Edward Lee - Header 2

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The chill, quiet night stretched on, and as the fire diminished to eerie, phosphoric embers, Helton—in calmer voice now—told the rest of the story to Dumar and Micky-Mack. Helton ate his squirrel with gusto, but the younger men scarcely picked at theirs, their appetite hindered partly from the revulsion of what had just been related to them, but mostly from the distraction of what could only be called macabre fascination. Helton’s commanding finger wagged at them. “I want you boys to eat, ya hear me, even if yer bellies don’t feel like they need a fillin’. For what’s comin’ up? We all gonna need our strength’n stamina.”

Dumar’s voice was a feeble etching. “A header’s what you mean, huh, Paw?”

“We’se gonna have ourselfs a header, ain’t we, Unc Helton?”

“That we is—”

“On this Paulie man,” Dumar finished the speculation.

Helton shook his shaggy head. “It’ll be his head we hump last, son, ’cos, see, the full effect of a header come from fuckin’ the brains’a your enemy’s kin first. With God’s help’n a little luck, we’ll be able to do it.”

Dumar couldn’t have appeared more uncomprehending. “But why, Paw? Why this man Paulie do that horrible thing ta my son?”

Helton’s voice clicked. “I’ll tell ya,” and his stained teeth stripped the tender meat off the roasted squirrel’s ribs. “Micky-Mack, you’se too young, but Dumar, you probably ‘member my brother Tuff—”

“Aw, yeah, Paw, I ‘member Uncle Tuff, shore.”

“And ya both likely ‘member Jake Martin who ever-body called Grandpap Martin.”

Nods from both of the younger men. Micky-Mack said, “Oh, shore, Unc, I ‘member him—he was a great old guy. He made me a pair’a fine boots when I were a tike.”

“Me, too,” Dumar said.

Helton raised a big booted foot. “Made these fer me twennie-five years ago, and to this day they ain’t busted a stitch . See, Grandpap Martin were the best cobbler in the county—”

“Yeah,” Dumar recollected, “and it were weird on account’a him not havin’ no feet.”

“A shoemaker,” Micky-Mack pondered, “with no feet…”

Helton sucked some warm marrow. “It was some disease he got, so’s a doctor in Pulaski cut his feet off,” Helton said, “but that didn’t keep ole Grandpap’s spirit down, no sir. A fine, fine man he was, and, see, Grandpap’s only daughter was Joycie Martin, and she married my brother Tuff, and what they done is, they had theirselfs a son named Travis Tuckton. ”

Dumar and Micky-Mack traded grave glances.

“I heard’a Travis Tuckton,” Micky-Mack said diffusely.

“Me, too,” Dumar said, “though I don’t recall meetin’ him.”

“Travis were a good boy mostly but just couldn’t keep out’a trouble when ya get right down to it,” Helton informed. “Got a 5-year jolt in the county detent but wound up doin’ twelve ’cos he wouldn’t take no shit from the cons. But I ain’t surprised that ya both heard ’a him ’cos he’s got kind of a…repper-tay-shun ’round these parts.”

Dumar nodded. “Folk kind’a whisper ’bout him, like he’s some kind’a backwoods hero but, ya know? They never say why… ”

“Ain’t surprisin’. Travis were a hero, all right, along with Grandpap Martin, and now…I’ll’se tell ya all ’bout it ’cos it’s time ya learnt.” Helton took a breath, like a long-winded character in a novel that insists on propelling backstory in passive, static scenes like this. “Nineteen, twennie years ago it was, my brother Tuff owned some shit-land ’round Luntville, hunnert acres or so. Weren’t worth a bucket’a mule puke so’s he just kind’a forgot about it. Then one day this cracker come along sayin’ he wants to buy it’n he offer Tuff a hunnert dollars a acre. So’s Tuff said, shore, and he even tolt him that the land weren’t nothin’ but scrub but he tell Tuff he wants it anyway, so a’course, Tuff sold it to him fair’n square…or so he thought. But, see, this fella, what he done is he found out that land had valuable stuff on it—”

“What kind’a stuff, Paw?”

“Natural gas, deep down underground,” and Helton pronounced “natural” as natch-rull. “S’what city folks use fer heat’n ‘lecktricity, and it turnt out there was so much natural gas on that land, it made the fella that bought it a millionaire overnight—”

“What a kick in the ass for Uncle Tuff!” Micky-Mack commiserated.

“Oh, yeah. The fella that bought it knew ’bout all that natural gas but, a’course, didn’t tell Tuff, instead payin’ him shit money and gettin’ hisself rich.” Helton eyed both Dumar and Micky-Mack. “That fella’s name was Thibald Caudill.”

Dumar and Micky-Mack’s faces showed no recognition.

“After Caudill rip Tuff off, he bought hisself a big, fancy mansion in Pulaski, and he come back to our neck’a the woods ever so often—drivin’ a fuckin’ Rolls Royce— just to laugh at us all over the screw-job he pulled on Tuff. Liked ta rub our faces in the fact we was poor and he weren’t. So what we do is we all pitched in some money and give it to Tuff, and he hired hisself a citified lawyer, and what that lawyer tolt him was there was laws now—some law ’bout sales made in bad faith— that might make it so Tuff could sue Caudill fer what he stolt from him…”

“Then Uncle Tuff’d be a millionaire,” Dumar deduced.

“Um-hmm, but that never happened…”

“So how come that fancy lawyer didn’t sue Thibald Caudill?” Micky-Mack asked.

“On account Tuff and his wife Joycie up’n died. ”

Dumar nodded at the dim memory. “Car accident, weren’t it?

“Weren’t no accident, son. It was murder. Once Caudill got wind that Tuff was fixin’ ta sue, one night he’n his two boys, they followed Tuff’n Joycie back from that lawyer’s office”—Helton made an angry fist—“and they up’n run ’em off the road—”

“No!” Micky-Mack and Dumar exclaimed.

“—and they crashed in a gully. Poor Tuff, he shoot right through the windshield’n died instantly…”

“What about Aunt Joycie?” Dumar asked. “She go through the windshield too?”

“No,” Helton said very resolutely. “She didn’t. See, Joycie was wearin’ her seatbelt, so’s she lived—”

“But you just said—” Micky-Mack blurted.

“Joycie weren’t kilt in the wreck, no.” Helton ground his teeth. “But what Caudill’n his two boys do is they pulled poor Joycie out the car”—he had to pause—“and they tore off alls her clothes”—another pause, his face reddening—“and they dragged her up on the hood”—Helton began to simmer—“and they pult their dirty dicks out and they got theirselfs a ball-peen and they cracked up the top’a Joycie’s skull”—and he flew into another rage, shuddering—“and they HAD THEIRSELFS A HEADER! ”

Dumar covered his face with his hands while Micky-Mack brought his arms ’round his belly and just moaned.

“ Weren’t enough, ” Helton’s voice cracked and boomed, “fer Caudill to steal the millions that was rightfully Tuff’s, and it weren’t enough to kill him ta boot! No! Caudill, he hadda have more! He hadda fuck Tuff’s poor wife in the head! ”

“No, no, no,” Micky-Mack moaned.

“And his boys did it too, all standin’ ’round cacklin’ and hee-hawwin’ like the devils they was. They each put a nut in Joycie’s brain, they did, but Caudill even bragged later up the Crossroads that his youngest boy Crow, he knew the story ’bout how Clyde Martin and Lem Tuckton done fucked General Hildreth’s head three times, so’s he said, ‘Anythin’ a low-down Martin or Tuckton can do, I’se kin do better!’ and then he fucked Joycie’s head four times—just ta one up the family!”