Farther along the kitchen bench lies a copy of today's paper, with the headline: 'Old Familiar Feces.' The picture shows Leona out at Keeter's, holding lumps of shit in her hands. Farther down still is an article about Taylor. She'll be fine. Just maybe not filling her panties the way she used to. Maybe they can implant a silicon butt-cheek or something, who knows?
Mom bunts me over the porch and down to the wishing bench, where the man from the morgue hovers. 'Let me shake your hand, son,' he says, 'your daddy would've been mighty proud.'
'Thank you,' I say, breathing in the clear blue day.
'Yessir, that was some turnaround. What's your secret?'
'I went down on my knees and prayed, sir.'
'Mighty fine,' he says, turning to Mom. 'And ma'am—I think we can process that earlier insurance matter just now—the body clearly can't be found.'
'Well thank you, Tuck,' says Mom, running a hand over her wishing bench.
'Mr Wilmer!' calls George from the porch. 'See what you can do for that poor woman in Nacogdoches …'
'Be my pleasure, Mrs Porkorney—you take care now, y'hear?'
After he turns away, Mom frowns at the fridge box being wheeled up the driveway. She frowns extra-hard, not just on account of being a double widow, but because Leona taught her not to show too much joy over new goods. You have to pretend they don't matter, that's what she taught her, that and how to throw her head back when she laughs. Doesn't fool me, though.
I lean over the bench and soak up Mom's clammy warmth. When the ladies join us, Mrs Lechuga comes to her window across the street. She sends a little wave, and I realize who's missing, for the full set of dice in my life—Palmyra. But, hey—I guess it ain't every day you get to play pinball on Oprah.
'Vern,' says Betty, 'Brad's just desperate to show you his birthday present.'
I try to nod politely, but my eyes snag on some dappled pink flesh behind the willows up the street. It's Ella with her suitcase. She wears a wool sweater over a loose cotton dress that swishes full of honey breeze. She grins when she sees me watching her. I told her I'd send a car, but she insisted on taking one last walk through town, crazy girl. Anyway, we'll be back. Mexico ain't so far.
'Kurt, stay!' Ole Mrs Porter bangs through her screen, and struggles down the lawn with a table full of knitted toys. Then, as I cross the driveway to meet Ella, Brad thumps onto the porch behind us.
'B-ooom! Suck shit muthafucka!'
That better not be loaded,' says Betty. 'Bradley Pritchard! Don't you point that thing, or it'll go right back to the store!'
I ignore him by rubbing lips with Ella. Then we both turn to watch Mrs Porter stand her toys by the roadside. She's setting up a fucken stall for chrissakes. We just swallow giggles.
'Ma'am,' I call over the road. 'Mrs Porter!'
She cocks her head, in a kindly way, and flaps a little wave.
'Everybody's gone, Mrs Porter. Everything's back to normal …'
Acknowledgements
Love to Katz for gently stitching and filling such fine new sails; to my parents and family for this taste for the sea; and to all whose faith opened space beneath a ragged keel.
To the Burnbury Court of Miracles: Strawberries to Dawn & Mark, who practiced friendship with the stealth many reserve for crime; Lisa for energy and chocolate; Bubbles & Frog, who didn't put me up in Hong Kong; Val Wilson, Martinez, and the Cavendish milieu for enlightenment and vodka; to the CWs—Hawker Siddeley!
May the Watras be with Hog, Hildegard, and all Bara crew; Abrazos pa Toсo y los cuates—ora si verda carnales; to Junius and family for longevity of faith; Lynn Pearce & family for mindful encouragement; to all whose shores remain littered with my sins—this could be the handle of a mop …
Special thanks to Clare Conville, of Conville & Walsh, Lee Brackstone and all at Faber and Faber, for the vigor with which they hoisted this sheet to the breeze, and to Grant Stewart, whose keen eye first sighted the craft approaching.
P.S. Gumby—still want that assassination?