Our Blood in Its Blind Circuit Page 3

  Zipper Cottom made his way across the kitchen to the fridge. Cereal corpses crunched underfoot. He opened the fridge, was completely unsurprised at the carnage within, closed it, and shuffled back into the living room.

  The empty space where the couch used to be, next to where he’d been sleeping the night before, was a perfect rectangle of junk. Receipt paper, McDonald’s toys, pencils, cigarette butts, giant balls of lint. He stumbled back into his room, looking for his cigarettes. Their location dawned on him and he cursed God. He fished in the pockets of his soaking rag-pants, the paper from pack coming off on his hands like burned skin. He dumped the smokes onto his bed, most of them rolling down the 45 degree incline of the ruined frame, a couple catching in the tiny swirled indents in the mattress. After a few seconds of inspection, he found a dry one and lit it on the stove.

  Morning-after regret hit him hard. The couch should have stayed. He can take his rage out on his possessions, he can buy new stuff, but the couch had memories. So did the bed, of course, but it wasn’t the same. He was sitting on it the first time he’d looked at her and knew. A few more minutes of reflection, leaning against the kitchen counter, and he knew he’d made a mistake. The couch needed to be there.

  He stepped into the day, nearly blinded by the Valentine’s Day tassles she’d looped around the porch railing. He hobbled, but he did not need the crutches.

  Kids splashing in community pool. A little girl in floaties yelled at her brothers. Leather-skinned barrel of a woman peeled her head up and watched Zipper drag the couch down the steps towards the dumpster.

  The trash was full. Sun beat down on bloated bags. Flies buzzed around wadded up shuttlecock paper towels. Across the street a wiener dog ran circles around an old man who had to bend over to untangle the leash from his walker. A young dude with earrings hopped into a black truck and you could hear it rattle as he drove off and Zipper coughed at the smoke in his face. The couch was placed neatly next to the Dumpster, and right there, he flopped down on it, the smell of trash wafting over him. He felt a great weight creaking the other side of the couch, and when he opened his eyes the walrus was next to him, sitting hunched on the corduroy cushions. They looked at each other for a long time. The walrus winked. Zipper nodded his head. The two of them waited for the trash truck to come, watching the birds perch on satellite dishes.

  AMENDS DUE, WEST OF GLORIETA

  Sampson Hackett places the pinewood box on the table and takes his seat across from Jim. The burlap sack he places on the floor swarms with flies. He rolls his tobacco, lights a match and leans back.

  Outside the saloon, the sun tortures the sand.

  “Let me tell you, son, it is hotter than hell out there.”

  A small voice from behind Jim, one of Hackett’s men: “Hotter than a whorehouse on nickel night, Mr. Hackett.”

  “Please shut up, McDade.”

  “Yes, Mr. Hackett.”

  Hackett’s eyes fall casually from Jim’s stare onto the mess against the far wall. “What brings you west, friend?”

  Jim grits his teeth. The tangle of splinters and nerve endings that used to be his right arm screams at his brain. The cold sweat and the heat fade in and out, vying for attention. His shirt front is soaked in sweat and blood, some of it his own. His eyes are furious but unable to see less than three of the bastard smirking at him from across the table.

  “I wouldn’t pass out if I were you.” Hackett breathes smoke. A voice like deadweight dragged over gravel. “I might just lose interest in you.”

  One of Hackett’s two men puts an immense hand on Jim’s left shoulder, to keep him steady.

  “And let me tell you, son, there’s not much to be interested in.” His eyes squint from the smoke. Jim coughs up blood. Hackett points at the far wall and says, “Except for that.”

  Under the bar’s chalkboard menu a wide brimmed cap obscures a face turned down. Stringy hair sticks to an open bloody hole punched through the chest. Legs and arms splayed. The blood reaches the length of the bar, a dank oasis on a desert of dust and creaky wood.

  “Now,” Hackett rubs his face, “what would make a fella like you decide to come to this town, virtually in the middle of nowheres, and shoot a friend of mine?”

  Jim tries to breathe in through his nose. Can’t. Tells himself to focus on not fainting.

  Hackett adjusts his hat and throws his tobacco on the floor. The grays in his beard get lighter as his skin gets redder and Jim can smell whiskey through the musk of horse shit and leather soaked black with sweat.

  “Son, I asked you a question.”

  Jim trains his eye on the box. Reminds himself again not to pass out. Think of her. Think of the last time you saw her. He begins to speak, fighting to keep his stomach from dancing.

  “I’m gonna need you to give me back what you took from me.”

  Hackett pulls at his nose. Crossing his arms, he leans forward on the table. “What makes you think we have what belongs to you, Mr...?”

  “Jim.”

  “What makes you think we took something of yours, Mr. Jim?”

  Jim’s chest heaves. The way her hand felt, soft in spite of the dust. “I need a drink.”

  “Fair enough. Mr. McDade, can you get this boy a drink?”

  The small-voiced and lighter of the two leaves from his post behind Jim and goes to the bar. The bartender leans against the cabinet behind the bar, his eyes permanently surprised. The bullet was meant for McDade’s mute friend, who had moved in close, impossibly fast, and snapped Jim’s arm. The gun went off, and the bullet painted the barkeep’s cabinet with his wildest dreams.

  Jim hears the cabinet open. The barkeep tipping over to the floor. The gentle sound of glass on glass, warm concentration. Without a word McDade hands Jim the drink.

  “I mean, Mr. Jim, you must be pretty certain that we are in possession of this certain piece of something, come in here all shootin’ up the damn place and whatnot.”

  The drink is gone in one painful tilt. Jim gasps, nods.

  “Easy, Jim. You killed the only man within a hundred miles that can pour a damn drink and not make it taste like hot piss.”

  “Where is she?”

  Hackett leans back in his chair. Removes his jacket. Studies the inside of his hat. The mute coughs.

  “Mr. Jim, I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Jim studies the inside of his glass. “Santa Fe trail, party of twenty-seven. You wanted what was in the central carriage, and you got that, Mr. Hackett, but you also took something from the third carriage, something very near and dear to my heart. I’ve come to get her back and I’ve come here to kill you.”

  The mute puts his hands gently on the sides of Jim’s face.

  Hackett asks, “Where on earth were you going?”

  “What does it matter?”

  The creak of leather. Hackett leans, nods at the mute. “Indulge me, Jim.”

  The mute’s soft grip turns to steel. Jim struggles weakly, a fish nearly out of air. The mute’s thumbs press hard on his eyes. Jim reaches with his good hand. His left eye explodes into white and he can’t scream through an involuntarily weak gurgle. Hackett nods at the mute. Gasping, Jim goes limp. After a moment, he wipes his face with his sleeve. His left eye is distant, blurry.

  “Ol’ Jim here can stand a gaff’r two. Why don’t you stop this goddamn nonsense and tell me where’n the fuck you were goin’?

  “I was going to fucking Cimarron.”

  “What the fuck is in Cimarron?”

  “Maxwell Rail.”

  “You were going to Cimarron to work for Lucien Maxwell?”

  Jim looks ready to collapse over the table. “Yes.”

  Hackett’s face grows dark. “And what was it that I was looking for?”

  “The central carriage.”

  The mute smacks him.

  Hackett says, “What was in the central carriage?”

  “The fucking land grants that would have secured Mr. Maxwell’s hold
ings. Center carriage armed by four Union soldiers, now deceased.”

  Hackett laughs. “Well, shit and goddamn, that was us. But lemme tell you, Mr. Jim, if y’saw how damn pretty that piece of gold my employer gave me for them papers was,” he wags his finger, “you wouldn’t blame a man for committing such a sin.”

  He chuckles to himself. Shakes out of it. “I’m sorry, there, Mr. Jim, and who was it that we found in carriage number two that was so wonderful that it was worth you trackin’ me down here and shootin’ a friend a’ mine and the only goddamn bartender can pour a drink worth a damn within a hundred miles?”

  “It was carriage three.”

  “I count from the back, you son of a bitch, and it’s beside the point.”

  “My wife.”

  The table creaks as Hackett leans forward. His face gets far away. Devoid of emotion. Like a man staring into a fireplace.

  “Your wife.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She got...” he touches at his head, “Hair like a sunset? Smellin’ like a berry and eyes bluer than God’s own ocean?”

  Jim swallows. His hand begins to tremble. “Where is she?”

  “Goes by the name of Annabelle? I never seen her smile, but I get the impression that it would probably could just about take the knees out from under any man that’s got eyes to look at it.”

  The dust motes float between them. Jim leans forward. “Where is she?”

  Hackett sighs. Lights more tobacco. Shrugs. “I guess I understand why you done what you did, Mr. Jim. Man steals another man’s wife away, that man deserves what he has comin’.”

  “Give her to me.”

  “I suppose that would be what was right, Mr. Jim.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “What do you think, McDade? Should I give Mr. Jim here back his fair wife he done been missin’ s’damn much?”

  “Motherfucker put Reynolds out for good, Mr. Hackett. Plus ol’ girl gave me and the mute the goddamn mitten, had to take for ourselves what shoulda been given over proper.”

  Jim wants to strangle the life from him. All he can muster is to turn around. McDade is short and stocky, blonde and with a grin Jim wants to dismantle tooth by tooth. The son of a bitch blows him a kiss.

  Hackett says, “Oh, that’s true. That she did. And that he did.” His eyes are ice. “You did put one of my boys down, Mr. Jim. Put him down and didn’t even give him a chance to pull his gun. Which was the smart choice, seein’ as how he’s the only one here could’ve taken your head clean off given the second needed to do it.”

  The wind outside carries a tumbleweed to an uncertain fate. The crows attempt to land but can’t stand for the wind. The heat bathes the living men in sweat.

  “You been to the New Mexico territory before now, Jim?”

  “Fuck you.”

  Hackett removes his pistol and swings the gun butt, catching Jim above the eye. He sits back up quickly, the new adrenaline surge making him ready to fight. The knuckle crack of a M1873 peacemaker’s action pulling back stops him dead.

  “If you want to take that tone with me again then I won’t ask no more. I’ll clean yer fuckin’ plow and put you the fuck under this goddamn desert, now, hear me? Answer me.”

  “I’ve been here before. Glorieta.”

  “Major Donaldson?”

  Jim’s shirt feels three times too small. There is a fever in his chest. The heat is inside and out. He nods.

  Like a squeezing hand letting go of a pair of balls, the tension slips from the red. “Well, no shit. He was a good man. I was Sibley’s, but would’ve rathered my circumstances different.” Hackett puts his gun down. “That’s fair though, McDade.” He tilts his hat over his head. He props his feet on the table. “This Jim fella don’t look too bad. ‘Sides, most poor sumbitches we deal with we put down. This one didn’t get put down, for whatever reason. And we took this man’s wife, and we killed her. And he deserves to be reunited. For all his trouble.”

  Jim’s cannoning out trails of spit, his eyes nearly bulging out of his head. “You’re a lying sack of shit fucker, you piece of fucking dog shit-“

  Hackett laughs hard. “How many times did you fuck her again?”

  McDade’s voice gets louder over Jim’s grunts, “Least bout six times. She eventually got up for it bout the third time. Took a fair beatin’, granted.”

  Jim lifts his good arm to swing and the immense hands of the mute take hold of Jim’s broken arm and-

  “FUCK.”

  Snaps him out of the chair like a bullwhip. Floor vibrates with his impact. Hackett lights a cigarette. Jim lies on his left side, the pain going from mind crushing back to a dull pulse. The henchmen tower, waiting.

  “Get back in your chair, Jim,” Hackett says. “Get back up in your goddamn chair.”

  Thoughts of Annabelle. Thoughts of her hair in his face. The thought of her playing with the ends of her gloves as the carriage rumbles over the trail and him smiling across at her and mouthing that she’ll be alright force him back up into the chair. He wipes the snot from his chin.

  “I hope for your sake you’re lying to me, and Annabelle’s gonna walk down those steps right now.”

  “Son, Reynolds right there, was a friend of mine.”

  “I DON’T GIVE A FUCK.”

  Hackett holds his breath a moment. His face gets loving mother red, then he exhales.

  “Now, Mr. Jim-“

  “WHERE THE FUCK IS SHE?” Jim’s mottled chin quivers, small canyons for his streams of hot tears.

  McDade makes a circle with his thumb and forefinger, miming fellatio. Hackett waves at him to stop before Jim can see.

  “Please,” Jim’s face is desperately red. “Where is she?”

  Hackett removes his feet from the table. Leans in close, conspiratorially. In a whisper: “You really want to see her?”

  Jim sucks in heavily, a great sobbing gasp. Nods.

  Hackett shrugs. “Okay, then.” He slaps his thighs and stands up. He bends over and begins to rummage through his burlap sack. The stench makes friends with Jim’s nervous belly and the contents of his stomach empty on to the floor. The flies circle.

  “Here she is,” Hackett says, and with one fluid motion, lifting with his shoulder, he places the head of Annabelle Clemens on the table between himself and Jim. “Hair like fire.”

  Jim blacks out.

  The hair is soft between his fingers, like doll hair. He pulls at it, and the hot dust of the empty saloon fills his lungs as he takes in a gut wrenching sob. His head is flat on the table, where it was when he came to. A silhouette of tears and sweat like a shadow under his head. His stomach begins to dry heave.

  “What do you think about the afterlife, Mr. Jim?”

  Jim continues to stroke the hair. Annabelle is making that face that Jim recognizes as meaning he has said something adorably stupid.

  The sun is going down. Deep orange and purple glow through the door. The mute and McDade had left the bar. McDade’s laugh carrying on until the wind took it.

  Just a voice:

  “I think that we get a good idea of what heaven’s gonna be like from just our day to day lives, personally.”

  “Please be quiet,” Jim whispers into Annabelle’s forehead.

  “I think friendship is important in this life, and I think that how many friends you’ve got in heaven is doubly important.” Hackett scratches his chin. “But that don’t even come close to how many friends you need if you’re gonna be spendin’ time in hell.”

  Jim thinks about four nights ago. They’d studied a lizard they’d caught in a jar. She had been fascinated by its colors.

  Hackett gets up and goes to the bar. Brings the bottle to the table.

  “I remember when I was fifteen. Caught a man outside my daddy’s farm tryin’ to break in. He was pullin at the barn doors and it was the chains rattlin’ that’d woken me up in the middle of the damn night. So I go out to the barn and I find this fucker appearin’ to be breakin’ in to my
pa’s barn. I didn’t think twice fore I shot him dead with my rifle I’d gotten few weeks prior for my birthday. Proud I got to use it. Thought I’d done everyone a great fuckin’ service.”

  Hackett pours himself a generous glass of whiskey. Downs it.

  “Turns out that man was just tryin’ to get some rest. A friend of my pa’s name of Belk, and he’s just from down a-ways. I bought milk from him since I could walk. Poor bastard’s missus been yellin’, screamin’, givin’ general kinds of hell since I was the same age and I guess my pa had said if it ever got too bad Belk could just take his sorry, weasely little cowardly ass into our barn and sleep it off. And I killed him.”

  Hackett says, “And that bothered me for a long while.”

  Jim tries to look into her eyes, but her pupils can’t focus.

  “I was convinced I was going to hell. Killin’ an innocent man. I walked around with that burden on my shoulder sixteen years, till I get shot at Glorieta. Union doc checkin’ me out talks to his patients, tells me in my advanced fever that before he decided it was a civic fuckin’ duty or some horse shit to serve Mr. Grant’s army he’d done some research way down south. Down where they got their pagan gods and they put bones through their faces. Down in the jungles. Tells me how these people, this ancient lost civilization, how they eat the hearts of their dead. Tells me how these people, they believe that every heart you eat, you absorb that person’s soul. Doc took a bullet the next day from someone didn’t take kindly to that kind of talk. I didn’t think nothin’ of it till I met that mute boy out there.”

  Hackett nods toward the empty doorway. “I’d been comin’ out west just like you, though for slightly different purposes. I’d run out of supplies and had been starvin’ when I come upon this Indun camp looked about dried up, all except for this little boy naked as the day his momma bore him and just as white as you or me. Smoke pulls him in and out of where’s I can see him. I get closer and I can see he’s holding something tightly to his chest.” He brings his arms in, spilling his new glass of whiskey across his shirt. He wipes at it absently.