Chapter 6
THE RIFLE-SHOT SLAP
One thing you need to know about Lord of the Flies, it’s a classic study in human nature—not particularly flattering but accurate nonetheless,” Pops said as Thursday evening settled into one of the wicker chairs. He handed me the dusty volume, its jacket cover yellowed and cracked in places. “This is a first edition, mind you, so read it, enjoy it, but treat it with respect. There aren’t many out there. Golding only sold a few thousand copies in the States before it went out of print.”
“What does it teach you about human nature?”
“Almost everything.”
“Like what?”
“Oh… the tension between civilization and anarchy, between good and evil—and the fact that both can live within us. Understanding that will serve you well in this valley.” He chuckled shrewdly, took a sip of mash, and spun the ice clockwise slowly.
“Is there evil around here? It seems pretty quiet.”
“Evil doesn’t have to be loud, son. In fact, it reserves that for the merely boorish. Evil is quiet, stealthy—it sneaks up on you, smiles, and pats you on the back while pissing down your leg. Take Bubba Boyd, for example. He goes about his business of blowing up the mountains and destroying folks’ lives without so much as a raised voice. He throws around money at Christmas and Easter so people love him. He’s got a smile as wide as this valley, but the most soulless eyes I’ve ever seen. Owns most of the town but is content to keep us hobbled.”
“If he owns everything, how is anybody going to stop him?”
Pops thought for a moment. “I don’t know yet, to be honest.”
“And if he owns the land, can’t he just do what he wants with it?”
“Think of it this way. Just because a river runs through my property, do I have the right to pollute it for the people living downstream? Suppose they get sick and die because of my mess; should I be held to account?”
“I guess so.”
“I guess so too. But folks are so used to taking Bubba’s money, they’re afraid if they oppose him, he’ll shut off that big fat teat of his.”
“That’s gross.”
“Not half as gross as what he’s doing up there. And the only person in this town with the cojones to oppose him is Paul Pierce.”
“That’s some talk coming from Missi County’s resident war hero.” It was Chester Skill at the bottom porch step. He eased into the wicker chair with an exhale as if he and his old bones had called a temporary truce. I got up to pour him a sour mash whiskey and delivered it on a silver tray.
“What did you do to be a war hero, Pops?”
“What any man would have done. I survived.”
Chester smiled and shook his head. “Son, your grandfather single-handedly saved the lives of five men.”
“What? Mom never told me that. Tell me the story.”
Pops shifted in his chair and grimaced as if the thought of talking about himself had triggered back pain.
“His bravery that day won him the Navy Cross—got nominated for the Medal of Honor—bastards wouldn’t give it to him, though.”
I looked over at Pops, who was in the middle of an extended eye roll. “Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
He took a sip of mash and watched as the ice in his glass slowly rotated with the careful movement of his wrist; then he looked over at me with a barely discernible smile. “It’s not our way.”
Our eyes locked for a few moments more, and the porch fell into silence until Chester finally said, “Well, if you won’t tell, I will. Boy needs to understand his stock, Arthur.”
Pops raised his glass. “Have at it, then. I seem to get braver each telling.”
Chester put his glass on the table and squared to me. “It was toward the end of the War in the Pacific and the Japs were taking a beating…”
“… Once the ship limped back to Pearl Harbor they sent him home and had a big ceremony in Washington, D.C., with all the brass there. Whole Peebles family drove up for it. I came in from Chicago.”
“That was a sight.” Pops laughed. “Caravan of hillbillies roasting deer meat in the Pentagon parking lot.”
“Your momma was proud, though,” Chester said, pointing.
“She was indeed.” Pops raised his glass and looked into the ice at the patterns they drew on their devolution to water. “She was indeed.”
“So, Kevin, I’m afraid I have to disagree with your grandfather’s assertion that no one in the county other than Paul Pierce has balls. Arthur Bradley Peebles is the bravest man I know.”
Pops waved away the compliment. “Bravery is when you have time to weigh out the peril and you act anyway at great personal risk. I just acted without thinking. Now, what Paul is doing—standing up to Bubba Boyd—that’s bravery.”
“Who’s this Paul person?”
“You’ll meet him tomorrow after calls. I arranged for Audy Rae to take your mother for a new hairdo with Paul at Miss Janey’s salon. I imagine you could use a summer cut as well—unless you’re going for that Lord of the Flies look.”
“So I says to Toomey, I says, ‘I’m… not… puttin… thaaaat thing in me!’ This water too hot for you? If it is, jus say so. So he looks at me an says, ‘It would be nice if we tried somethin different for a change.’ So I says, ‘Yeah, it sure would be nice if we tried somethin different, like a movie an some presents or somethin. That would certainly be different for a change.’ ”
“So what’d it look like, then?”
“What do think it looked like, you fool girl?”
“What I mean is, did it look like a real one?”
“No, it looked like a giant flesh lipstick. He said he stole it from his sister, who stole it from Bubby Allison’s momma. So I says to Toomey, I says, ‘Least you could do is get me my own one.’ I says, ‘If you get me my own one I might try it.’ An you know what?… He did!… An man, Levona, you wouldn’t believe…”
“Levona!” Mr. Paul spurred from the storeroom at the back of the Paris Hair Salon. “I’m not paying you to gab all day with Petunia. She’s got work and so do you. Mrs. Gillooly’s ready to be shampooed; please see to it… now!”
“Yes, Mr. Paul.” Levona slunk away and Mr. Paul went back into the storeroom, leaving me and Petunia to fill the empty spaces with conversation.
Upside down in the trough of the sink in the washing department at Miss Janey’s Paris Hair Salon and Notion Shop, I knew for certain that Petunia Wickle was the most beautiful creature on earth. She lathered a palmful of Breathless Body shampoo into my scalp with fingers that felt like a thousand giant flesh lipsticks. I cleared my throat to let her know I was capable of continuing the conversation.
“Would you like conditioner?”
I nodded.
“Okay, you got it.”
Petunia’s ink-black hair hung straight down from the sides of her face, turning in just below her grapefruit-size breasts, which were rudely constrained in a yellow midriff top. Tight button-fly jeans and burgeoning hips budding to full promise. Between the bottom of her midriff and the top of her jeans was a sanctuary of bare flesh. Light pink, like the new skin under an old scab.
She leaned over to the counter for conditioner and her stomach touched my cheek, sending slashes of electricity to my feet. She leaned again to put it back. The brass buttons of her jeans were dry ice against my face and made her easy skin seem torrid. The elastic band at the bottom of her yellow midriff was stretched well past the point of serviceability, which afforded me full view of the top’s contents.
“So how you like it here in the dust pit a the universe?”
The question startled me from my fantasy. “Fine,” I said, instantly regretting my lack of wit. She worked the conditioner into my scalp expertly. My eyes were three-quarters closed so I could watch the vast expanse of skin and breast in private. She rinsed me one last time and narrowed the water from my hair with her hands.
“Sit up now so’s I can dry you.”
My face met her stomach, which smelled of still-warm laundry.
“Mr. Paul’s gonna do you an your mom special.”
She led me to the first chair, smiled, and swished back to the washing department. I scrutinized her every step in the old mirrors that lined both sides of the room.
Miss Janey’s Paris Hair Salon and Notion Shop was not weathering the downturn in the Medgar economy well. At its peak, the salon boasted eight cutting stations, a washing department with four new sinks, and two full-time manicurists. Miss Janey’s partner, Paul Pierce, ran the hair operation and Miss Janey spent most of her time with the beauty school they had opened in 1974. The beauty market was tough now, especially in Medgar.
The cutting stations lined up like ghost-town soldiers at attention. Only the first three showed signs of any life. A crush of black combs in a white plastic jar. Yellowed beautician licenses framed in yellowed Scotch tape. Fossiled chrome blow dryers with frayed cloth cords and cracked oblong black plugs. Gray-patched mirrors reflecting faithfully every day since opening, but now as weak as old flashlights. Beige and brown tile, pocked with bare concrete where tiles had broken. The walls were light yellow at the ceiling, fading to a dull beige at the bottom. Years of forgotten hair clippings gathered in every corner. An orange vinyl settee in the waiting room with ten-year-old style books faded from the morning sun. The Notion Shop had closed two years ago; a dusty sheet hung in the open doorway that linked the two.
In Petunia’s department were four yellow porcelain sinks, two black-and-chrome reclining chairs bettered with duct tape. The eight bays hadn’t been full since senior prom morning years ago, and the staff had been whittled from twelve to just four, including Miss Janey, who came in only twice a week. Paul Pierce now performed all the colorings and perms and most of the manicures himself. Hadn’t held an elocution class in eighteen months. He whisked out from the back, blade thin and posture perfect, with soft blue eyes and a welcoming smile.