Pretty soon it was all going to come up on him. The heavy, loaded feeling in his stomach told him it would be coming up soon.
"Well, there wasn't much else we could do. We got ready to go. Hannibal says, 'Bill, God help you. ' "Bill says, 'God never helped me. I helped myself. ' "That was when Timmy walked over to us. He even walked wrong, Louis. He walked like an old, old man. He'd put one foot high up and then bring it down and then kind of shuffle and then lift the other one. It was like watchin a crab walk. His hands dangled down by his legs. And when he got close enough, you could see red marks across his face on the slant, like pimples or little burns. I reckon that's where the Kraut machine gun got him. Must have damn near blowed his head off.
"And he stank of the grave. It was a black smell, like everything inside him was just lying there, spoiled. I saw Alan Purinton put a hand up to cover his nose and mouth. The stench was just awful. You almost expected to see grave maggots squirming around in his hair-"
"Stop," Louis said hoarsely. "I've heard enough."
"You ain't," Jud said. He spoke with haggard earnestness. "That's it, you ain't.
And I can't even make it as bad as it was. Nobody could understand how bad it was unless they was there. He was dead, Louis. But he was alive too. And he...
he... he knew things."
"Knew things?" Louis sat forward.
"Aynh. He looked at Alan for a long time, kind of grinning-you could see his teeth, anyway-and then he spoke in this low voice; you felt like you had to strain forward to hear it. It sounded like he had gravel down in his tubes.
'Your wife is f**king that man she works with down at the drugstore, Purinton.
What do you think of that? She screams when she comes. What do you think of that?' "Alan, he kind of gasped, and you could see it had hit him. Alan's in a nursing home up in Gardener now, or was the last I heard-he must be pushing ninety. Back when all this happened, he was forty or so, and there had been some talk around about his second wife. She was his second cousin, and she had come to live with Alan and Alan's first wife, Lucy, just before the war. Well, Lucy died, and a year and a half later Alan up and married this girl. Laurine, her name was. She was no more than twenty-four when they married. And there had been some talk about her, you know. If you were a man, you might have called her ways sort of free and easy and let it go at that. But the women thought she might be loose.
And maybe Alan had had a few thoughts in that direction too because he says, 'Shut up! Shut up or I'll knock you down, whatever you are!' "Shush now, Timmy,' Bill says, and he looks worse than ever, you know, like maybe he's going to puke or faint dead away, or do both. 'You shush, Timmy. ' "But Timmy didn't take no notice. He looks around at George Anderson and he says, 'That grandson you set such a store by is just waiting for you to die, old man. The money is all he wants, the money he thinks you got socked away in your lockbox at the Bangor Eastern Bank. That's why he makes up to you, but behind your back he makes fun of you, him and his sister. Old wooden-leg, that's what they call you,' Timmy says, and Louis, his voice-it changed. It got mean. It sounded like the way that grandson of George's would have sounded if... you know, if the things Timmy was saying was true.
"Old wooden-leg,' Timmy says, 'and won't they shit when they find out you're poor as a church mouse because you lost it all in 1938? Won't they shit, George?
Won't they just shit?'
"George, he backed away then, and his wooden leg buckled under him, and he fell back on Bill's porch and upsat his pitcher of beer, and he was as white as your undershirt, Louis.
"Bill, he gets him back on his feet somehow, and he's roarin at his boy, 'Timmy, you stop it! You stop it!' But Timmy wouldn't. He said somethin bad about Hannibal, and then he said something bad about me too, and by then he was...
ravin, I'd say. Yeah, he was ravin, all right. Screamin. And we started to back away, and then we started to run, draggin George along the best we could by the arms because he'd gotten the straps and harnesses on that fake leg twisted somehow, and it was all off to one side with the shoe turned around backward and draggin on the grass.
"The last I seen of Timmy Baterman, he was on the back lawn by the clothesline, his face all red in the settin sun, those marks standin out on his face, his hair all crazy and dusty somehow.
and he was laughin and screechin over and over again 'Old wooden-leg! Old wooden-leg! And the cuckold! And the whoremaster! Goodbye, gentlemen! Goodbye!
Goodbye!' And then he laughed, but it was screaming, really... something inside him screaming... and screaming... and screaming."