Vernon God Little

'Mrs Lasseen doesn't work at the yard,' I say. 'That's just their home number.'

'No, the Spares & Repairs number is here too.' She starts to dial. All you hear is the TV in back.

'Don't write Martirio off yet,' says a reporter, 'that's the message from the team behind a new multimedia venture inspired by the struggle of our brave citizens—a venture its founder claims will spread the gospel of human triumph over adversity to every corner of the globe.'

'Martirio is already synonymous with sharing,' says Lally. Mom squeaks. She throws down the phone. 'Many a crucial lesson about loss, about faith, and justice, can still be shared, be made a gift of—a gift of hope and compassion to a needy world.'

'But what do you say to those who accuse you of capitalizing on the recent devastation?' asks the reporter.

Lally's eyebrows sink to their most credible level. 'Every tragedy brings lessons. Hardship is only repeated when those lessons aren't learned. What we propose is to share our challenge, share the benefits of our struggle, in the hope that others can avoid those hard lessons for themselves. If we can save just one life, wherever it may be—we'll have been successful. Also remember that, being an interactive project, individuals across the planet will be able to monitor, influence, and support Martirio in its efforts, twenty-four hours a day, via the internet. I don't think anybody would call that a bad thing.'

'Fair enough, but with the tragedy now behind us—do you really think there's still a market for a lifestyle show from what is, after all, only the barbecue sauce capital of Central Texas?'

Lally throws out his arms. 'Who says the lesson's behind us? The lesson is still to come, we have perpetrators to be brought to justice, causes to be found …'

'But surely the case is open and shut?'

'Things may appear so from a media standpoint,' says Lally. 'But if we share the expertise of my partner in the venture, Deputy Vaine Gurie, we'll discover things aren't always as they appear …'

Mom whimpers. 'Lalito …?' She stretches her fingertips out to the screen.

'So,' says the reporter, 'you won't be relocating to California for the experiment, in light of today's tragic events?'

'Certainly not, our investment is here. We believe the good citizens of Martirio will shine in their challenge, with the generous backing of the Bar-B-Chew Barn corporation of course, and in conjunction with the Martirio Chamber of Commerce.'

Leona's hamster-petting eyes leap to the screen. 'Wow, how do I feel? It's just such a challenge, I never presented a show before …'

Mom's hand snaps back to her body. We both turn to the kitchen window. Under the rattle of the pumpjack, you hear the Eldorado on its way up the street. 'Vernon, I'm not home if those fucking girls come up here—tell them I'm at Nana's, or no, better—tell them I'm at Penney's with my gold Amex …'

'But, Ma, you don't even have …'

'Just do it!'

She scurries up the hall like a blood clot, as Those Girls bounce into the driveway. The bedroom door slams. It's too fucken much for me. I just continue to flick through Dad's videos. Cash Makes Cash, and Did You Ever See a Poor Billionaire? I have to learn how to turn slime into legitimate business, the way it's my right to do in this free world. My obligation, almost, when you think about it. What I definitely learned just now is that everything hinges on the words you use. Doesn't matter what you do in life, you just have to wrap the thing in the right kind of words. Anyway, pimps are already an accepted thing these days, check any TV-movie. Lovable even, some of them, with their leopard-skin Cadillacs, and their purple Stetsons. Their bitches and all. I can go a long way with what I already learned this morning from my daddy's library. Products and Services, Branding, Motivation. I already know I'll be offering a Service. I just have to Position and Package the thing.

'Doris?' George lets herself through the kitchen screen. Betty follows. 'Do-ris?'

'Uh—she ain't here,' I say.

Leona wafts through the door behind them. 'I bet she's in her room,' she says, shimmying right up the fucken hall. Suddenly I feel like one of those TV-movie secretaries when some asshole barges into the chairman's office, 'Sir, you can't go in there …' But no, fucken guaranteed, Leona barges into Mom's room.

'Hey, there you are,' she croons, like they just met at the Mini-Mart. 'Did y'all hear—I got my own show!'

'Wow,' sniffs Mom.

'You ain't got it yet, honey,' hollers George from her armchair. 'Not until Vaine raises the capital to partner up.'

'Oh goodnight Georgie, she'll get it—she just got her own SWAT team, for God's sake.'

'Uh-huh, and then appointed lard-bucket Barry to it, who's only a damn fail guard. I just hope by "SWAT" they mean "SWAT flies".'

'Heck, you're just miffed because the Barn went over the sheriff's head.'

'Sure, pumpkin, like I'm sooo devastated,' says George. 'I'm just sayin, a SWAT team don't qualify Vaine for goddam internet broadcasting, and it certainly don't give her the cash.' She pauses to suck half a cigarette into her chest. 'And anyway—our lil' ole tragedy just got shot off its damn perch.'

Leona stomps back out of Mom's room, and throws her hands on her hips. 'Don't you throw cold water on my big day, Georgette-Ann! Lalo says they won't have time to set up the infrastructure in California, not if we move fast.'

'We-ell.' George launches a finger of smoke at the ceiling. 'We-e-ell. I'll just try not to blink, in case I miss ole Vaine movin so fast.'

'Look, it's gonna happen—okay?!'

'Take one helluva new twist, is all I'm sayin.'

'George–Lalo just happens to be aware of that fact, wow!' The thrust of the last word flicks Leona forward at the waist. She stays there awhile, to make sure it sticks. Then she chirps back into Mom's room. 'Hey, did I tell you we're setting up Lalo's office in my den?'

Mom scurries into the hall. 'Well I guess we've got time for one coffee, before I go to Penney's. Vern, isn't it time for work?'

'Hey,' says Leona, 'I can drop him.'

'Loni, stop it,' says George.

'But—he'll get there faster …'

'Le-ona! It's just not fair.' George excavates a tunnel to Mom through her cigarette smoke. 'Honey, I hate to tell you, but Bertram's sending someone to get the boy. The shrink turned him in.'

'Well, but—Vern's making money now, why, he's getting five hundred dollars, just today …'

Leona shakes her head. 'You shouldn't've told her, George.'

'Oh sure, so you could take him via Lally, and film the arrest. Doris is our goddam friend, Leona.'

Mom's face peels off her head and hangs in tatters from her chin. 'Well, but …'

I just get up off the floor. 'Either way, I should go brush my hair.'

'Well, there, see? He's a changed young man, with a high-powered job and all.'

I leave the ladies and slide up the hall, via Mom's room, to reload my backpack. I pack my address book, my jacket, and some small clothes. My player, and some discs. I remove the clarinet and skateboard. I don't think I'll be going past town anymore. I grab the pack and head out through the laundry door, without a word to the Forces of Evil. You can still hear my ole lady from the porch, struggling to pump cream into her pie.

'Well I have to get to San Tone for the new fridge, and I'm getting a quote on one of those central-vac systems too, that plug right into anywhere in the house—I guess it's time to think about myself for a change, now that Vern has a career.'

From the bottom of the porch stairs I see a power company truck idling past the pumpjack, studying house numbers along the road. It jackrabbits to me, and starts to pull over. I just creak away on my bike.