Through the Valley of the Nest of Spiders

  “What you lookin’ at?” Shit said.

  “The foot prints.” Eric frowned. “There’s Whiteboy’s—and back there’re ours.” The prints were narrow and though this one or that one was smudged, all had the indentions of heel and bare toes. ”But where’s Bull’s—I mean, there ain’t none with boots.”

  Shit laughed, kind of falsetto. “You mean you ain’t looked at the bottoms of Bull’s boots when he’s sittin’ on his porch, one leg crossed over the other, readin’ a paper or somethin’?”

  Eric frowned harder.

  “There.” Shit pointed. “Them are his.”

  Indeed, they were the biggest, with heel and the raised curve of instep, fronted with the spatulate indentations of five, broad toes. Then Eric saw, around them, a line—clear here, faint there—circling the prints, left and right, in the shape of a shoe. “What’s—?”

  “Bull don’t got no bottoms on his shoes—his boots, I mean. At least, mostly. Underneath them things, where you can’t see, he’s goin’ barefoot all year.”

  “Huh?” Eric asked. “He does? How you mean?”

  “When he gets a new pair, the first thing he does is cut the soles off so he can feel the earth with his naked feet. Even when it rains or snows or anything.”

  “Wow…”

  “Yeah…”

  “That’s kinda strange.” Eric turned and frowned back along the road, where, at Ron’s, Bull had completed another web in the porch entrance—though, because of the trees and the angle, Eric could not make out who, if anyone, was in it.

  They turned across the grass and started for Dynamite’s. “Well,” Shit said, “Black Bull’s kind of a curious nigger. So’s Whiteboy, I guess.”

  * * *

  [18] ERIC’S FIRST TRIP to stay over with Jay and Mex on Gilead was somewhere in Eric’s eighth or ninth week. Garbage collection happened only four days a week: it was his day off. That day’s last trip out to Gilead was after a handful of lazy back and forth journeys, themselves after a morning sitting around at the Lighthouse Coffee & Egg.

  As they stood in the shade to the side of the café’s parking area, Jay told Eric, “You can come on out on the scow with us, if it’s all right with your mama. If you wanna get rid of him for a night, Mrs. Jeffers, we can take him out and bring ’im back with us tomorrow morning on the first run, since Mondays he don’t work. We got a bed for ’im—a whole room, in fact. We’ll feed ’im good. And we won’t let ’im fall in or nothin’, I promise.”

  Leaning against the low board fence, Mex grinned, then said something in sign. Eric caught two words he’d recently learned: “inside” and “onions.” It had to do with the bag of onions and the bag of potatoes Barbara was carrying from her Honda toward the Lighthouse steps.

  “Sure,” Jay said. “Go on and help her take that stuff in.”

  Mex stood up and reached to take them from her.

  “Thanks, Mex.” Still in her blue apron, Barbara stepped back. “But that’s okay. I know where they have to go. I’ll take ’em up.”

  “Oh,” Jay said. “I guess you wanna be liberated.”

  Without a smile, Barbara said, “Yes. I want to be liberated.”

  “Well,” Jay said, “truth is, we all do. We wanna be liberated, too. Still, we’d be real happy to take the boy out overnight.”

  Barbara said, “That’s a lot of trouble.”

  “Ain’t no trouble at all,” Jay said. “It’s nice out on Gilead. Next time you get a day off, we should take you both. Cook hamburgers and hotdogs on the back deck. Bring that boyfriend of yours, Mr. Bodin, out, if yall can stand us for an afternoon.”

  “Oh, Mom—come on! I wanna go out there. Today—tonight! Please?”

  Jay said, “He ain’t got to be back at work with Dynamite on the garbage run till Tuesday. We ain’t gonna let him stay up all night, believe me. We’re up and movin’ by four thirty—we’ll have him back here when you get in for your shift. And we’ll give you a call.”

  Twenty feet away, below the shingle, the sea made the sound of something rushing off somewhere, even while late-summer waves moved in toward grass, sand, and rock. At the world’s rim, an elongated gray-green scab crossed a fragment of the horizon, one end notably thicker than the other: Gilead Island.

  Barbara started up the steps, a sack hanging from each hand by twine handles. She looked back. “All right. You can go. Thank you, Jay, Mex—really, that’s nice of you two. I mean it’s something for Eric to do besides sitting around at Dynamite’s all afternoon.”

  “Oh, Mom—thanks!”

  “You thank Mr. MacAmon—and Mex.” She managed to open the door and went in.

  “We’ll phone you,” Jay said. “We won’t let him forget.”

  So, among anticipations of new orgies and excesses with the two boatmen, joking and relating his recent adventures on the garbage run with Dynamite and Shit, while Jay swaggered and laughed and fumed in mock disbelief, and, with his blasted face, barefoot Mex looked about the silent autumn, while western light gilded the glass and made white enameled window frames near platinum, on the evening street, Eric wandered down dusty Front Street to the wooden gate of the Gilead Boat Dock. Now and again Mex commented with big, quick fingers. A third of his signs Eric knew by now, though he still couldn’t turn them into sentences. So he laughed and nodded when Jay did—and wondered if that was helping him learn.

  On two previous passengerless trips, they’d gotten out on the island dock. But they’d gone no further inland.

  No one was waiting at the dock to go out this time, either. Jay didn’t even look around for anyone. He just unbound two of the ropes—Mex loosed the third—then went into the wheel shelter and dragged up the throttle. The motor thrummed.

  *

  When the scow pulled into the island, Eric said, “I gotta take a piss.”

  “Off the side,” Jay said.

  And while talkative Jay and mute Mex tied up in the island boathouse, Eric tugged his fly aside with a forefinger, looking down from the scow’s edge at concentric rings expanding around his falling water, its sound drowned in the sea. He wondered if either man would come over and put his hand under his stream. But Jay stood with a work shoe up on the base of one of the cleats on the boathouse dock, swinging a rope around it.

  Neither joined him.

  In the two earlier trips, they’d never left the boat house itself, but now they walked up the wooden steps into Gilead’s uneven greens, ferns, and rocks, jungle thick, left and right, while evening’s mist dulled details.

  If you’d asked Eric after that first visit he would have said Jay and Mex lived three-quarters of mile from the island dock. Actually it was slightly more than a mile-and-three-quarters up the six-and-a-half mile island. During that walk, night fell and filled sky-colored spaces between hemlock branches and scrub pines and the earth-hued interstices between the ferns and sumac. A couple of times, Eric asked, “What’s that…?”

  “That’s water down there.” Jay was just behind him. “We’re pretty near the edge, here.” Or he’d thought Jay was behind him—only, no, the voice was in front. So the wordless rustle behind was Mex.

  “Oh…”

  At other places, Eric wondered how the boatmen negotiated this journey through the night and—as he stumbled on root or rock—if coming here had really been a good idea. (They had a pickup on the island, they explained. But mostly they didn’t use it.) Then Mex dropped a hand on Eric’s arm, steadying him in the dark; and Jay said, “Watch out—it gets a little steep, goin’ down.” Or, “This part’s easy now.” Or, “You got about seven steps to climb. Yeah—hold this railing.” Eric held—and climbed—but could see nothing.

  Then they stopped.

  Eric asked, “How much more…?”

  “We’re here, puppy.” Jay chuckled. “Hold on a second.”

  Above was a dusting of stars. To the right, something large blocked many of them: a hulking rectangular shape, at one with the black ground. There and here he could see l
ight around what must be closed shutters or heavy drapes, on the first floor.

  He heard a soft snap.

  Across the overgrown grass, flame-shaped lights rose at either edge of a door between wooden columns. On this side, in silhouette, Eric could see Jay, belly, shoulders, and broad belt tongue sticking forward, for all the night like a cock to match the bulge his enlarged testicle made, pushing forward his jeans. Jay stood before some sort of podium, which must have held switches on its shielded panel. Jay fingered at one: a voice crackled from a speaker: “Hi, there—you fellas home?”

  “Hey, there, Hugh. Yeah. We brung the puppy—” (Eric heard the grin and felt Jay hand fall rough and warm for three, even four seconds on his nape.) “—we was tellin’ you about.”

  “That’s nice. Shad and me’s waitin’ up—like usual.”

  Mex gave his breathy laugh.

  “Shit—and I was hopin’ the old bastard done got tired and gone to bed. Well, we’re comin’ in.”

  Fifteen feet of stone flags cut through overlong lawn to the door. As he looked around the dim facade, Eric realized the house was three stories.

  No, over there he could see: It was four!

  “Come on,” Jay said.

  They started toward the building, while Eric tried to shake from his imaginings the house—maybe a little bigger than Dynamite’s cluttered cabin—he’d been expecting.

  Was this building twenty-five rooms? Was it thirty-five?

  Here in the island woods, it was more than twice the size of Mr. Condotti’s entire house!

  On the porch, under the night-light, the paint was as blistered as that on Dynamite’s—or Ms. Louise’s—steps, even if these were three times as high and as wide; and roofed over, too.

  At the top, Jay pushed in the door, and Mex guided Eric into and through a glassed-in vestibule, with mahogany walls and a checkered stone floor, black and green.

  Jay pushed open a second door. A curtain quivered behind its glass. It put them in a hall where a stairway curved down to the wide, worn carpet. A dozen heavy newels supported the banister. Near the bottom, one had broken off.

  From an arch that went halfway up the wall—the ceilings were at least twenty feet high, and there was even a balcony inside—a bald black man came in wearing a bathrobe and slippers.

  “Hey, Hugh,” Jay said. “This here’s Eric. We got any dinner?”

  “Hello, young fella,” Hugh said warmly. “You got some okra, Jay. You got some lima beans. You got some stewed tomatoes with onions and peppers. And you got some chicken stew—with corn and mushrooms. Yall gonna come in and say good evenin’ to Shad? He’s in his chair, in the livin’ room.”

  “Far as I recollect, there ain’t no way to the kitchen except through that place, unless we go outside and come in the back. So I expect we don’t got much choice.” Jay walked into the room. “I don’t mind bein’ a little rude. But I ain’t quite got to that point—yet.” He glanced at Eric, then back at Hugh. “You said you was gonna get that room across from ours ready for Eric here?”

  Hugh nodded. “I think you’ll be comfortable.” He smiled at Eric. “If there is something you need, you tell them or me.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eric said, bewildered by the size—the scale—of things here.

  “Thanks, Hugh,” Jay said. “Thanks a heap.” Jay turned around, looking about the high-ceilinged hall. “Maybe we could get a carpenter in here and have him tear out another couple of doorways so that we could get to the kitchen without ever seein’ the old bastard. But, then, life ain’t supposed to be that easy, now, is it? Let’s go.”

  They followed Hugh under an archway, through two smaller rooms, in one of which no light burned at all. They emerged into a larger. A ratty rug covered the floor. Several holes in it were wide enough to see warped planks beneath. Above the fireplace, a stone eagle spread its wings, mantel end to mantel end.

  Above it, on the wall, a stained rectangle on the wood paneling told of an absent painting.

  Across the room, with wispy hair and rounded shoulders, sitting in a wheelchair with wooden wheels, an old man in a faded sweater faced slightly away.

  “Hey, there, you mean ol’ bastard.” With a grin, Jay threw himself down in an armless leather chair. “How you doin’ today? What you been up to?” He turned to Eric. “Go on. Sit down—on the couch there. With Mex.”

  They sat, and, because of the sofa’s sag, Mex’s leg slid against Eric’s. Its warmth surprised him—and felt good.

  “I said—” Jay’s voice doubled in volume—“how you been? What you and Hugh been doin’?”

  Colorless hair overlong, like the grass in the night outside, Shad’s head turned toward Jay, but probably not enough for Shad to see him.

  “This here is our friend, Eric. He come to stay over with us. His Mama’s Mrs. Jeffers—works at the Lighthouse Coffee & Egg.”

  The old man coughed.

  In a normal voice, Jay told Eric, “That’s his way of sayin’ ‘good evenin’.’ He don’t look like he’s gonna be too talkative tonight—which is a blessin’. Otherwise you’d have to listen to him go on about how you’re goin to hell, like me and everybody I know. When I was a kid your age, his favorite thing to do was killin’ my pets—he done poisoned three dogs and kilt four cats and busted the heads off more toads and chipmunks and rabbits than I can count. At least he ate the rabbits.”

  By the fireplace, Hugh stopped with his hands in his robe pockets. “That’s ’cause he thought you was havin’ unnatural relations with them animals, Jay. They had to be purified—the only way you can purify a beast is to kill it. That’s what he believed. Lots of people around here used to think that way.”

  “I was,” Jay said, “havin’ unnatural relations with ’em. At least with the dogs. Other than Dynamite and your cousin Kyle, them dogs was the closest thing I had to a regular love life. Course the dogs all seemed to feel it was pretty natural. But how you gonna have unnatural relations with a cat?”

  Hugh laughed and looked at Eric. “Jay’s just sayin’ that to shock you.”

  “And with a rabbit—? Them things’ll bite you if you mess with ’em wrong. I liked ’em ’cause they was soft and fluffy—” Jay was going on— “but he kilt ’em on me anyway. Knowin’ him turned me into a damned atheist. Otherwise I woulda put his ass out to live off the road. That’s what Christians around here do to each other what don’t measure up to their idea of what a Christian ought to be. At least the ones I knowed. Naw, God’s too much about payback—killin’ off this tribe ’cause of what it believed and destroyin’ that city ’cause of what its sinners done. I’ll tell you, bein’ good to people because they’re innocent, poor, and powerless is just as sick as bein’ good to ’em ’cause they’re selfish, schemin’, and rich—which is what most people are into, anyway. Revenge? Reward? Cleanliness is next to godliness? So you send the clean people to heaven and let the dirty ones go to hell. Naw. You do good to folks ’cause it makes you feel better. Hey, when I realized all Shad’s God bullshit was just that—payback; and, yeah, he had a shitty life, so he had a lot to pay back for—I realized you could be a good person not ’cause that was the way you wanted everybody to treat you, but because you thought it would make the whole world better, by doin’ somethin’ right. So I took him in—and I’m glad I done it. But I’m glad he can’t hear no more, too. And I only have to listen to him tell me how evil and depraved and wicked I am two or three times a month, when he goes off on one of his anxiety toots.”

  Hugh said, “Jay, what you are is a contrarian. You just like to say things and do things that’s gonna shock people.”

  Jay looked at Eric. “You shocked?”

  “No,” Eric said. “I don’t…think so.”

  “See there?” Jay raised his bearded chin and looked at Hugh sideways. “You do as many nice things as you can, boy, for as many people as you can. Feed ’em. Give ’em a place to sleep. Hug ’em and keep ’em warm—’cause it’s gonna keep you warm too and make you feel b
etter, if you’re down. You do good things for people for the same reason you beat off—it makes you feel good.”

  “See?” Hugh said. “I told you he just wants to shock you. Hey—you gonna show the youngster around the house?”

  “I just want some goddam dinner. That’s what I want.” Jay rocked forward, stood, and walked to the old man. Bending, he put his arm around the hunched shoulder—and took a breath. “I sure don’t love you. But maybe if I do enough good things for you, to you, with you, I may learn how. Right?” He hugged the old fellow. “I feel sorry for you, though—I hope that’s a start.” Standing up, he looked around. “Come on out to the kitchen.”

  Eric stood quickly, Mex slowly.

  They followed Jay, till, at the door, he stopped. As Eric stepped up, Jay looked down at the molding on the wall’s base. The rug’s frayed edge came almost to it.

  “You got to pardon me, this evening. But I’m hungry and I’m tired. And we gotta get up at four.” (Only now did Eric realize Jay was talking again to him.) “I’ll show you one thing, though. There—see that mark? The black one, right there?” Jay looked down. On the molding, a black dent darkened the varnish, as if hard rubber had struck it and left some of itself.

  Eric looked puzzled.

  “That’s where the ol’ bastard kicked my cat, Cindy, to death—when I first come out here to live—twenty, twenty-three years ago. I was stayin’ here with Hugh and Kyle, and he come out to bring me home. ‘This your cat, ain’t it? I was wonderin’ where she got off to. But you brought her with you, didn’t you?’ I swear, I can look at him today and see how he was smilin’ when he said it. Only then he was a fifty-nine-year-old man standin’ up, not a seventy-nine-year-old man sittin’ in no wheelchair. And the next thing he done was hauled his boot back and kicked her all the way across the room, broke half her ribs, then come up and stomped on her head. Then he kicked her against the wall, again—hard, too, to make sure she was kilt. See, he probably didn’t want her to suffer any more than she had to, since he was gonna stomp her goddam brains out.