himself up after drunkenly stuffing five sticks of dynamite in a chuckhole chasing down a gopher. His two sons were in various stages of chronic alcoholism. Instead of selling their moon they often never even finished distilling it, choosing to sit around their rock-strewn farm and eat the mash gruel.
It was an ugly sight. Neither of them had a tooth left in his skull. The oldest, Venn, was totally addled and rarely bothered to leave the barn. The younger, Hoober, yellow-tinged and bloated from failing kidneys, was a couple of years older than Shad and had reached the final stages of cirrhosis.
Their place crouched out on Bogan Road, nestled between a frog pond and a few acres of wire grass. Four shacks covered in crow shit faced one another.
Glide had a small potbelly but Shad couldn’t tell if it was baby fat or if she was already pregnant. He made his guess as she kept on affecting mannerisms that would drive the guys at Dober’s Roadhouse out of their heads. Shad hadn’t had a woman for two years, yet he was somehow disheartened by the display.
It gave him pause. He was struck again by the alarming fact that he now understood C-Block murderers better than he did his own people.
Glide lived up to her name, swirling around Shad as she sleekly eddied about the yard, working the vats of bubbling mash. He could see the bottom of Venn’s boots sticking out from beneath a thatch of hay in the corner of the barn. Broken pottery and mason jars littered the ground, half-hidden by tufts of crabgrass. Twisted lengths of converted radiator tubing connected the metal barrels and lay piled here and there among dried shucks of corn.
It sickened him thinking of how Mags must’ve walked around here, viewing this scene of despondency. Did she ever gaze into Hoober’s slack-jawed empty maw and listen to those befuddled slurrings? See Venn crawling around consuming his gruel? Could Shad have saved her from that at least?
He had to keep turning to watch Glide as she spun and circled the steaming drums. He wondered if he’d ever be able to drink whiskey again.
Glide stayed in motion, wriggling, the little belly quivering as she kept up a constant stream of chatter. Asking him ridiculous questions but showing a real curiosity. Wanting to know about the food they served in prison, the size of the cells, and if he’d gotten any jailhouse tattoos. If anybody had taught him how to break into a bank vault. She didn’t expect any responses, didn’t actually seem to need them. But it proved she kept her mind busy.
As she flowed closer to him, her shirt lifted, and he spotted a sloppy tattoo of a bumblebee on her left hip. Slightly below it, toward the base of her spine, a warm red devil face smiled affectionately. The needle hadn’t been clean and the tats had scarred considerably.
He stood waiting for her to wind down, and when she didn’t, he stepped over, got in front, and put a hand on her shoulder. It stopped her as if she’d run into a wall. She looked up, puzzled.
“Was Megan seeing anybody?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
It got depressing, having to explain every word you said. “A boy. Did she have a boyfriend?”
“No, nobody like that.”
“You certain?”
“A’course. After the trouble with that Zeke Hester bastard, she never wanted much to do with the boys. Except some in the Youth Ministry. She thought they were all right ’cause they didn’t do much ’sides go to prayer meetings.”
“Know of anyone who would’ve wanted to do her harm?”
“No, a’course not.”
“Think about it before you answer,” he snapped.
She blinked at him, tongued the inside of her cheek, and let a few beats go by. “Everybody liked Megan. And Zeke stayed away.”
He knew Glide was answering him marginally but honestly, and she wouldn’t offer anything more than what was simplest and fastest to say.
He had to come at it a different way. “Did you ever go up there in the back hills with her?”
“Where?
It was an ugly sight. Neither of them had a tooth left in his skull. The oldest, Venn, was totally addled and rarely bothered to leave the barn. The younger, Hoober, yellow-tinged and bloated from failing kidneys, was a couple of years older than Shad and had reached the final stages of cirrhosis.
Their place crouched out on Bogan Road, nestled between a frog pond and a few acres of wire grass. Four shacks covered in crow shit faced one another.
Glide had a small potbelly but Shad couldn’t tell if it was baby fat or if she was already pregnant. He made his guess as she kept on affecting mannerisms that would drive the guys at Dober’s Roadhouse out of their heads. Shad hadn’t had a woman for two years, yet he was somehow disheartened by the display.
It gave him pause. He was struck again by the alarming fact that he now understood C-Block murderers better than he did his own people.
Glide lived up to her name, swirling around Shad as she sleekly eddied about the yard, working the vats of bubbling mash. He could see the bottom of Venn’s boots sticking out from beneath a thatch of hay in the corner of the barn. Broken pottery and mason jars littered the ground, half-hidden by tufts of crabgrass. Twisted lengths of converted radiator tubing connected the metal barrels and lay piled here and there among dried shucks of corn.
It sickened him thinking of how Mags must’ve walked around here, viewing this scene of despondency. Did she ever gaze into Hoober’s slack-jawed empty maw and listen to those befuddled slurrings? See Venn crawling around consuming his gruel? Could Shad have saved her from that at least?
He had to keep turning to watch Glide as she spun and circled the steaming drums. He wondered if he’d ever be able to drink whiskey again.
Glide stayed in motion, wriggling, the little belly quivering as she kept up a constant stream of chatter. Asking him ridiculous questions but showing a real curiosity. Wanting to know about the food they served in prison, the size of the cells, and if he’d gotten any jailhouse tattoos. If anybody had taught him how to break into a bank vault. She didn’t expect any responses, didn’t actually seem to need them. But it proved she kept her mind busy.
As she flowed closer to him, her shirt lifted, and he spotted a sloppy tattoo of a bumblebee on her left hip. Slightly below it, toward the base of her spine, a warm red devil face smiled affectionately. The needle hadn’t been clean and the tats had scarred considerably.
He stood waiting for her to wind down, and when she didn’t, he stepped over, got in front, and put a hand on her shoulder. It stopped her as if she’d run into a wall. She looked up, puzzled.
“Was Megan seeing anybody?” he asked.
“What do you mean?”
It got depressing, having to explain every word you said. “A boy. Did she have a boyfriend?”
“No, nobody like that.”
“You certain?”
“A’course. After the trouble with that Zeke Hester bastard, she never wanted much to do with the boys. Except some in the Youth Ministry. She thought they were all right ’cause they didn’t do much ’sides go to prayer meetings.”
“Know of anyone who would’ve wanted to do her harm?”
“No, a’course not.”
“Think about it before you answer,” he snapped.
She blinked at him, tongued the inside of her cheek, and let a few beats go by. “Everybody liked Megan. And Zeke stayed away.”
He knew Glide was answering him marginally but honestly, and she wouldn’t offer anything more than what was simplest and fastest to say.
He had to come at it a different way. “Did you ever go up there in the back hills with her?”
“Where?
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