HEADER
Edward Lee
Header.
Havin’ a header tonight, we is!
We’se gonna have ourselves a header so fierce ol’ Tully Natter’ll be shittin’ in his grave!
He’d heard the term, in all its variations so many times, but he just couldn’t figure it.
Header.
What was it?
The little boy’s eyes widened in the dark, blooming like night flowers. He hid in the closet, a crouched and frozen shadow; he cracked the door half an inch, but couldn’t quite see them. His curiosity burned.
He had to know, he had to know what this thing was they were doing.
He’d heard them speak of it many times — only, though, in the least formed whispers, behind the slickest grins and eyes narrowed to forbidden slits. Yes, Daddy and his grandfather. Like just today, when Daddy had brought his tractor in from the graze field.
“That blamed Caudill up an’ cut my fence,” Daddy’d railed. Grandpap looked up from his work table. “Again?”
“Yeah, shore’s shit! Lost six more sheep! Gawd Almighty, we’se gonna have to do somthin’ ‘bout this!”
And that’s when Grandpap had smiled that feisty, whiskery smile of his. “What we’se gonna have to do, son, is have ourselves a header.”
“Dag straight! Fucker stole my sheep, third time this year. Tonight, we’se gonna have a header fer shore! Teach that cracker som-bitch ta steal my sheep!”
See, that’s what they’se always called it — whatever it was. A header.
Like one time he’d overheard his Daddy whispering to Granpap, whispering like creaky, tiny etchings. “McCraw burned down one’ a Meyer’s grain sheds, Pap. He’s havin’ a header tonight, wants us ta join in.” So later on, they’d corn-liquored up and left, and they didn’t return till almost dawn.
The little boy couldn’t imagine what a header could be, but he knew this: next day at school, Jannie McCraw wasn’t in class, and she was never seen again…
……..
“Sweetheart?” Cummings leaned over the bed, gently nudged his wife’s warm shoulder. Christ, he thought. Bleary morning light seeped in through the window: starlings chirped. Groggily, then, Kath looked up and smiled.
Special Agent Stewart Cummings smiled back. My love, he thought. What would he do without her? And this — this — crushed him. To see her so sick all the time, so despondent. She deserved better then this, for sure. And what am I doing to make her life better? Cummings dared to ask himself. At the very least, he was doing the best he could.
But that wasn’t good enough.
She was always so pale, always sniffling. The dark circles under her eyes, like smudges of charcoal, only reinforced her turmoil. What would I do without her? She’d come through for him, hadn’t she? Waiting tables at the Village Pump while he finished his degree. Now she was sick, and it was his turn to pay her back.
But it was so…hard.
“Be careful at work, honey,” she peeped to him, so loving, so real.
“Where’s your prescription?” Cummings asked. “I’ll pick it up on the way home tonight.”
“No, no,” she insisted amid the sheets. “I’ll get it later. I just need a little time to get going, you know.”
“Sure, Kath.”
“And you work so hard, I’d feel terrible if you had to drive all the way into town just for my medicine.”
“Honey, it’s no troub—”
“Hush!” she insisted, sniffling once more. Some kind of walking pneumonia, the doctor’s slip had said. She’d been like this for months now. “You go on. You do enough for me, I’ll get my medicine later.”
Cummings kissed her full, pink lips. He wanted to cry.
He left the house, got into his unmarked car, and started it up. The light of dawn seemed like the color of misery. Poor Kath, he thought. Would she ever get better?
And another question rose, with the same heat as the sun.
Her medication cost $450 per month. Not to mention the mortgage, the power bills, groceries.
And what would his father say, if he knew what he was doing?
Shit, Cummings thought and drove off.
……..
Header.
Grandpap, what’s a…header? Travis recalled askin’ just after his 16th birthday. The day before, n’ fact, he’d got up an’ busted fer hot-wirin’ Cage George’s ‘74 Hemi ‘Cuda, drunk on shine, and wreckin’ it with that cute li’l Kari Ann Wells sitting right next ta him, stroking’ his bone an’ eventually poppin’ a good, hot creamer right in her purdy face. Bone, see, was what they called a fella’s dick these parts, but quad was what they called Kari Ann Wells after that wreck. Weren’t Travis’ fault she’d broke her blamed back when he drove inta that bridge ‘buttment. But ‘fore that, Travis had heard about headers many times, heard his Daddy talkin’ ‘bout it with Grandpap, just weeks, n’fact, ‘fore his Daddy and Mama got kilt, but they was just the tiniest whispers, see, so tiny Travis never learnt really what it was. And ol’ Grandpap Martin, later on that same fine day, while’s sewin’ up a pair of workboots an’ sipping some shine hisself, had answered. Cain’t be tellin’ ya that, son, not till ya got some hair ‘tween yer legs.
Travis figured this was Grandpap’s way of suggestin’ that he was too young to hear such things, an’ never mind that he already had a good plot of hair ‘tween his legs and could squirt a man-sized nut any ol’ time. But what miffed Travis most was this: if he were too young ta hear about headers, how come the blamed county prosser-cueter hadn’t felt he was too young to be tried as a ay-dult? It’s ‘cos yer hillfolk, boy, yer creek people, Grandpap had attempted to explain on sentencing day. The fine old man had tears in his eyes sayin’ it. Ain’t no one round here cares ‘bout hillfolk. All a bunch of dirt redneck crackers tryin’ ta act like fancified city folk, they is. Ya gots ta do yer time now, boy, and ya gots to be good whiles yer in the blamed stone motel, otherwise they’ll’se keep ya longer.
Longer? Chrast. That fancified queer-loving judge had dropped five years on poor Travis’ head.
But, shore enough, Grandpap had been right. Those five years he’d gotten fer the candyass GTA had turned ta eleven a might quick. Russell County Detent weren’t no picnic, and havin’ ta beat the livin’ shit outa fellas piled those extra years on faster ‘n shit through one ‘a Dumar McGern’s chickens. Travis ain’t had no choice, ‘less he wanted to get butt-fucked ever night and have a bunch of big, dirty fells callin’ him “baby.” He’d busted some heads, he did, spent a lot of time in the hole fer it — BEV SEG, they called it, thought, fer Behavioral Segregation, whatever in tarnation that meant — and then there was that one night when some fella from Crick City doin’ a pound for armed robbery had held a prison shiv to Travis’ throat and dropped his drawers. “Suck it, cracker, and suck it good. Suck it like you suck yer daddy, ‘cos everybody knows all yous crackers are queer,” this fella ordered. “Suck out that nut, cracker. Be the best meal ya had since the last time the chow hall served cream a’ broccoli soup. Make yer daddy jealous, sugar.” Well, for one, Travis’ daddy was dead, and he didn’t much like ta hear talk like that, and two, there weren’t no way in Hade’s place that Travis Clyde Tuckton was gonna suck dick — getting’ sucked, shore, but doin’ the suckin’ hisself? No way, uh-huh! So he snapped that shiv right outa that fella’s hand and poked him good in the eye. Stuff came out that looked like cranberry marmalade they sold down Hull’s General Store. Didn’t matter much what it looked like, thought. Just added more time to Travis’ hitch.