"No, I mean the Hammer here." And I walk a little closer.
"Well, you see," and he stands up wiping his hands on an old oily rag, walks toward me as he talks so that his words come in real clear, "I'm all shut down." The wind blows what's left of his hair all over to one side and shows his baldhead. I see some top teeth but all his bottom ones are gone. His bottom lip turns in a little.
"I was hoping you'd turn it over a few times for me."
"Were you, now? Glory be. That's optimism for you. I like that. Haven't had a whole lot to do with optimistic people lately." He looks like he sweats motor oil.
"Well, I didn't figure you'd be too excited about it, but thought I'd ask anyway. Thought maybe I could pay you a little something for your trouble."
He's looking me over real good like he's never seen a kid up close. Squints like the wind's blowing dust in his eyes.
"What's your name?" And I notice a cut above each of his eyebrows with fresh blood beading up, looks like they've been sewed together with coarse black thread out of a sewing machine.
"Bobby."
"Sure are a good looking kid. I could give you a nice ride over there in my trailer. Make you feel a whole lot better than the Hammer."
I'm confused, get an image of a rocking horse on springs like I used to ride when I was a kid.
"I can turn a real trick for you," he adds.
I think maybe he's also a magician. Then it hits me, what he is talking about, so I just get weak all over, stumble back a couple of steps.
"Now don't start running from me. I'm not going to hurt you. Not one to push people around. But you know, you sure look like my brother Paul's boy. How old are you?"
I don't even need the ride if I have to go through this. "Seventeen," I say, but I still keep my distance. I put my hands in my pockets because I'm starting to shiver.
"Same age my boy is, if he's still alive. Come on, what's your last name."
I look down at the ground, toe a clod, look up. "Hammer," I say.
"Say what?" And he jerks his head back a little.
"Bobby Hammer."
"You're shitting me." First he smiles, then he looks mad. "You're pulling my leg just so I'll give you a ride. That's right isn't it? You think I'm too dumb to know the difference. I got another hammer over here I'll give you some of, a claw hammer." And he digs through his toolbox again. It's hard even seeing him the way he melts into the dark.
"I can't help what my name is, mister." And since he's mad, I turn around and walk off. I didn't really want a ride anyway. Still a little afraid.
"Bobby Hammer wants to ride the Hammer," he says. "Everybody thinks they can con a carney." I leave him muttering to himself.
When I walk past the horse-race booth, I hear the trumpet and then the bell. "And they're off..," a loudspeaker says, and this woman starts calling the race.
But the Hammer operator hollers after me. "Hey, kid. Let me see your drivers license." Sounds more like a growl than a holler, his hoarse voice. Maybe a deep throated bark. The wind catches a piece of tarp around one of the booths, starts to shake it like it'll rip it off. Makes a popping noise.
I stop, but I really don't want to go back. Then I look up at the Hammer, the big stout arm with the pivot at the low end and the two sided basket at the top like a giant fist, notice how high up in the air it is, a cloud of billowing dust blowing past it. I remember last year when I was afraid just watching it rise and fall. That's what I'm after though, that falling feeling. And right now, I understand why Brenda was afraid to face me that day in front of my book locker. I get to thinking that there's a right time to do some things, and that we don't really ever get a second chance at the important stuff. It's like harvesting time. If I don't do it now, maybe do it later, tomorrow, next year, it'll be all spoiled. Right now, it looks like a bumper crop. This may even be a sign for the future. So I go back. Pull out my wallet, and I really don't want him to touch my driver's license, but I hand it to him anyway.
"Bobby Ray Hammer. And you're name's really Bobby too, not Robert."
I've never cared much for that. I have always blamed it on Mama, but now I don't know who to blame.
"My son'll be your age. Providing he's still alive. They took him from me when he was born, the sickly little thing. But I wouldn't have been any good with him. His mother died in childbirth. That was back in my younger days. My blacksmith days. I worked for a time with the Master Blacksmith."
I'm putting my license back in my wallet, listening to him jabber, and I can hardly see him because his skin is so dark, but damn if he doesn't reach out with two long greasy fingers, like he's going to pinch me on the hand, and just as I jerk back, he catches the tip of my only twenty dollar bill, plucks it from my wallet. I feel a chill sink through to my bones. It's as if I just recognized this guy. He's the only one who could give me a ride like this.
"That's not going to be too much, is it?" he cackles, crooking his head to the side and wrinkling his forehead. He switches on the lights, and I hear the creaking and clanging as the Hammer comes to life. "That won't be too much for the ride, will it?" he asks again, then winks at me, like we share a secret. Puts his hand on my shoulder like we are brothers. "Not for the ride you're getting."
CHAPTER 50: Putting the Pressure on Mama
Today is the day Lenny was buried on. My mother, Aunt Loretta, and me are over at my used-to-be home talking to my used-to-be mama. Mama has just pulled a pan of hot bread out of the oven.
"Can I have some?" I ask.
"Wait till it cools," she says. She used to always cut a piece for me. She knows how I like to eat it before it has a chance to cool.
Loretta has on that old duckbilled cap she wears half the time. I've been trying to talk her out of wearing it, but she won't give it up. At least I got her in a pair of woman's pants today instead of men's Levis. We didn't have to find an excuse to come here. Mama called Loretta and told us to come over but now she won't talk, acts like she's mad about something, and I'm afraid I know what it is. I was afraid Papa would be here, but I guess he's out in the field. I want to talk about Samantha, but I just don't know how to get started. Then I think about what day it is so I try that.
"Do you know what today is, Mama?"
Right away she looks like she has the biggest worry the world has ever seen. "Don't do this, Bobby Ray. Some things are just not supposed to be talked about." She won't look at me, except out the corner of her eye, and she's grabbed a bag of pinto beans, opened one corner and pours them a handful at a time on the counter.
"But me and Loretta are thinking about going to the Cemetery. Thought you might want to come with us."
She hangs her head with her eyes shut for a second, and I can tell now that I have hurt her real bad. "I can't face it. You two go on by yourselves, if you have to go." And she's already sniffling a little as she sorts through a handful of pinto beans. "Loretta, you know better. Why didn't you tell Bobby Ray?"
"I thought it might be good for all of us," Loretta says. She's sniffing and wiggling her nose back and forth like it itches inside. I think she has that duckbilled cap on to hide that rat nest of a head of hair. She picks a big scab on her arm that she got when she fell chasing a turkey. Her German shepherd is grown now. He caught the turkey for her. Killed it at the same time.
I get out of my chair, grab a handful of beans, and figure I can help Mama sift through them for rocks and clods. She used to have me help. Loretta has already started. Mama seems different now that I know she was an orphan. I never felt sorry for her before. I guess everyone gets their share of life's troubles.
"I was thinking about taking Samantha with me," I say.
"I told you once before to quit thinking about her. Nothing to talk about where she's concerned, and I don't want her messing around Lenny's grave." And then Mama turns on Loretta, again. "I'm holding you responsible for this kid. He's out of control. Ever since he moved out of this house, he's not been the same.
"
I'm afraid I'm standing a little close to Mama. "But, Mama, she looks just like Lenny."
"I bet you sicced Trish onto this, too, didn't you? You got Trish wound up on that little bastard girl, didn't you?"
"I took her to meet Samantha, but I let her make up her own mind."
"You let a fifteen year old girl decide? Trish is still a baby, Bobby Ray! I'll never forgive you for this. Never! You went against my wishes. I'm your mother."
"But, Mama, Samantha is really Lenny's daughter. She really is."
"I'm not talking to you about that little bastard, Bobby Ray. She's not Lenny's. They tried to say that before just to drag our good name into the gutter with them and I'm just not having it."
"Mama," and I take a look over at Loretta, because here I go, "you know I have Lenny's journal. I brought it with me." And I hold it up so she can see it. "It even has his name in his own handwriting."
So Mama turns her back on me, faces toward the laundry room. "Burn it, Bobby Ray, before it's too late."
"But, Mama, a lot of people know about Samantha."
And then Mama turns on me. It's as if she's changed into another human being. "Damn you! Bobby Ray," and I've never heard Mama use words like that. "Damn you to hell. God wouldn't do that to me. You don't know what you're saying."
"Don't you talk to my boy like that, Louise." I never thought about the two of them getting into it. "He's just trying to help, so don't you go cussing at him."
"The both of you, get out of here and shut your mouths. That Kunze girl wasn't fit to clean Lenny's boots. No telling who that baby belongs to. Even went to his funeral and her body swelling with sin. And now you've got Trish into it. This is all your fault."
"But, Mama, all I want to do is get all this about Lenny straightened out. And get some proper words said over Lenny's grave. The preacher never finished the words they say to put the dead to rest," I tell her.
"You're telling me? Shame on you. The Lord takes care of His own."
"That's not good enough for me." I don't think I've ever been mad at her like I am right now.
She doesn't have a comeback for that. "That little bastard girl is not Lenny's," she says. "The Kunze's live like a pack of dogs. They lived that way before Heidi died. She was another no-account piece of trash."
"All I'm saying, Mama," and then I have to pause to get some air, "is that Lenny wrote in his journal that he got Gretta pregnant, and I've seen Samantha and she looks like Lenny's pictures when he was her age."
"No!" and Mama has started shouting. "He couldn't have. Don't you even know human decency?" She starts crying again. "Here I've always tried to live a good Christian life and you making us all look like a pack of alley cats."
I hear the front door open and here comes Papa. Seems like every time Mama and me get into something, Papa comes in. This time I'm not stopping.
"But what's the truth, Mama? What is the truth?" And I'm shouting at her, but I can't help it.
"Loretta, get this kid out of here. I'm not having anymore to do with the likes of either of you." And she throws a handful of pinto beans at me, feels like buckshot all over my chest, then they scatter around on the floor.
But I'm not budging.
Papa throws his hat in the easy chair, comes on in the kitchen, real calm. Looks over at Loretta like what's she doing here? This is different though, him all calm and me and Mama mad.
"What you in a row over?" he wants to know.
"Bobby Ray is trying to get at Lenny beyond the grave."
"What?" Papa looks confused.
"I'm not either, Papa. Lenny has a daughter and Mama keeps denying it. It's true. Charles told me, and maybe I don't think much of Charles, but I've seen the little girl. She's Lenny's daughter, I tell you. Her mother says she is too. And I've read Lenny's journal, and he said that he got Gretta pregnant." I'm talking to Papa, but I'm looking straight at Mama. My voice just won't seem to quiet down at all.
Papa stands in the doorway with his mouth open.
Mama's given up on the beans, grabbed a knife and started slicing on the bread. "Charles filled you with lies while he had you out alone." Instead of using her finger, she's pointing that knife at me now. "You should have more sense than to run around with someone that much older than you. He's made you sick, Bobby Ray, sick in the head."
"No he's hasn't either, Mama. I don't respect him at all. I know more about him than you do. I hate him. He was part of the reason Lenny got killed. He's even been messing around with Trish." There. I've finally said it, and said it in front of Papa. I don't know when I've ever felt so good about something.
"So Charles Kunze is behind Lenny dying." And he looks like the world's biggest puzzle has just been solved.
"Now I didn't say that, Papa. Don't you go putting words in my mouth. I know he didn't kill him. It says so right here in Lenny's journal." I'm sorry I said anything about Charles. "It's just that Charles has been asking questions about Lenny's journal. If we could get this thing about Samantha settled, we might be able get rid of a lot of the ill feelings between the Hammers and the Kunzes."
"But he's been messing around with Patricia? That cocksucker? Why didn't you tell me?"
"I didn't know what you would do, Papa. I didn't know what you would do."
"Damn, son, I would've killed him if you told me. You know that. That sonofabitch caused Lenny's death, for sure? And now this with Patricia?"
Once he gets something in his head, there's no getting it out. Now here comes Trish in the front door just as if she's been waiting outside for her name to be called.
Papa starts in on her. "What the hell are you doing messing around Charles Kunze?" And Papa has taken a couple of steps toward her like he could hit her for the first time in his life, and he's shouting at her. "Tell me, goddamnit. I'm waiting for an answer."
Mama jumps in the middle of Papa. "Now, Hershel, you back off of Trish. You're not talking to her like that."
"You just shut the hell up, woman. You don't run this household. I've had all the shit off of you during the last month I'm putting up with. Trish! Don't you start down that hall. Tell me about you and Charles Kunze."
Trish turns part way round, slings her words over her shoulder. "Charles is looking for a ring, Papa. He thinks you have a ring that belonged to his mother. He said some bad things about you and his mother." Trish always has known how to stop Papa cold when she really wants to. She doesn't mind hurting him either. And now the cat is all the way out of the bag.
"Well, what did you expect, Hershel?" And now it's Mama scolding again. "You and Heidi messing around together all those years. What did you expect?"
It's as if Papa didn't even hear what Mama has just said. "I'm going to kill that sonofabitch. Him messing around you." And now he's turned around, gone in the living room looking for his hat. He clumps down the hall with Trish right after him, the old boards creaking with the strain of his weight, turns in their bedroom. I don't hear anything for a little bit. Then I hear the cedar chest close with a thud. And then I know. Papa has his pistol.
I look over at Mama. She's breaking off a piece of bread and sticking it in her mouth. It looks dry and useless, like she can't swallow it. "You've pushed your papa too far this time," she says with her mouth full. "You should have stayed out of this. What was done, was done."
"I just want to get it straightened out, get the truth told so that there wouldn't be any hard feelings."
"You don't know the half of it. I felt the same way you do several years ago. So I found out the truth about Gretta. I found out beyond all doubt that Karl isn't Gretta's father. Hershel is. It took Heidi killing herself before I made up my mind. I confronted her with what I suspected about Gretta, that she was Hershel's baby. She killed herself because of me. After that I thought how heartless I'd been pursuing the truth with such vengeance. I decided to let people's mistakes be forgiven in silence. Well, you've gone me one better, Bobby Ray. You're n
ot my blood kin, but all the nursing from my breasts must have left something of me inside you. You've proved that Samantha is the product of incest. Now you take that downtown and shout it aloud on the streets of Chowchilla. Spread your truth, Bobby Ray. And now look at the state you've got your papa worked into."
And here comes Papa, clomping back up the hall, then turns, headed for the door. But Trish stops him again. "Where's the ring, Papa? Charles says you have it. I want to see the ring."
Papa looks taken back for a minute, finally realizing he has to come clean about the ring. Suddenly, he just explodes. "All right, goddamn!" he shouts. And he runs toward the wall, puts his shoulder into it hard, so that the drywall cracks inward. Then he looks at it real close for a second, rubs on the wall with his finger like he has completely lost his mind and then draws back his fist and pounds it into the drywall, lets out a cry and a loud "god-do-mighty" like it hurt more than anything he's ever felt. The force of the blow shakes the whole house. I can tell that Papa just broke his fist but that doesn't even slow him down. He rears back again and this time drives his fist clean through the wall, comes out the other side with meat, bone and blood showing, shoving drywall into the kitchen. Then he starts jerking and slinging drywall all over the living room. Finally, he says, "All right. Charles wants the ring," and he's holding it up between two broken fingers, "he can have it. But I'm going to kill him first." He strides toward the front door, then stops to look at me, top to bottom, like I'm a piece of trash. "Maybe you don't care if someone murders your brother and is after your little sister," he says. "You don't have a sense of family anymore anyway. Maybe you don't even have balls in your pants, but I can tell you one thing for sure. Your old man's not sitting on this one." And he slams the door behind him.
Mama seems real calm now. Papa going berserk has calmed her. "Look what the truth has done to your papa, Bobby Ray. But if that's not enough truth for you, here's one I didn't have the courage to dig into. Karl Kunze's sterile. It's possible he's always been sterile. All the Kunze kids could belong to your papa. Even Charles."
I'm still standing in the kitchen listening to silence because Mama has finally quit talking. I hear the clock ticking. As I take a couple of fast steps toward the door, I look back at Mama. She has this blank look on her face.