High Cotton: Selected Stories of Joe R. Lansdale

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  Mary never awoke.

  The vines outsmarted me.

  A single strand found a crack downstairs somewhere and wound up the steps and slipped beneath the door that led into the tower. Mary’s bunk was not far from the door, and in the night, while I slept and later while I spun in front of the mirror and lay on the floor before it, it made its way to Mary’s bunk, up between her legs, and entered her sex effortlessly.

  I suppose I should give the vine credit for doing what I had not been able to do in years, Mr. Journal, and that’s enter Mary. Oh God, that’s a funny one, Mr. Journal. Real funny. Another little scientist joke. Let’s make that a mad scientist joke, what say? Who but a madman would play with the lives of human beings by constantly trying to build the bigger and better boom machine?

  So what of Rae, you ask?

  I’ll tell you. She is inside me. My back feels the weight. She twists in my guts like a corkscrew. I went to the mirror a moment ago, and the tattoo no longer looks like it did. The eyes have turned to crusty sores and the entire face looks like a scab. It’s as if the bile that made up my soul, the unthinking nearsightedness, the guilt that I am, has festered from inside and spoiled the picture with pustule bumps, knots and scabs.

  To put it in layman’s terms, Mr. Journal, my back is infected. Infected with what I am. A blind, senseless fool.

  The wife?

  Ah, the wife. God, how I loved that woman. I have not really touched her in years, merely felt those wonderful hands on my back as she jabbed the needles home, but I never stopped loving her. It was not a love that glowed anymore, but it was there, though hers for me was long gone and wasted.

  This morning when I got up from the floor, the weight of Rae and the world on my back, I saw the vine coming up from beneath the door and stretching over to her. I yelled her name. She did not move. I ran to her and saw it was too late. Before I could put a hand on her, I saw her flesh ripple and bump up, like a den of mice were nesting under a quilt. The vines were at work. (Out go the old guts, in go the new vines.)

  There was nothing I could do for her.

  I made a torch out of a chair leg and old quilt, set fire to it, burned the vine from between her legs, watched it retreat, smoking, under the door. Then I got a board, nailed it along the bottom, hoping it would keep others out for at least a little while. I got one of the twelve-gauges and loaded it. It’s on the desk beside me, Mr. Journal, but even I know I’ll never use it. It was just something to do, as Jacobs said when he killed and ate the whale. Something to do.

  I can hardly write anymore. My back and shoulders hurt so bad. It’s the weight of Rae and the world.

  · · ·

  I’ve just come back from the mirror and there is very little left of the tattoo. Some blue and black ink, a touch of red that was Rae’s hair. It looks like an abstract painting now. Collapsed design, running colors. It’s real swollen. I look like the hunchback of Notre Dame.

  What am I going to do, Mr. Journal?

  Well, as always, I’m glad you asked that. You see, I’ve thought this out.

  I could throw Mary’s body over the railing before it blooms. I could do that. Then I could doctor my back. It might even heal, though I doubt it. Rae wouldn’t let that happen, I can tell you now. And I don’t blame her. I’m on her side. I’m just a walking dead man and have been for years.

  I could put the shotgun under my chin and work the trigger with my toes, or maybe push it with the very pen I’m using to create you, Mr. Journal. Wouldn’t that be neat? Blow my brains to the ceiling and sprinkle you with my blood.

  But as I said, I loaded the gun because it was something to do. I’d never use it on myself or Mary.

  You see, I want Mary. I want her to hold Rae and me one last time like she used to in the park. And she can. There’s a way.

  I’ve drawn all the curtains and made curtains out of blankets for those spots where there aren’t any. It’ll be sunup soon and I don’t want that kind of light in here. I’m writing this by candlelight and it gives the entire room a warm glow. I wish I had wine. I want the atmosphere to be just right.

  Over on Mary’s bunk she’s starting to twitch. Her neck is swollen where the vines have congested and are writhing toward their favorite morsel, the brain. Pretty soon the rose will bloom (I hope she’s one of the bright yellow ones, yellow was her favorite color and she wore it well) and Mary will come for me.

  When she does, I’ll stand with my naked back to her. The vines will whip out and cut me before she reaches me, but I can stand it. I’m used to pain. I’ll pretend the thorns are Mary’s needles. I’ll stand that way until she folds her dead arms around me and her body pushes up against the wound she made in my back, the wound that is our daughter Rae. She’ll hold me so the vines and the proboscis can do their work. And while she holds me, I’ll grab her fine hands and push them against my chest, and it will be we three again, standing against the world, and I’ll close my eyes and delight in her soft, soft hands one last time.

  Dog, Cat and Baby

  Not much to tell here. I had a new baby in the house and a dog, and of course I worried about that. Kept them apart as much as I could because I had read of dogs, trusted pets, killing infants. We also had a cat. I’m not a fan of cats. This all came together and produced this little tale.

  DOG DID NOT LIKE BABY. For that matter, Dog did not like Cat. But Cat had claws—sharp claws.

  Dog had always gotten attention. Pat on head. “Here, boy, here’s a treat. Nice Dog. Good Dog. Shake hands. Speak! Sit. Nice Dog.”

  Now there was Baby.

  Cat had not been problem, really.

  Cat was liked, not loved by family. They petted Cat sometimes. Fed her. Did not mistreat her. But they not love her. Not way they loved Dog—before Baby.

  Damn little pink thing that cried.

  Baby got “Oooohs and Ahhhs.” When Dog tried to get close to Masters, they say, “Get back, boy. Not now.”

  When would be now?

  Dog never see now. Always Baby get now. Dog get nothing. Sometimes they so busy with Baby it be all day before Dog get fed. Dog never get treats anymore. Could not remember last pat on head or “Good Dog!”

  Bad business. Dog not like it.

  Dog decide to do something about it.

  Kill Baby. Then there be Dog, Cat again. They not love Cat, so things be okay.

  Dog thought that over. Wouldn’t take much to rip little Baby apart. Baby soft, pink. Would bleed easy.

  Baby often put in Jumper which hung between doorway when Master Lady hung wash. Baby be easy to get then.

  So Dog waited.

  One day Baby put in Jumper and Master Lady go outside to hang out wash. Dog looks at pink thing jumping, thinks about ripping to pieces. Thinks on it long and hard. Thought makes him so happy his mouth drips water. Dog starts toward Baby, making fine moment last.

  Baby looks up, sees Dog coming toward it slowly, almost creeping. Baby starts to cry.

  But before Dog can reach Baby, Cat jumps. Cat been hiding behind couch.

  Cat goes after Dog, tears Dog’s face with teeth, with claws. Dog bleeds, tries to run. Cat goes after him.

  Dog turns to bite.

  Cat hangs claw in Dog’s eye. Dog yelps, runs.

  Cat jumps on Dog’s back, biting Dog on top of head.

  Dog tries to turn corner into bedroom. Cat, tearing at him with claws, biting with teeth, makes Dog lose balance. Dog running very fast, fast as he can go, hits the edge of doorway, stumbles back, falls over.

  Cat gets off Dog. Dog lies still.

  Dog not breathing.

  Cat knows Dog is dead. Cat licks blood from claws, from teeth with rough tongue.

  Cat has gotten rid of Dog.

  Cat turns to look down hall where Baby is screaming. Now for other one.

  Cat begins to creep down hall.

  Mister Weed-Eater

  This was my attempt to write a story of one of life’s innocents besieged by a
considerably less innocent world. Saying the main character is an innocent is not the same as saying he’s a swell guy. He just doesn’t have a clue.

  Also, this story is based on a true incident. Our next door neighbors really did have a blind groundskeeper, at least for one day, and some of the incidents I’ve portrayed in the story are also true. Fortunately, I never had to suffer like the protagonist of my story, and in no way does the family in the story mirror my own. But the fact that a blind groundskeeper asked me to come over and help him find the spots he missed got this tale a whirlin’. The descriptions of the groundskeeper, and my first encounter with him are fact, not fantasy. From there on out, well, it’s a story. A good one, I hope. And like most of the stories in this collection, a personal favorite.

  These folks who lived next door to me were the inspiration, and I say inspiration, nothing more, for a few other stories I wrote. When they moved, other oddball activities in that neighborhood came along to fill their void. Finally, fed up with all the weirdness that went on there, we moved. I missed it for about a month. Whenever I needed a story idea. But, I got over it.

  MR. JOB HAROLD WAS IN his living room with his feet on the couch watching Wheel of Fortune when his five-year-old son came inside covered with dirt. “Daddy,” said the boy dripping dirt, “there’s a man outside want to see you.”

  Mr. Harold got up and went outside, and there standing at the back of the house next to his wife’s flower bed, which was full of dead roses and a desiccated frog, was, just like his boy had said, a man.

  It was over a hundred degrees out there, and the man, a skinny sucker in white T-shirt and jeans with a face red as a baboon’s ass, a waterfall of inky hair dripping over his forehead and dark glasses, stood with his head cocked like a spaniel listening for trouble. He had a bright-toothed smile that indicated everything he heard struck him as funny.

  In his left hand was a new weed-eater, the cutting line coated in greasy green grass the texture of margarita vomit, the price tag dangling proudly from the handle.

  In the other hand the man held a blind man’s cane, the tip of which had speared an oak leaf. His white T-shirt, stained pollen yellow under the arms, stuck wetly to his chest and little pot belly tight as plastic wrap on a fish head. He had on dirty white socks with played-out elastic and they had fallen over the tops of his tennis shoes as if in need of rest.

  The man was shifting his weight from one leg to the other. Mr. Harold figured he needed to pee and wanted to use the bathroom, and the idea of letting him into the house with a weed-eater and pointing him at the pot didn’t appeal to Mr. Harold cause there wasn’t any question in Mr. Harold’s mind the man was blind as a peach pit, and Mr. Harold figured he got in the bathroom, he was gonna pee from one end of the place to the other trying to hit the commode, and then Mr. Harold knew he’d have to clean it up or explain to his wife when she got home from work how on his day off he let a blind man piss all over their bathroom. Just thinking about all that gave Mr. Harold a headache.

  “What can I do for you?” Mr. Harold asked.

  “Well, sir,” said the blind man in a voice dry as Mrs. Harold’s sexual equipment, “I heard your boy playin’ over here, and I followed the sound. You see, I’m the groundskeeper next door, and I need a little help. I was wonderin’ you could come over and show me if I’ve missed a few spots?”

  Mr. Harold tried not to miss a beat. “You talking about the church over there?”

  “Yes, sir. Just got hired. Wouldn’t want to look bad on my first day.”

  Mr. Harold considered this. Cameras could be set in place somewhere. People in trees waiting for him to do something they could record for a TV show. He didn’t want to go on record as not helping a blind man, but on the other hand, he didn’t want to be caught up in no silliness either.

  Finally, he decided it was better to look like a fool and a Samaritan than a cantankerous asshole who wouldn’t help a poor blind man cut weeds.

  “I reckon I can do that,” Mr. Harold said. Then to his five-year-old who’d followed him outside and was sitting in the dirt playing with a plastic truck: “Son, you stay right here and don’t go off.”

  “Okay, Daddy,” the boy said.

  The church across the street had been opened in a building about the size of an aircraft hanger. It had once been used as a liquor warehouse, and later it was called Community Storage, but items had a way of disappearing. It was a little too community for its renters, and it went out of business and Sonny Guy, who owned the place, had to pay some kind of fine and turn up with certain items deemed as missing.

  This turn of events had depressed Mr. Guy, so he’d gotten religion and opened a church. God wasn’t knocking them dead either, so to compensate, Sonny Guy started a Gospel Opry, and to advertise and indicate its location, beginning on their street and on up to the highway, there was a line of huge orange Day-Glo guitars that pointed from highway to Opry.

  The guitars didn’t pull a lot of people in though, bright as they were. Come Sunday the place was mostly vacant, and when the doors were open on the building back and front, you could hear wind whistling through there like it was blowing through a pipe. A special ticket you could cut out of the newspaper for five dollars off a fifteen dollar buffet of country sausages and sliced cantaloupe hadn’t rolled them in either. Sonny and God most definitely needed a more exciting game plan. Something with titties.

  Taking the blind man by the elbow, Mr. Harold led him across the little street and into the yard of the church. Well, actually, it was more than a yard. About four acres. On the front acre sat Sonny Guy’s house, and out to the right of it was a little music studio he’d built, and over to the left was the metal building that served as the church. The metal was aluminum and very bright and you could feel the heat bouncing off of it like it was an oven with bread baking inside.

  Behind the house were three more acres, most of it weeds, and at the back of it all was a chicken wire fence where a big black dog of undetermined breed liked to pace.

  When Mr. Harold saw what the blind man had done, he let out his breath.The fella had been all over that four acres, and it wasn’t just a patch of weeds now, but it wasn’t manicured either. The poor bastard had tried to do the job of a lawn mower with a weed-eater, and he’d mostly succeeded in chopping down the few flowers that grew in the midst of brick-lined beds, and he’d chopped weeds and dried grass here and there, so that the whole place looked as if it were a head of hair mistreated by a drunk barber with an attitude.

  At Mr. Harold’s feet, he discovered a mole the blind man’s shoe had dislodged from a narrow tunnel. The mole had been whipped to death by the weed-eater string. It looked like a wad of dirty hair dipped in red paint. A lasso loop of guts had been knocked out of its mouth and ants were crawling on it. The blind had slain the blind.

  “How’s it look?”

  “Well,” Mr. Harold said, “you missed some spots.”

  “Yeah, well they hired me cause they wanted to help the handicapped, but I figure it was just as much cause they knew I’d do the job. They had ’em a crippled nigger used to come out and do it, but they said he charged too much and kept making a mess of things.”

  Mr. Harold had seen the black man mow. He might have been crippled, but he’d had a riding mower and he was fast. He didn’t do such a bad job either. He always wore a straw hat pushed up on the back of his head, and when he got off the mower to get on his crutches, he did it with the style of a rodeo star dismounting a show horse. There hadn’t been a thing wrong with the black man’s work. Mr. Harold figured Sonny Guy wanted to cut a few corners. Switch a crippled nigger for a blind honkey.

  “How’d you come to get this job?” Mr. Harold asked. He tried to make the question pleasant, as if he were asking him how his weekend had been.

  “References,” the blind man said.

  “Of course,” said Mr. Harold.

  “Well, what do I need to touch up? I stayed me a line from the building there, tried to work
straight, turn when I got to the fence and come back. I do it mostly straight?”

  “You got off a mite. You’ve missed some pretty good-sized patches.”

  Mr. Harold, still holding the blind man’s elbow, felt the blind man go a little limp with disappointment. “How bad is it?”

  “Well…”

  “Go on and tell me.”

  “A weed-eater ain’t for this much place. You need a mower.”

  “I’m blind. You can’t turn me loose out here with a mower. I’d cut my foot off.”

  “I’m just saying.”

  “Well, come on, how bad is it? It look worse than when the nigger did it?”

  “I believe so.”

  “By much?”

  “When he did it, you could look out here and tell the place had been mowed. Way it looks now, you might do better just to poison the weeds and hope the grass dies.”

  The blind man really slumped now, and Mr. Harold wished he’d chosen his words more carefully. It wasn’t his intention to insult a blind man on his lawn skills in a hundred degree heat. He began to wish the fella had only wanted to wet on the walls of his bathroom.

  “Can’t even do a nigger’s job,” the blind man said.

  “It ain’t so bad if they’re not too picky.”

  “Shit,” said the blind man. “Shit, I didn’t have no references. I didn’t never have a job before, really. Well, I worked out at the chicken processing plant tossing chicken heads in a metal drum, but I kept missing and tossin’ them on this lady worked by me. I just couldn’t keep my mind on the drum’s location. I think I might actually be more artistic than mechanical. I got one side of the brain works harder, you know?”

  “You could just slip off and go home. Leave ’em a note.”