The Escape of Bobby Ray Hammer, A Novel of a '50s Family
I have my elbow hanging out the window and the wind's cold but feels good drying my sweat. I'm watching the fields go by. Herb Coleman is out breaking ground on that little red tractor of his and the ground just splits, rolls over and lays there, all upside down like. A flock of birds follow him. Some fields still have bare cotton stalks standing. Used to, Leroy might be on the front porch waiting to tell me something that was going on up town. But that won't happen anymore.
As soon as I hit the door, I know Mama has pinto beans on. That and fried potatoes and cornbread. Curt's off tending water with Delbert, and Trish is in the washroom folding clothes and claiming she's not hungry. It's not like her not eating lunch with us. If she'd been out in the field with us she'd sure be hungry. But while I'm washing my face and hands, I notice something in the mirror I didn't see this morning. The left side of my face has welts on it. I think maybe I see two fingers of a handprint. And even a little bruise on my right cheekbone. Tender to the touch. So I'm eating lunch across the table from Papa with my hand over the left side of my face so Mama won't see. She hasn't said much of anything. I notice she has out her big black Bible on the coffee table in the living room. She's usually talking to Papa about how the work's going or some bill come in the mail. Just seems real quiet for us to be having lunch. And now I know what Papa's been grinning about, and he knows I know. I shovel in the food and get out to my car to make sure the old blanket I put on the front seat hides the whole blood stain. Have to pull it over a little. Then on the way back out to the field, I wonder if I remembered to lock my car door.
Bev said she knew a better place we could park. We were walking out of the show after seeing "Forbidden Planet" where this invisible thing came out of this guys mind and killed people. English teacher told us to go see it because the story comes from some famous play. We usually go get a cherry Coke at the Sierra Drive Inn before we park. But not last night. We've only been out a couple of times since we started going together again, and we've been going out to Beacon Road where we used to go. There's a little wood tower out there at the side of the road and it has a pale yellow flashing light. Usually a couple of other cars out there too. Last time it was Melvin. He'd picked up some eighth grade girl walking home. A friend of Curt's, as a matter of fact. But last night we were out at the far end of Robertson Boulevard, about ten miles from town, off the side of the road parked in some weeds. I was hoping I wouldn't get stuck. Nobody was going to see us because the fog rolled in.
Well, at least Papa's quit grinning. I'm packing the rest of the dirt in around the last few posts. It has to pack tight or the post will start to lean after a while. I have the metal end of the shovel in the air and stick the sharp wood end of the handle into the soft earth around the post. I poke holes around it till I have to add more dirt. Then poke again. The barbed wire comes in these rolls of one hundred yards each. Papa has one now, rolling it in front of him with his gloved hands, and the shiny wire laying out behind in the weeds. I can tell Papa's tired by the way he walks. His seat wants to drag the ground.
I'd just raised up and looking at Bev's blood all over me when she slapped me, not hard the first time but it took me by surprise. The second time hurt real bad. Then she conked me with her cast. I had to hold her hands after that. If I'd thought about it, I'd known she hadn't done it before. I could've taken it easy. I thought it wasn't working because of me. When I stopped her from hitting me, it was like she remembered something.
"Look, Bobby," she said, "I got hurt down there." Started crying like a baby.
Papa has the wire stretcher now. It's just a mess of ropes and pulleys with a hook on each end. I walk to the far end of the field and wrap the wire around the last fence post then twist it back around itself. Drive a big staple in to hold it. Sun must be going down because it's starting to get dark but we have a little light left. It's looking more and more like rain. By the time I get back, Papa has the stretcher untangled. One end is wrapped around the post and hooked back onto the rope. It holds tight to the post. The other end is wrapped around the wire a couple of times then the hook grabs the wire like a claw. This new wire is stiff. Barbs are so sharp they keep sticking through my leather gloves. Papa starts pulling, that wire starts stretching. I'm walking along holding the wire off the ground in places so it won't get caught. It keeps snaking its way toward Papa. When the wire gets all the way off the ground with a lot of tension in it, when it's stretched real tight, I go along pounding staples into the posts with a claw hammer to hold the wire in place. That's the way it's going be from now on, stretched tight and nailed to the post.
It's raining hard when we pull up at the house. I've been worrying all afternoon that Bev may be hurt real bad. I got to thinking maybe something really was wrong with her. Maybe she couldn't take what I did to her and bled to death after she went inside. I need to call her. First thing I do is look down inside my car and, sure enough, the blanket's gone and that blood spot on my white tuck and roll glaring up at me. I'm just hoping real hard it was Trish who took it instead of Mama.
As we go inside, I walk behind Papa. Trish is ironing clothes and has shirts, pants and dresses on hangers hanging off everything in the house, doorknobs, window sills, and even off the edge of the china closet. I see Mama in the kitchen washing off the table, getting ready to set it for dinner. Trish gives me a beware kind of look. Mama looks up at Papa and her eyes are red so I know she's been crying. I make the turn and go down the hall to my bedroom.
"I want to talk to you, young man," she says.
I know what "young man" means. My back starts tingling all over knowing she's coming up fast behind. I walk into my bedroom, flip on the light, and whoa! There's my bloody shorts I put in the burn barrel out back last night after I came home. They're laying on the corner of my bed, still have some ashes on them and a little wet, laid out like they're all ready to wear again.
"Listen to me," is the way she starts in. She's bent over and using a forced whisper. "I know what you were doing last night with that little black haired slut that wears shorts and red lipstick. And I know about you taking kids to visit that whore. You're playing the devil's game. The Lord's going to take you like He did Lenny if you keep this up. How do you think I'm ever going to get to heaven with you pulling stunts like this? What do you think Jesus thinks about you?" Then she storms out.
I wish she had just said God. Why did she have to say Jesus? Everything I have, seems like somebody wants to take it away from me. I've always felt that if no one else was on my side, at least Jesus was.
CHAPTER 27: The Slap in the Library
Yesterday I went to the library during study hall and got out a book on bridges. Soon we'll be studying bridges in Mr. Wood's class. Physics is the most amazing thing. Now we're studying about subatomic particles that come from space. Mr. Wood even made a cloud chamber so we could witness particles from outer space hitting the earth. While I was in the library, I also took a look at a dictionary. This is what it said about the word "journal":
1 a: a record of current transaction: as (1) : DAYBOOK 2 (2) a book of original entry in double-entry bookkeeping b: an account of day-to-day events c: a record of experiences, ideas, or reflections kept regularly for private use d: a record of transactions kept by a deliberative or legislative body e: LOG 3, 4 2 a: a daily newspaper b: a periodical dealing esp. with matters of current interest 3: the part of a rotating shaft, axle, roll, or spindle that turns in a bearing
When I was twelve, I used to read the Hardy Boys books written by Franklin W. Dixon. The books were about these kids that solved mysteries. Joe, was always getting his older brother, Frank, in trouble. Seems like every story had a chapter where the kids ran up against a code they had to figure out before they could solve the mystery. Sometimes the stories started out with a note written in code and when they broke it, it just caused them a lot of trouble, and the rest of the story was about how they got out of the trouble that breaking that code caused. Now dictionaries are all written in code. I've know
n that for a long time, but since I don't read a lot and don't have much need for big words or unusual meanings, I haven't bothered to break it.
So I was sitting in the library with this dictionary open, and I must've had a real puzzled look on my face because after reading about the word "journal" I realized that Helen wasn't asking if I knew where Lenny's "journal bearing" was. She was asking about the little notebook where Lenny kept all his thoughts. He always called it a notebook but after reading the dictionary, I realized it could also be called a journal. I was almost sure that was what she meant because of the part of the definition that read "a record of experiences, ideas, or reflections kept regularly for private use." "Private" fits because he sure as hell didn't want anyone reading it. The part about "a daily newspaper" didn't apply even though he used to cut out parts of the Fresno Bee sports page that told about Joe DiMaggio. And the part about a deliberating or legislating body could also apply to the way he was always planning his life and telling me what to do, but I knew that wasn't it. Sometimes I think too much, and I thought too much again right then. I thought that Helen might've just been interested in Lenny's clippings out of the Chowchilla News about the good things he did on the high school baseball team. Sort of like the folder Clyde Sonnett keeps about me but in reverse. I was still a little confused about what she was after. I couldn't figure out why anyone would be interested in someone else's thoughts.
So I was sitting there at a table in the library when I felt something behind me, up close to my head, felt hair against the back of my neck and then I smelled Juicyfruit.
"What's bothering you so much, Bobby? You still puzzling over bridges," she asked, taking a look at the book on bridges I had open.
Bev works in the library during study hall. I didn't want to talk to her about this journal business, so I should've lied and talked some about bridges. "The word 'journal' is bothering me," is what came out.
"I keep one," she said. Then she smiled at me with those red lips like she wanted to take her words back. "A lot of girls do it."
"Lenny's girlfriend, Helen, that he was going with just before he died, wants to know if I have his journal."
"Do you?"
"I'm not sure what she means by journal. Does she mean his clippings that were in the paper about what he did in baseball? I think Mama has them."
"That sounds more like an album than a journal."
"He kept a notebook of his thoughts about things, but why would she want to read that?"
"What girl could resist? When were you talking to Helen?"
"I haven't. She lives in Merced. I had Helen's cousin asked her a question for me, but her cousin didn't get an answer back."
"So Helen thought the answer might be in his journal?"
"No. She knew the answer. I guess it was too personal. She wouldn't tell me."
"Gosh, Bobby. What did you ask?"
"I just wanted to know why she slapped Charles at Lenny's funeral."
"I can understand why she wouldn't answer that. And you can make a good guess at why she wants to read his journal."
"I can?"
"Sure. She did something wrong. She wants that journal so she can see if he said anything about what she'd done."
"Why would you think something like that?"
"Cause she slapped Charles."
"She wouldn't slap Charles because she did something wrong. She'd hit him because he did something wrong."
"You've got a lot to learn about romance, dear. But they probably did something together, something she feels guilty about."
"And Lenny found out?"
"Yes. And now she wants to know if he wrote about it in his journal. How long has it been since the funeral?"
"Four years and... eight months."
"She's probably been stewing over the whereabouts of that journal all this time. Now she has a way to get that journal. That way is you."
"What would Helen and Charles have done that worried her so much?"
That brings a blush from Bev but no answer.
"So the journal has the answer?" I ask.
"She's probably afraid it does. And she probably knows where the journal is, but can't get to it."
"Why would you think that?"
"Because girls know everything about their boyfriends."
I don't like the sound of that.
"Girls know everything. She knew about the journal. Right? So she probably knows where he used to hide it but she can't get to it or she'd already have it."
"But I'll have to tell her that I don't know where Lenny hid his journal."
"I wouldn't approach it quite like that. Are you interested in what's in his journal?"
"I don't think I should read it. Lenny never liked for me to pry in his business."
"But you did when he was alive."
"How do you know?" And right then I felt like I could hit her.
"You just told me. How would you know he didn't like for you to pry into his business if you didn't do it? You were probably jealous of your older brother. Why else would you want to read about his private life?"
I'm really beginning to sweat now. "Why are you saying these bad things about me, Bev. I don't like it."
"Because they are true, sweetheart." And then she puts her hand on mine. She has tiny bright red fingernails. "Your reasons for wanting the journal now are probably decent enough. That's why you won't look further. People are motivated by corruption, Bobby. Chances are, you have a good reason for wanting that journal now."
"Well, the police never really determined how Lenny died. At least Papa was never satisfied and Charles says people lie about it. I even think I might have caused his accident. I know Charles was mixed up in it."
"You feel guilty about something you did before he died, but you also think someone else could have caused his accident. So you want to find the guilty person and clear yourself in your own eyes. God! Bobby. What could be more reasonable than that? See? And you're ashamed of it. That proves it's a good reason."
"How do you know how to figure out all this stuff?"
"My mother has a degree in psychology, but now she's a full-time housewife. She says that you just find the right motive and start backtracking. It's like unraveling a sweater. Just find the right emotional thread and pull. You've had the right thread but you wouldn't pull it. Daddy doesn't like this way of thinking. He calls it gossip. You should hear him when she tries to psychoanalyze him. He says all that degree means is that she's a educated mess. I don't have the education. It just comes natural to me."
"So what do I ask Helen?"
"Since you're asking questions about things that happened at the funeral, questions that she won't answer, she's probably worried that either you just found the journal or are looking for it. You know she's looking for it, and chances are, Charles is too." And then she gets real wide eyed. "That's it! There's the answer."
"The answer to what?"
"Your question! Helen slapped Charles at Lenny's funeral because he asked her if she knew where Lenny's journal was. Now, she probably still feels guilty and thinks there's more behind your question than there is."
"I don't know. All this sounds far fetched to me. But, you know, Papa was mad at Charles during the funeral too. He tried to run Charles and the rest of the Kunze's off."
"Wow! So your papa knows more than he's telling too."
"More about what?"
"More about what went on between Helen and Charles."
"Well, maybe so. He had to have a reason for being mad at Charles."
"So ask him."
I just shake my head. "I tried that. Papa doesn't answer questions about Charles. Every time I mention Charles, Papa says something about wishing he'd killed him."
"Gosh, Bobby. This does sound serious."
"So, what should I do?"
"Helen's waiting for your next move. Trust me, Bobby, she'd love for you to say you don't know where the journal is. Even if you say that you have it, she'd really feel goo
d because that'd mean you've known what was in the journal all these years and nothing happened, so she'd know nothing was in it, nothing damaging to her at any rate."
"Things were happening fast just before Lenny got killed. Helen and Lenny must've had a falling out. Otherwise she would know what's in it. Sounds like she's afraid of what I might know."
"Now you're starting to think. My guess is she's terrified, but not about what you know, about what you might find out. She's terrified that you're going to ask if she knows where you might look for it. Then she'll know that the hunt is on. That's our next step. If she's anything like the rest of us girls, she won't come back with an answer. She'll come back with another question. And that question will tell you where the journal's hidden."
"Okay. I'll have to tell Helen's cousin to ask her. I'll call her tonight." And I thought that would be the end of it. I even closed the dictionary, walked back over and put it on the shelf. But she came with me. There's never an end to anything with Bev.
"I need to study bridges now," I said.
"Let's do it now, Bobby. Let's call her cousin now. We can use the telephone here in the library."
And then I knew that I'd been right. Talking to Bev about this at all was another mistake. I'd trapped myself. "Brenda is Helen's cousin," is all I said.
Her face just exploded with something. I don't know what to call it, but it scared me and for good reason. One thing about Bev. She is predictable. But she did it before I could catch her. And it rang all over the library. Talk about thinking everyone is looking at you. The high school library is a crowded place. And it had never been as quiet as it was following the splat when she slapped me.
CHAPTER 28: Aunt Loretta Knows More and She's Talking
Bev has been sending me a lot of notes about betrayal, stuff out of the dictionary and encyclopedia. Brenda was more than glad to talk to Helen again.
"There's a skeleton in the attic that needs flushing," is the way Aunt Loretta put it.
Right now, I'm in Aunt Loretta's attic when I thought I'd be sitting at her kitchen table eating a piece of chocolate cake that she made because she knew I was coming over. I like hot chocolate frosting on chocolate cake. Something always stands between me and the goodies. Since Twinkles died, she got herself a grown cat and another dog, a puppy. That sounds okay on the surface, but it doesn't work so good when it rains and her having such a small place. The problem is that it's been raining all the time lately. Her place doesn't usually leak much but today the place is a sieve. And that German shepherd puppy won't leave that tomcat alone.