Charlie began walking back toward town. It would take him a couple of hours and he would need to stay off of the main roads and not be seen. He would have plenty of time before the sun came up, and no one would discover the bodies until later the next day. If everything went smoothly, he could get home, get a little sleep, and report his car missing early the next morning. He often left the key in the ignition because no one would steal a piece of shit like Jimmy Ray anyways. He never locked his doors because he didn’t want anyone breaking his windows looking for drugs. The cops would just figure that Lester went a little crazy, took the car, robbed Dale and the Zippy Mart, and then it all went wrong and they killed each other. Charlie had never much been one for making plans or working things through in advance, but he’d always been able to think on his feet, and, so far at least, he’d always been able to get through whatever landed in his path. Some folks just survive, no matter what. As Charlie walked down the road, his mind cleared and it all seemed to make sense and he relaxed, knowing he wasn’t going to get into much trouble. This was all goddamned Lester’s fault anyway, as it was his dumb idea to put Dale in the trunk in the first place.
The walk was slow but peaceful. The night was dark and way too quiet but since it was now getting really late it was starting to cool down a little. The lack of moonlight made him less likely to be seen walking alone in the night. Every so often he’d hear a car coming or see headlights and he’d step off the road into some woods. He’d hear the whoosh of the car going by or maybe a song from the stereo blasting, then see the honeysuckle glowing red from the taillights. When the coast was clear, Charlie would step back onto the road and resume his walk.
It was still dark when Charlie got into town, the only light coming from a billboard for the latest wet/dry referendum that was coming up this fall. Every so often they would bring it up for another vote and the local churches would come out in force, buying up TV and billboard ads to make sure that legal sales weren’t allowed. The churches profited from this as tithes were always high during election season and it was easy to stir up the old folks with tales of all of the drunken debauchery that would ensue if liquor were ever legal there. The package stores and honky-tonks up at the Tennessee state line, or the Line, as everyone called it, would get into the action, donating tons of money to the bigger churches, as legal sales down there would wipe out their business. The bootleggers and the redneck mafia that controlled them would also get into the action, as everyone wanted to protect the status quo.
As Charlie got to his neighborhood, the sky was taking on the first glimmers of light and echoing with sounds of the morning birds. Charlie’s stomach was rumbling and he realized that he hadn’t really eaten anything since a late lunch the day before and now his buzz was diminished and fast being replaced with the first pangs of what would surely be a terrible hangover. It had been a long night and Charlie was pretty exhausted but wired from all of the excitement. His mind started playing tricks on him. What if Dale wasn’t really dead at all and was just unconscious from the carbon monoxide in the trunk? Maybe all of this was some kind of fever dream or overreaction. His mind was racing and he knew he needed a beer, maybe a joint, to try to turn it all down so he could get some shut-eye before having to deal with cops and questions. He always dreaded dealing with the police and had to make sure that he kept his story straight, but knew that it would all work out okay. They all thought he was some kind of hero. He knew how to be cool in the fire.
Folks were always saying that Lester would end up dead somewhere anyway. Charlie could feel himself becoming resigned to the notion. Some dudes just don’t make it. Getting all weepy wasn’t gonna bring him back now. Just bad breaks. Dale too. Charlie and Dale weren’t really buds, but he’d always liked him okay. You meet those guys along the way. You have some good times, then you move on. Life gets tough sometimes. It was always rough around those parts.
As he rounded the curve to his house, there was Jimmy Ray parked, just there under the streetlight in front of his house like he always left it. The 1970 redesigned Chevelle SS had such beautiful lines. She needed a lot of work but he’d get around to it one of these days.
Charlie stood there for a bit, taking it in. His mind slowed and he was suddenly totally calm and relaxed. He felt like he was out of his body, looking down and seeing the whole scene, as if in a movie. His mind felt strangely rational and deliberate, the way he would get when he started those fires that made him a hero. The way a hunter feels as he draws a bead on his kill.
The air had developed a slight chill now and he thought he could smell a faint trace of smoke in the pines. The cooler was still in the back and the hood was still warm. He noticed that the square GM key was not in the ignition. He wondered what, if anything, might be in the trunk and wished he had the oval key to check.
Charlie’s house was dark and still but his door was standing wide open. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, threw the match down on the ground, and walked toward the front porch.
DRIVING TO GERONIMO’S GRAVE
by Joe R. Lansdale
We ought never to do wrong when people are looking.
—Mark Twain
I HADN’T EVEN been good and awake for five minutes when Mama came in and said, “Chauncey, you got to drive on up to Fort Sill, Oklahoma, and pick up your uncle Smat.”
I was still sitting on the bed, waking up, wearing my nightdress, trying to figure which foot went into what shoe, when she come in and said that. She had her dark hair pushed up on her head and held in place with a checkered scarf.
“Why would I drive to Oklahoma and pick up Uncle Smat?”