Chapman’s stick. Chapman flinched. Daddy tossed it to him. “Don’t forget this. You might want to beat a wounded animal to death on the way home.”

Chapman took the walking stick, wheeled, started through the woods as quickly as a man with a limp could go.

Back at the house, I sat at the table holding Nub in my lap, happy the worst he had gotten was a lump on the head. I felt as if I was living some kind of curse that started by my opening that Pandora’s box of letters.

More had happened to my family in one summer than had happened in my entire life. Perhaps more than had happened in my parents’ lives, even if they were unaware of much of it. I couldn’t help but think by finding and opening that box I had insulted the dark gods, brought them scuttling and scratching across that fine dark line between black mystery and reality; brought them here mad and devilish and full of harm. They were even picking on the family dog.

Mom was leaning against the counter listening to Callie tell what had happened. The rest of us, including Rosy, were sitting around the table.

“I hit him with a rock good,” Callie said.

“That’s not good, Callie,” Mom said. “That’s nothing to be proud of.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dad said. “It says something for her hand-to-eye coordination, the fine function of young muscles. And a goddamn good aim.”

“That’s right,” Rosy said. “Miss Callie, she can toss a rock. I seen her hit a blue jay the other day.”