Hung by string, dangling like fruit from the branches of a barren iron wood tree at the edge of the car shed, was a batch of beer bottles. When the wind blew and went into the bottles, they gave out with a shake and a sound like haints moaning.
I had seen trees fixed up like that before. Mostly in the yards of old black people. Someone had told me the story behind the bottles when I was a kid, but now I couldn’t quite remember what it was all about. Something to do with spirits. I certainly hadn’t a clue why Arnold had fixed his tree up that way. That seemed out of place for him.
Beyond the double-wide, I could see the woods. It was very thick near Arnold’s place, because that’s where the creek ran through. I figured, come summer, the mosquitoes would rise off the water and muddy banks in a mass so thick and black they’d look like a fishing net being lifted, about to be dropped over the property.
Behind, and to the left of the trailer, at an angle from the woods, was a couple of acres of junk cars and car parts.
Way out back was a large, old-fashioned red barn that looked newer and cozier than the mobile home. That would be where Arnold’s wrecker lived.
I wondered what Arnold was doing inside his double-wide. Most likely sitting around in his underwear drinking beer, watching the wrestling matches, maybe racing the dial with his channel changer, scratching his belly, listening to the wind blowing through his bottle tree.
Or maybe he was having an early supper. Eating beanie-weenies out of a can. Spearing the weenies with his pocket knife, sucking the beans and juice straight from the container, wiping his mouth with the back of his arm as he watched thumb-sized roaches run out and around an oily-bottomed, brown paper sack at which he tossed his garbage.
I was taken aback by these thoughts. If that’s how I thought of him, then why had I driven out here to spy through the trees on Arnold’s trailer and suddenly wonder what he was doing after not speaking to him for ten years and not having the urge to?
When I was a kid, Arnold had been my hero, and I grew to love him the way a younger brother should love an older brother. He came around to our house some, but my mother was never relaxed with him. She tried to treat him right because of my father, but you could tell she wasn’t comfortable with the idea. My father didn’t know what to do about it. He loved Arnold, I know, but his firstborn was from a time when Dad had been a boy himself; hadn’t had the experience then that he had with his new family. I think seeing Arnold made Dad feel like a failure. When they talked to each other, it was around things, and Dad always had a kind of desperate look about him when Arnold was about, as if there was something he wanted to say, but c togs, the language in which it needed to be said was unknown to him.
One night, when I was twelve, a noise in the kitchen woke me up, and I got up and found Dad in there breaking up some cornbread in a half glass of milk, eating it with a spoon.
I got a glass, went over and sat down by him and took cornbread from the pan and broke it into my glass and chunked it up with the spoon and poured milk on it. He put a big arm around me while I sat there and ate the cornbread and drank the crumbed milk, and I saw then that he had a bunch of old school pictures of Arnold spread out on the table and was looking at them. I didn’t know where he got them or kept them, but they were well-creased and a little greasy.
I didn’t say anything to him, but all of a sudden, he said: “I keep thinking I’ll learn to do something right. You think you live long enough, you ought to learn something right. You have a kid, you got this pure little thing, and a chance to do everything right by it, and every day you just screw things up ’cause you don’t know nothing worth a damn in the first place. You end up teaching this pure little thing everything you don’t know, and nothin’ you do know, ’cause you don’t really know nothin’. You’re just putting dirt on a snowflake, and the harder you try to clean it up, dirtier it gets. Goddamn, Baby-man, I hope I ain’t making you and Rick so dirty.”
I didn’t know what the hell he was talking about, and it worried me some because he had milk on his breath and not beer. Beer might make you talk like that, but milk and cornbread? It was as if he were speaking Greek. He had tears in his eyes, and I’d never seen that before. I didn’t know he could cry. I thought he was stone and wisdom rolled into one, and that night I knew he was neither. He was human as the next person, and I loved him all the more for it.
What he meant that night came to me later, of course, when I had kids of my own and saw that they were snowflakes that I was handling with dirty hands.
All I knew was what he said had something to do with me and Arnold, and mostly Arnold, but I didn’t know what that something was, except there was some kind of regret buried in his words.
When I was twelve, Arnold looked and seemed pretty neat with his greasy ducktails, tight pants, souped up Chevy pickup with the flame licks on the side, and he had money from little jobs he did here and there, and now and then he came over and had dinner with us, and afterwards he’d treat my little brother like a kid and me like a man. Me and Arnold would go out back of the house and throw knives in the dirt and he’d tell me about the girls he was seeing, and then he’d wink at me, just like I knew what he was winking about.
One time he gave me a pocket knife with a yellow handle that he’d burned my name into with a woodburning set, I kept that knife until the night my life got a thorn in it.
When I turned fourteen Arnold started coming around more, and Mama didn’t like it period. She saw what she called “a hole” in Arnold, and thought maybe she could hear the beat of leathery wings when he was around. She said to me, “You hang around with Arnold, you’re gonna catch something bad, and I don’t mean a cold.”
I listened like most kids listen. Not at all. One fall night, a few days short of Halloween, I went out with Arnold in his truck when I was supposed to cs sten have gone to the skating rink. He had some homemade hooch, and he gave me some in a paper cup. I got tight quick, because I’d never had any, and while we were sitting in his truck drinking the stuff, he said, “Let me show you something,” and he reached under his seat and pulled out a. 38 revolver, said, “You know, we’re about out of liquor, and I ain’t got no money. But if we went over to ole Ben’s liquor store and I stuck this in his face, I bet we could get both from him.”
I remember thinking that idea was the funniest thing in the world, because I didn’t think he meant it. I was drunk and didn’t know it.
We drank some more and Arnold talked some more and smiled some more, and pretty soon we were on our way over to Ben’s liquor store, positioned just over the county line where drink was legal. I thought we were just playing a game. I figured Arnold had lied about not having any money.
Arnold had worked at Ben’s one summer stacking liquor crates, and he knew just where to go. There was a little road went off in the woods and came out at the back of Ben’s place. You could park out there behind some trees and walk up the back circle drive. Near the door was a key in a wide-mouthed pipe stuck down in the ground with a rock over it.
We parked in the trees and sat and waited for a while, looking at the dark store, because it had been closed an hour by the time we got there. Finally Arnold said, “He don’t go home for a while after he closes. Has some things he does after the stock boys leave. He counts his money and takes it home with him. He makes pretty good money.”
I still thought he was kidding, but he kept drinking until all there was to drink was gone, and I said, “You’re just funnin’. Take me home, Arnold. I’ve got nothing against Ben. You used to work for him. You don’t want to do nothing to him.”
“He skimmed on my hours some. I reckon I got a hundred, maybe hundred-and-fifty dollars coming. I could take a hundred-and-twenty-five and call it even.”