Mississippi Sin Eating

When Pete got back from the war, everyone knew he wasn’t the same. For one thing, his eyes drifted like tennis balls in a pool, just rolling and spinning around in a fish bowl without direction. Part of his skull was missing, too. A large gaping crater existed above his left ear, exposing his brain and membranes to the air and chill and any fall leaves that happened to float by. It didn’t seem to hurt him any, but it didn’t seem to do him any good, either. They’d tried putting a metal plate on him when he got hurt overseas, but apparently it hadn’t taken very well and when he came back he’d decided to just do without it, seeing as he couldn’t afford to go to the hospital for a new one anyway.

Most days found him parked at the Last Thirst and Testament, where he just seemed to reside permanently. Supposedly even Gerry, the barkeep, had left Pete there after locking up one night, unable to persuade him to leave and not feeling like arguing a losing battle with him. Nobody could even swear to have seen him get up to go to the bathroom, but I think that was pushing things a bit.

I’d known Pete before the war; everyone had. He was one of those boys everybody liked, boys who are usually on the receiving end of some sort of tragedy that only seems to happen to the good and undeserving. If Pete felt cheated of life, he didn’t show it. It was always hard to tell what Pete was thinking. Most of the time he just sat there in his corner of the bar, sipping on beers and letting his eyes roll around like those fake glasses that had eyeballs on the end of springs.

I was the only one there as much as Pete. I didn’t have to work because I was living off my government money. It wasn’t my fault I couldn’t find a job with the economy the way it was and all, especially in po-dunk Busterville, and anyway I’d paid more than my fair share of taxes to support other people. People like Pete, for example. Now Pete deserved it, his being a veteran and all, but I’d noticed him sitting there day after day, drinking beer after beer, and never seeming to run out of money. Now, I wasn’t jealous of Pete. On the contrary, if he had it, more power to him; he’d earned it. But, of course, if he had that much money at his disposal then maybe he wouldn’t mind sharing some of it with a fellow bar mate, seeing as I was the only one who spent the entire day there with him besides Gerry, and he didn’t count. And besides, I’d return the favor once my check came in.

I started to sit down beside him, having just walked over from my usual booth by the jukebox, when Pete jumped up and started spinning around wildly this way and that, like someone in a cartoon chasing his own tail. Then, he just sat down again, all fine.

I paused in mid-sit. Gerry paused, too, not quite finished wiping the glass in his hand and glancing at Pete from the corner of his eye. Pete didn’t say anything after that, just went on sipping his beer like nothing had happened. I decided to finish my sit down. Gerry moved on to the other end of the bar.

“You ever been to Vietnam?” Pete asked me out of the blue. I was starting to think this was one of those flashback things the news people were always talking about.

“Uh… no. Can’t say that I have.”

“I have.” Pete’s eyes were rolling all over the place. I couldn’t tell; maybe he was excited or something. I hadn’t really seen any people come over and talk to him since he’d been back, other than the first day or so. Now everyone just sort of avoided him. I kind of felt bad for him in that respect. I’d hate to go risk my life for my country and come back and be treated like a freak. Though in Pete’s case . . . it kind of fit.

“Buy you a drink?” Pete asked.

“Uh…” I paused, being polite. “Sure. Thanks.”

Gerry brought us our drinks, looking dubiously at me as he walked away. I just stared back. He could think what he wanted as far as I was concerned.

“Hey! Wanna see something?” Pete suddenly asked, all excited. I hadn’t seen him this animated since before he’d left, and then I think it’d been over Tracy Norris.

“Uh… sure,” I said. I hadn’t even sipped my drink yet. Before I knew it, Pete had leapt from the bar stool and was at the door. I had a feeling if I didn’t follow him I was going to miss whatever his surprise was that he was wanting to show me. I jumped down and followed him, shouting at Gerry that we’d be back, but he didn’t seem too thrilled at the prospect of our return. I felt dubious about leaving, but hell… what else did I have to do?

The outside glare nearly destroyed my eyes, but I made out Pete running across the gravel parking lot and into the cotton fields across the road. I didn’t think Bud Mason was going to be too happy about us traipsing through his fields. Pete he’d probably forgive, but I didn’t have Pete’s favorable distinction of being a shell-shocked ‘Nam vet. I don’t know how long we ran, but to my lungs it felt like years. I wasn’t drunk or anything. I wouldn’t have been drunk for at least another three hours or so. I don’t know how Pete kept from tripping and killing himself the way his eyes were, but he seemed to know where he was going without any trouble. The yellow flies started to buzz around and bite me, reminding me why I stayed inside as much as possible. I suddenly had a picture of them flying in and out of Pete’s open skull and it almost brought up the beers I’d had earlier. I’d heard somewhere that the brain doesn’t have any nerve receptors or something like that and couldn’t feel any pain, but still… I tried not to think about it.

I don’t know where we stopped at. I think it was in the middle of the cotton field, but I couldn’t be sure. I hadn’t really been paying attention to where we were going, being more interested in not falling on my face while I kept up with Pete. I could hear tractors a ways off. There was also a very ripe, dead smell somewhere close by. That didn’t help my beer settle any, either.

“You ok?” Pete asked. I looked up from standing there with my hands on my knees, panting like a dog. I couldn’t help but look at his head. Nothing buzzing in or out. He smiled at me, as if he knew what I was looking at.

“Yeah, I’ll be fine… in a minute… soon as I catch my breath.” I shut my eyes hard and fought away the black spots. Christ, I was out of shape.

“You’d have never survived five minutes overseas.”

“That’s why I stayed here.” He didn’t laugh. He just kept staring at me, making it hard for me to catch my breath, but I finally did. For a minute there I’d thought he’d finally come unglued. He just kept staring at me and staring at me. I expected him to start drooling out of the corner of his mouth any second now. Finally, he turned away. My chest loosened up a little more.

The more I caught my breath, the worse things started to smell. I didn’t have to look much further past my foot to see the dead armadillo lying on the path between the rows. I glanced overhead and saw the buzzards way up high, taking their time. They wouldn’t come down as long as we were here, wherever here was. This was it, the big surprise? I was expecting… I don’t know what I was expecting, but it sure wasn’t a dead armadillo and cotton.

“Kinda reminds you of Texas, huh?” Pete asked me, turning back around. I noticed his eyes weren’t floating as much.

“Uh… I suppose. I’ve never been to Texas, myself.”

“Armadillos all over the damn place, usually on the sides of highways or dragged around by dogs. Come to think of it,” he mused, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a live one. Just lots of dead ones all over the place…”

Pete trailed off. I looked back at our dead mutual interest. I watched the flies walk around on it and inside and out of its split side for I don’t know how long. Somehow it was better than looking at Pete and his goo-goo-googly eyes.

“Pete?”

“Huh?”

“What are we doing out here?”

He looked at me. His eyes were stock-stone steady. “Don’t you know?”

“Uh… no.”

“We’re here for the dead,” he said, softly trailing off again. Then he laughed. I felt a hundred degree chill go through me, but then I realized he wasn’t laughing like he was crazy. He was laughing like he’d made a joke. He was b.s.-ing me.

“Christ…” I breathed, partly annoyance and partly relief. “Will you stop joking around already? What’s going on?” He kept smiling at me, but I noticed his eyes hadn’t started wobbling again. For some reason, this worried me more than when he had looked cock-eyed Jenny.

“Uh…” I started again, but that was as far as I got. Pete bent down and began to eat the armadillo. He ate it like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, like it was the finest set of ribs ever prepared at the smokehouse. It was like he couldn’t get enough. His smacking sounds, though, were worse than him actually eating the thing. He actually liked it.

I ran, but my legs wouldn’t work. It was just like in the movies—all of my strength had left me. All of my energy was in my stomach, bringing it forward, hurling up a belly full of yellow beer and an odd assorted pretzel or two. Pete stopped eating and looked at me, then looked at the pile at my shoes.

“Aw, Christ, Pete… no… ” The second time I threw up he ignored me and kept eating.

I finally found a little shaky strength to run, though I had no idea where I was going to run to. I was in the middle of a cotton field with no compass and no sense of direction. Just away was the only direction I could find. Pete had eaten almost the entire armadillo—insides and even feet—leaving an empty husk like a plated sausage casing.

I turned and started to run, but something was moving in front of me. When I looked down, I saw an old brown hare, bloated and grub eaten, pulling itself along on two front paws. Its back leg dragged and twitched, leaving funny little snake trails in the dirt. I turned back and there were more sounds. Pete stood there, as if waiting for it or them. I looked up. Clear sky. No mention of buzzards anywhere. I looked down and finally fell down, my shaking legs unable to take anymore. The dust rustled and rattled, and Lazarus proclaimed come forth.

Dogs, birds, snakes… all dead or dying… cats… all crawling to this spot, waiting to be eaten. After ten I couldn’t count anymore; my mind short-circuited. When the rustling and dragging finally stopped, I couldn’t see anything. My eyes were shut like storm windows.

“Hey.”

It was a whisper, close by. Pete’s whisper.

“Hey.”

I opened my eyes, tear-blurred. Pete was kneeling in front of me, his eyes steady as gun barrels and aimed right at me.

He smiled. “Hey, it’ll be ok. Honest.” When he smiled, bits of maggot showed in his teeth. I hard swallowed. I didn’t have the strength left to vomit anymore.

“This is what happens when you go somewhere you shouldn’t go and do things you shouldn’t do.” Pete spoke softly, sitting beside me like a brother. “The things we did…” he whispered, shutting his eyes tightly for a second, then opened them back at me. His eyes started to float slightly. I silently prayed for this return to normal.

“We were starving, man. Had no rations, cut off from everyone, bush all around us. Ate anything we could find. Wilkins took a sniper shot to the head… What were we supposed to do? Shit, it went on all the time back there! Guess I’ve just got to be the one to pay for it, is all. Karma’s the thing over there.”

I looked at him. “The thing for what?”

He looked at me, brotherly. “I’m eating my own sins. Mine and everyone else’s. It’s just something I’ve got to do.”

I ran down a row of cotton, hoping it would take me somewhere. It took me to Bud Mason’s farmhouse, no one around. As I panted and heaved, Puss-Puss, Mason’s old gray tabby, slowly came over to be scratched. Puss-Puss looked at me with glaucoma-covered eyes, but all I could see was Pete.

When you die, I just might be there for you, too.

Kelly Rothenberg “Mother’s Love” appeared in Redsine in 2000. Recently he has had two book reviews/criticisms accepted on Stephen King’s Everything’s Eventual and Donna Tartt’s The Little Friend for Salem Press’ Magill’s Literary Annual, 2003. A complete list of his published fiction and nonfiction work (over forty to date) is available at his web site.

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