Part 44 (2/2)
”You're not bad for a gravel cruncher, Captain. Carry on. I'll be back as fast as my little a.s.s will carry me.”
Bull ran to his squadron car and headed it quickly toward the main gate. As he returned the salute of the guard and headed toward Ravenel, he realized that he, Bull Meecham, for the first time in his life, for the first time in his history as an officer and a Marine, had deserted his post.
Red returned to the bus slowly but without caution. His face was swollen, obsessed, and pale with a need for vengeance. He came from the water and the marsh possessed by a stern angel that burned in the blood around his eyes.
In the bus a fresh resurrection of the warning cries arose as the dogs caught the scent of returning peril. Toomer could not control them, could not silence one of them, though he screamed and lashed out at all of them within reach of his voice or his hand. In the kerosene glow he stared out toward the river, seeing nothing but his own reflection, unable to see the danger whose approach was published in the nostrils of the orphan pack who surged protectively around him. It was an aboriginal darkness now that Toomer studied, waiting for a face or a voice to materialize. He needed something to confront. He needed to see or hear Red. All he could see were the distant lights of Ravenel strung like a bracelet down the river sh.o.r.e. All he could hear were the dogs and the rush of blood through his ears.
Then Red screamed at him and entered a perimeter near the bus where the light gave him a surreal visibility. ”I got to hurt you, Toomer. I got to hurt you bad.”
”Get on n-n-now, Red. Get on home now 'f-f-fore somethin' else happen,” Toomer said.
”We were just gonna scare your black a.s.s, Toomer. For what you did to me today at Fogies. A n.i.g.g.e.r's got to learn not to go touchin' a white man.”
”You got what y-y-you ax for, Red,” Toomer shouted over the noise of the dogs.
”It wouldn't-a hurt nothin' if you'd just let me have my fun. You made everyone laugh at me, Toomer. The whole town's laughin' at me. And now they'll laugh some more because of you and your f.u.c.kin' bees. I got to teach you, Toomer. I got to teach you that I'm a white man. I got to be treated with some respect. You ain't never respected me in your whole life, but you'll G.o.ddam respect me from now on. That's what I came back to teach you.”
”G-g-get on, boy, before I get y-y-your m-m-mama on you.”
One of the police dogs had mounted the small kitchen table and was barking in a blind rage, snapping his fangs at Red through the window. Red fired at him through the window and knocked the dog off the table and onto the small wood-burning stove that stood at the back end of the bus. The dog was dead when Toomer reached him.
When Toomer rose again to face Red his expression had changed and his eyes seemed akin to those of the pack for the first time.
Spittle flecked his lips as he screamed, ”I'm gonna get you, Red. I'm gonna hurt you for that, boy.”
”You ain't never gonna do nothing to me again, n.i.g.g.e.r,” Red said, squinting through his one blue eye that was still open and functional. He aimed the gun for the big Gray, but did not see Toomer coming over to pull the Gray from the window. The bullet caught the black man full in the stomach and for a moment the two men looked at each other in a suspended moment of horror, of incredulity.
”Did I get you, Toomer?” Red cried out. ”I didn't mean to get you. Oh, G.o.d, I didn't mean to get you.” But he could hear nothing and Toomer could hear nothing but the scream of the dogs. Toomer stumbled toward the front of the bus, trying to keep his balance as he weaved his way through the dogs, trying to keep the blood in his body with his two hands. Unsteadily he fell against the front window of the bus and his right hand grasped for the handle to the front door. At first he could not find it, believed it was not there, that it was betraying him at this final moment, until finally he had it, cold, in his hand, and he slammed it back hard toward the window, opening the door, and freeing the dogs.
The dogs poured through the door with the Gray in the lead. Red had waited too long to interpret Toomer's harrowing walk down the center of the bus. When he saw that Toomer meant to set the dogs on him, he sprinted thoughtlessly toward the dirt road and the highway, pa.s.sing the hives in a blur of recognition, and making it almost to the first line of trees before he heard the sound of a pack in full cry, and in one voice, pursuing him.
One hundred yards from the bus, the Gray pulled Red Pettus to the ground. The Gray, eyes yellow, man-hating eyes, went for Red's groin. The other dogs followed closely, going for the face, the throat, the arms, the stomach, anything that was flesh, anything that belonged to the man who had hurt Toomer. Red twisted and fought but every time he moved meat was torn from his body. He reached up to knock a dog from his ear and found he had no ear. The forest filled up with the screams of Red and the growling of the pack until gradually only the noise of the dogs was heard.
Ben turned down the dirt road that led to Toomer's, braking the car hard when he hit some holes that sent the car airborne. He pa.s.sed the tomato field on his left, then entered the dark overhang of oak that would take him to Toomer's bus. His hands still trembled violently and he squeezed the steering wheel as tightly as he could. Then he heard the dogs, and the headlights caught a body lying to the side of the road.
It was only because of the hair that Ben recognized Red Pettus. The face was torn in a dozen places. The entire corpse was covered with blood. Ben rolled down the window to get a closer look, fascinated by the first dead man he had ever seen. He did not see the Gray appraising him in silence and coming up from behind him, stalking him.
The Gray sprang and came halfway through the window, catching Ben's arm and tearing at the flight jacket. Ben punched at the dog with his right fist, punched at the throat, feeling the dog's teeth go through the jacket and sink into the sinew of his forearm. Then, he remembered the car was running and he stomped the accelerator and the dog slid off him but not before the teeth had torn up the sleeve of the flight jacket and raked through muscles and veins as the dog was jerked from the arm by the sudden acceleration of the car.
Ben drove to the bus, past the fallen hives and parked his car flush against the side of the bus, making sure that there was no way for a dog to challenge his presence again. He rolled down the window on the pa.s.senger side and climbed into the bus. He saw Toomer lying on his back, his two large hands clamped over a stomach wound.
”Toomer, Toomer, Toomer!” Ben cried, rus.h.i.+ng over to the man.
”Hey, white boy,” Toomer said. ”L-1-l-looks like we can't go shrimpin' on F-f-friday.”
”Sure we can, Toomer. You promised,” Ben said.
”Dead men don't make too good a fishermen.”
”We're going to the hospital. Doc Ratteree's gonna make you well, Toomer,” Ben said, grasping Toomer under his arms and pulling him toward the door. Toomer screamed with pain and the dogs began to gather as a pack outside the school bus.
”I'm sorry, Toomer, but I got to get you to the hospital,” Ben said. ”Jesus Christ, you've lost a lot of blood!”
”I hurt,” Toomer moaned. ”Gawd, I hurt.”
Ben backed into the car window, then struggled to pull Toomer down the steps of the bus and through the window without hurting him. He was sweating from the effort and grunting from bearing the weight of the injured man. But he was glad that Toomer was no longer moaning.
Finally he pulled Toomer into the front seat and propped him against the front door. Toomer's eyes were wide open but there was a strange depth to his stare. In a moment of measureless agony, Ben Meecham knew he was staring into the face of a dead man. He fumbled for a pulse, felt for a heart beat, prayed for a stutter, or a limp, or a song of flowers. He placed his hand against Toomer's stomach and covered it with Toomer's blood. There was nothing to do now, nothing to hurry for. He rolled up the window of the car, Toomer's side of the car, he thought. He removed the flight jacket and covered Toomer's wound with it. Then, very slowly, he drove back down the dirt road, the pack hurling themselves at the car, appearing before the headlights, snapping at the wheels, demonic and carnivorous once again.
He drove down that road he had come down so many times before and would never come down again. His brain flooded with images and memories. But the images broke up of their own accord, weightless chimeras routed by a numbness that ran through him unchallenged. It took several moments for it to register that there were headlights blocking off access to the highway. He slowed down and stopped in front of the car.
All fear had left him now and the numbness identified itself as a beleaguered, voiceless resignation. There was a disenfranchis.e.m.e.nt from both the present and the past, from the body beside him and the headlights in front of him; he was enclosed in a timeless realm without margins, outlines, or tense. And he saw a large man with a pistol walk between both cars.
Ben opened the car door, put his feet on the ground, and stood up.
”Dad,” he said.
Bull rushed forward and stood before his son for a full five seconds before he slapped him with the back of his hand. The blow caught Ben on the mouth and small capillaries exploded against the teeth and Ben could taste almost instantly the salt liquor of blood, a marsh taste, like the aftertaste of oysters when Toomer would open them fresh.
”Hey, jocko,” Bull screamed, ”when I tell you to stay in one G.o.ddam place, you better let gra.s.s grow out of your a.s.shole before you move without my permission! You got it?”
”Yes, sir.”
”You disobeyed a direct order, hog. A direct order issued by the head honcho.”
”Yes, sir.”
”You knew you were in deep trouble if you were caught, didn't you, hog?”
”Yes, sir.”
”Therefore you expected to be punished if you were caught.”
”Yes, sir.”
”Why'd you do it?”
”I didn't think I was going to get caught, sir.”
”I want the real reason, sweet pea. Because you've never had the guts to go against me before and I G.o.ddam want to know why the f.u.c.k you came out here tonight in defiance of Santini.”
”Because I promised Arrabelle and I thought Toomer might be in trouble. And ...”
”And what, sweet pea?”
”And because I was your son,” Ben said, almost bitterly.
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