Trouble In The Hen House

Pop always told me, Mack, don’t you go messing with nothing you can’t handle. Best you leave well enough alone. You get in over your head, boy, and I ain’t bailing you out.

My Pop’s always one for talking. But with me and Emmett, it’s always in one ear and out the other—especially Emmett. Eight years between us but shit for brains that big brother of mine. Trust me. I know shit. I’m looking at it right now.

It took me long enough to track them down. But I can see Emmett moving around through the trees there. He and Roy picking up branches in the dark and dragging ‘em into the fire. Two of ‘em whooping it up like wild Injuns. Roy’s got the thing going good now. All hiss and crackle, crackle. That big bonfire just shining off his gut.

As for Jimmie. Well. I don’t see him no place yet.

You better believe this shit with Jimmie is all Roy’s doing. I know that much. When he goes putting a bug in Emmett’s ear, man, you know Emmett’s right there behind him. I reckon it’s cause Roy’s got the only car between ‘em ever since Emmett crashed Pop’s Buick last summer. Only job too. Roy’s been working the fountain at Strecker’s Drugs near three years now. But you don’t call what Roy does work. That fat fuck Roy’d get somebody to shit for him if he could. And Emmett, he’d be charging admission.

I watch Emmett get too close to the fire and he starts stomping out one of his shoes. Dumb bastards. You pour gas on anything in this heat and it’s going up. You’d think down by the river here things would cool down some. You’d think. Hotter than hell out here. I rustle out of the grass and slip into the woods, see if I can spot Jimmie somewheres.

Jimmie Moore, he’s been at the filling station long as...well, long as I can remember. When Pop was around, he’d pull the Buick into Shell there all the time, and Jimmie’d always be at the ready, racing up in his coveralls. And then there’s that way he’d smile and give Pop a halfways salute while he wiped his rag across the hood. Jimmie’d do that with everybody. Make ‘em all feel like a four star general—even if they’re nothing but a two bit peckerwood.

Jimmie’d be filling her up while Pop was in snagging a pack of Luckies. And I’d be sitting out in the car. Even if it was clean as a whistle that Jim’d be wiping the window down, gawking at me with those big black eyes of his. He’d give the hood the ol’ spit shine.

"Hullo, Mr. Mack. You been good boy today?"

"Yes sir!"

"At’s good, at’s good," said Jimmie, "Need a few more like you in this town. Bright boy like you—you’ll go far. Go far so’s you ain’t manning the pumps like ol’ Jim... Hey, Mr. Mack, know what I hear?"

"Nope—what’s that?"

"Ain’t it your birthday?"

"What? No—ain’t mine!"

"At’s not what I hear..."

Jimmie’d hold out his palm, all smooth like, let me know there’s nothing there, then he’d pull it back, cough into his hand a few times, spread his hand out again and whatta you know—a new dime! I could never figure how he did that one.

He ain’t much older than Emmett. From what Jimmie told me, he can’t be more than twenty-six, twenty-seven. But you can’t tell with ‘em folk. That’s what Emmett says. Always saying one thing when they’re another. Say they’re twenty but they’re really pushing thirty. Say they ain’t doing nothing when they’re really out chasing skirt. I hear Emmett say a lotta shit like that since Pop left. I could write a book with the stuff my brother says. Next thing you know, he’s gonna tell me Rita Hayworth’s really a guy.

Just then I get caught on a root and go ass over in the brush. Roy makes a quick turn. He points his fat finger at me, makes like he’s spotted his own shadow.

"Mack! I see ya boy—go make yourself scarce! Hear me?"

Emmett’s there in a second. He puts a hand to his eyes so’s he can see past the fire.

"Mack—you run home ‘fore I tan that sorry ass of yours!" he says, "We ain’t telling you again..."

They take two steps towards me as I scramble back into the brush. I hide down in the trees and wait before I come back. After a while, they don’t pay me no mind. They just laugh and go about their business. Stoking up the fire so’s the sparks drift into the sky. It’s all one big game to ‘em.

Oh, Emmett thinks he’s a tough guy. Mister big man since Pop left. But he ain’t nothing. Not since the cannery let him go. No sir. All’s I hear him say now is: "Mack, I’m selling Pop’s radio...Mack, I’m hocking Pop’s suit." I swear, I kill him if he goes rooting through Pop’s stuff again.

Pop ain’t back from the war yet. Last we heard, he was somewhere out in Okinawa. Emmett says he ain’t coming back. Three years now Mack, he ain’t coming, he says. Best you just give up talking fool talk like that. Emmett says there’s just no way. Those Jap planes come screaming down on guys like they did, the earth just opens up and they never see you again.

I don’t know... I keep thinking Pop’s coming back some day...like MacArthur. Yeah! Like goddam Audie Murphy. The flags flying. The birds singing. One big parade down Pine Street. And Pop getting the real royal treatment for once. Yeah...some day. Just you wait.

I try circling back around to the river this time, see if I can get a better look. Getting so dark out, I’m gonna break my neck on one of these roots, just watch. I slip along the cottonwoods and down along the shore so’s I can get a good eyeful. I see Roy’s still got his Pontiac parked behind the boathouse. Ol’ Man McReary’s Tomahawk’s up on skids.

And I don’t see Jimmie nowhere.

I wonder what Lucy Craig would say if she knew about all this. Never said two words to that girl in my life. But I used to see her out by the campgrounds sometimes. Raggedy looking thing that Lucy. That was before she grew up some. Man, you see Lucy now, it’s a whole new ball game.

To hear Roy tell it, Jimmie’s been giving Lucy Craig more than an eye or two lately. She drops by the filling station now, in that blue print sun dress, moving that neat little ass of hers, and Jimmie’s eyes won’t let it go. That’s what Roy says anyhow. But you gotta put a stop to it. You let that go on any longer, Roy says, next thing you know, he’d be giving her something else.

Emmett even says he caught Jimmie feeling her up one time like he was gonna have her for dinner. But that was probably just the swill talking. My brother gets good and stewed, ain’t nothing stop that yap of his. Just last week Roy was over at the house like usual, knocking back a few on the porch. Roy with that squirrelly laugh of his, flinging empties over the toolshed. Going on how they’re gonna give ol’ Jim what for. Roy keeps saying they gonna give Jimmie a good talking to. Roy’s all high and mighty cause his sister Susie goes to school with Lucy back at Parkwood. But Roy’s full of shit. He’d give it to Lucy plain and simple if he had the chance. And he knows it.

I often wonder what Pop’d say if he saw those two carrying on like they do. Probably break out his service revolver and put them both out on their ass—especially after Emmett bent that car around a tree last August. One of his little "accidents" he says. Man, Pop ever saw what Emmett done to his Buick, my brother’d be on the wrong side of the grass! You can bank on that one.

Like that time Emmett got caught messing around the henhouse. Me and him were just kids. He was outside feeding the chickens. I must’ve been inside, playing with my Lincoln Logs or something. Eight years old but hell, even I knew there was something wrong.

"Pop...hey Pop...you smell that?"

Pop didn’t have to stop and think about it. He threw down his paper and ran for the nearest window.

"Jesus H. Christ," Pop said. Half the henhouse went up in flames and he was out there like a shot.

We must have bailed that thing for a good hour before we put it all out. Damned if Emmett wasn’t in there flicking matches at the chickens, seeing how far they’d jump, laughing all the way...until that one match got away on him. We lost a good twenty chickens in that fire.

I don’t think Emmett walked for three days after Pop got through with him.

You’d think it was Pop’s second job sometimes—just keeping Emmett in line. Don’t wait up, Pop’d say, and he’d take him out behind the house for a good whooping. You ever see that look in his eye, you know someone’s gonna get it.

Funny, that’s what Emmett said when Roy pulled up at the house tonight. Don’t wait up, he says and the two of ‘em drove off. But I know. Overheard Emmett talk about the boathouse and that means only one thing—the river. We always used to fish off McReary’s boathouse until the old man came and chased us away. No one down here since McReary died so it’s no wonder they picked this spot. Took me a good hour to get here, cutting across the fields like I did. I got my bike in the ditch out by the road. Don’t know if I could even find the place if it weren’t for the sound of McReady’s weathervane out creaking in the wind like a siren.

Damn, I could use the moon, the stars or something about now. I can hardly see my hand before my face—fat chance I’m gonna find anything at this rate. I creep up closer to the firelight when I see something move up against the trees. I have to adjust my eyes a few seconds before I pick out who it is.

It’s Baxter Triggs...ol’ high school pal of Roy’s. Bax is rubbing his neck, not saying nothing. Just leaning against a tree, wiping off those Coke bottle glasses of his. I hear he’s pretty high brow but Bax was all right the one time I met him. All right if you like talking to a stone. I still hear Roy and Emmett jabbering away out back. But Bax ain’t said a word. Not sure what he’s here about unless they brought him along for show. Guy like Bax, he ain’t scaring nobody. Camera club keener, I see he’s got his Brownie strung around his shoulder.

But I don’t need a picture to know what they been up to. I hear things. I listen.

And if I’d made it out to the station, I’d see what they done plain as day.

Roy’s blue Pontiac rolling down the lane, saddling slow alongside Jimmie in the dark. Ol’ Jimmie just locking up for the night. Roy and Emmett up front with shit-eating grins. Maybe Bax duck down like he’s gonna wet ‘em right there.

Roy rolls down the window, says something like: "Jim—hey Jimmie! Boys and I are headed down to the pier tonight. Wanna come? Got ourselves a bottle..."

And Jimmie looking the whole thing over like a lost hound dog.

"Sorry fellas. Can’t do it. Sis’s got supper waiting for me."

Roy flips the door open, catches Jimmie’s wrist sudden-like. Pulls it up good and tight.

"Don’t see’s how you have much say in the matter, Jim boy..."

He tries to break for it but there’s a scramble in the dark, the sound of cries and footsteps and car doors clattering. A real awful wailing. Next thing you know, Bax’s at the wheel driving off just as smooth as nothing. And Roy and Emmett in back. Beating all the black out of Jimmie.

Bax’s shivering a bit, standing there in the trees like he’s got something to hide. Like he’s standing guard over something back of him. Something’s back there for damn sure. I make a step to check it out. But before I know it, Emmett and Roy are coming back from the fire pit, couple of torches moving through the trees. I hit the ground as Roy walks by, pulling the shutter bug along by the arm.

"C’mon, Bax...show time, pal."

I follow the three of ‘em along, winding down and back through the cottonwoods. I can hear Emmett whistling through the trees like he’s having the time of his life. Roy joins right in and I see ‘em all stop and gather around. I move in for a closer look see and wait down in the long crabgrass. They got the torches flickering. I see Roy’s got himself out in the open. He whistles through his teeth and lets out an awful breath.

"Lordy...Lordy," he keeps saying.

I take a good look past the three of ‘em and...

And.

It’s Jimmie all right. What’s left of him. Sure, he’s got the same jacket. Same split coveralls. Except that ain’t grease on the sleeves no more. Jim’s head all swelled up like a balloon. Guts coming out his mouth like that. A cord of rope hanging down from the trees. And Jimmie swinging like a scarecrow in the firelight.

I seen dogs got hit bad on the road before. The blood just leaking out of them. I ain’t seen nothing like this. Roy walks up, gives Jimmie a little push, and he twirls around a bit in the branches.

"It’s Howdy Doody time...it’s Howdy Doody time..." Roy sings.

Emmett’s looking around like something’s gonna come out of the trees. Bax looks like he’s gonna lose his lunch on the spot. Roy, he just laughs. He turns on Baxter with that crazed ferret look in his eye.

"All right. Take the damn thing, Bax! My ma wants a copy..."

Roy and Emmett stand on either side. Taking their pictures with Jimmie now, looking like they bagged the big one. Bax keeps making with the Brownie. I just stare at Emmett, wondering what I missed. I mean, my brother, he talks a good game...

Well. I never thought they gone done it, is all.

Bax puts the camera down and Roy pats ‘em both on the back. Roy’s got a smile on him eight miles wide.

"Fellas, I reckon we got us a Kingfish to fry. Whadda you say?"

"Sure," says Emmett. "Grab the cutters outta the trunk and we’ll have ourselves a little barbecue."

Roy gives Emmett the shoot ‘em up sign and tramps off into the woods, his torch getting smaller and smaller. Fat bastard. Emmett just stands there looking Jimmie over, moving his torch around, the glow lighting him up all chimney red.

"Lookee here, Mack. Ain’t she a beaut?"

I snap to all of a sudden when I hear my name. Emmett calls out, waving me over. Like he knows I’m there the whole time. I step out into the open. Real slowly. Don’t know what Emmett’s up to. And he’s got that look like his eyes are buzzing on something. I glare over at Bax. He don’t crack a smile or nothing. Just keeps winding that damn camera.

"Whadda you think, Mack?" says Emmett.

I keep thinking Jim’s gonna fall on top of us. That’s when I spot something wrapped around Jimmie’s wrist and my skin starts to crawl. I make a move for it and Emmett gives me a smack upside the head.

"Leave ‘im be!"

"What’s that?!"

But I don’t have to ask. I’d know it any place...black leather band like that. It’s Pop’s watch from his National Guard days.

"Jim bought it off me weeks ago," Emmett says. "Made a good sawbuck off that one. Not that Jim’s needing it no more. Not where he’s going." He clamps his hand on my shoulder. Hard. "Come morning, you don’t tell no one, Mack," he says. "No one, hear me?"

But I don’t hear him. Can barely hear the two of ‘em turn and leave through the trees. Their torches disappearing. Just me and Jimmie there. I always used to hear Jimmie sing his little songs around the station. Smiling like it’s nobody’s business. He ain’t singing no more. And I didn’t do a damn thing about it. Did I, Jim..? Not one goddam thing...

All I can see now is his shadow up there. Pop’s watch hands glowing in the dark.

I guess I can’t keep my eyes off that watch. Funny thing, you close your eyes...the right light, you’d think it was Pop up there. He spent six years in the Guard earning that thing. That’s one more than he’s been gone—since the war went and swept him away.

You know, I read a story about the Japs once in the back of Celebrity. I guess sometimes when the Japs would march prisoners off, they’d have to cut the wounded loose. But they didn’t let ‘em go free. No sir. They’d make an example of them. Just tied the G.I.’s up, dog tags and all, and set ‘em on fire. Lit ‘em up for the whole world to see! I can just see it. Crackling. The orange light shining off his face, running down his arms. The bonfire melting his body away...

Down in the tall grass, down along the banks, I can hear that big muddy river moving out there. And right now I pray that black water’d just eat us all up. Rise up and wash us away sure and swift. But I know that ain’t gonna happen.

I pull Pop’s old service revolver out of my pocket, run my thumb down its thick steel barrel in the dark. Don’t think Pop ever fired a shot with this one. No, this thing never hurt a soul. But at least I got one thing left Emmett ain’t never got his hands on. And he ain’t gonna.

I told myself I wasn’t gonna bring it. I know I did. But if I listen long enough, just listen, I can hear Pop. He’s at the window, waiting, and God if he’s not saying: "Mack—c’mon son...we got us a fire to put out."

Scott Leslie has been lucky enough to lie his way into several publications including Opium Magazine, McSweeney's, Forget Magazine, Planet Magazine, Twilight Times , Grimm Magazine, The Crime Scene, and The New Quarterly. Scott has worn several hats in the publishing, theatre and advertising fields. He's hoping the storyteller hat will fit just right.

Email: Scott Leslie

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