cars and sit awhile. Paxton and I need to talk.”
Pax risked a glance out the window; the chub boys were walking back to the driveway, talking among themselves.
In a lower voice Rhonda said, “Paxton, open the door and let me explain what all’s going on.”
Pax glanced at his father. He was staring at his knees, shaking his head back and forth. Pax unlocked the door and slowly opened it. “I think we should talk outside,” he said, and pulledthe door closed behind him. The chubs glanced back but kept walking.
“How’s the reverend doing?” Rhonda said. She looked like the Man in the Moon in drag: tiny blue-shadowed eyes and tiny red lips in the middle of a huge round face.
“Not too good,” Pax said.
“Is he bloated?” she asked. “Talking to himself, hallucinating?”
“Something like that. Well, all of that, actually.” She pursed her lips understandingly, and he said, “I know that you’ve been, uh, siphoning him.”
She nodded, waiting.
“He says you’re milking him like a cow.”
She smiled wryly. “That sounds like your daddy.” She nodded toward the window. “Has he told you why we’re doing it? Or is he too far gone to say?”
“He said I should ask you.”
“Well, that’s good advice, at least. Here’s what’s happening right now—he’s got a drugstore-worth of chemicals running through his system. If we don’t drain the vintage out of him he’s going to be high as a kite, and who knows when he’ll come down. Let my boys extract it now, Paxton. You can watch if you want. But then you and I need to have that talk you promised me. Now that your father’s producing, you need to understand what your responsibilities are.”
“Get off my property!” his father yelled.
“Is it painful?” Pax said. “The process, I mean.”
She patted his arm. “Maybe to watch, honey. But it don’t hurt them none.” She gestured to the chubs, and they started walking back. “It’ll be good for you to be here, though,” she said. “Your dad can be kinda feisty.”
———
Rhonda stood well back from the old man and issued instructions to the boys. Everett, the serious boy with the shaved head and earring, sat on one side of Harlan, then hooked a foot around his ankle to hold down his legs and grabbed an arm. Clete took the other side. The third chub, a younger kid named Travis who had thick black hair and Elvis sideburns, worked the needle. Pax crouched near his father’s knees, talking in a low voice through the paper breathing mask Rhonda had given him. His father could not be soothed. He struggled and shouted, but Rhonda’s boys couldn’t be budged, and in a few minutes his father was exhausted.
“Like trying to shave a cat,” Clete said, and Travis laughed.
“Shave a cat,” Travis said.
Aunt Rhonda excused herself. “Best not for me to get too close,” she said, and went outside.
The boys started with the insides of his father’s forearms. Travis would swipe the surface of a sac with iodine, then slide in the needle. Pax winced every time, his stomach turning. But his father didn’t seem to feel the needle; they might as well have been poking at Ziploc bags. After his arms they opened his robe and lifted his T-shirt to siphon the larger sacs on his belly and chest. They ignored the smaller blisters and pimples.
When the syringe filled, Travis placed it in the Styrofoam cooler, then picked up a new needle and syringe from a box on the floor.
The siphoning seemed to go on and on, but when Pax checked his watch only fifteen minutes had passed. A sour odor filled his nostrils. He felt queasy, and sweat painted his neck.
At some point his father passed out or simply fell asleep; his head lolled to the side and he began to breathe deeply. The robe had fallen open, and Pax was alarmed to see that an erection tented his boxer shorts.
Pax pushed the robe over it and Clete laughed. “Happens every time,” he said. “This stuff’s better than Viagra.”
“Cut
Pax risked a glance out the window; the chub boys were walking back to the driveway, talking among themselves.
In a lower voice Rhonda said, “Paxton, open the door and let me explain what all’s going on.”
Pax glanced at his father. He was staring at his knees, shaking his head back and forth. Pax unlocked the door and slowly opened it. “I think we should talk outside,” he said, and pulledthe door closed behind him. The chubs glanced back but kept walking.
“How’s the reverend doing?” Rhonda said. She looked like the Man in the Moon in drag: tiny blue-shadowed eyes and tiny red lips in the middle of a huge round face.
“Not too good,” Pax said.
“Is he bloated?” she asked. “Talking to himself, hallucinating?”
“Something like that. Well, all of that, actually.” She pursed her lips understandingly, and he said, “I know that you’ve been, uh, siphoning him.”
She nodded, waiting.
“He says you’re milking him like a cow.”
She smiled wryly. “That sounds like your daddy.” She nodded toward the window. “Has he told you why we’re doing it? Or is he too far gone to say?”
“He said I should ask you.”
“Well, that’s good advice, at least. Here’s what’s happening right now—he’s got a drugstore-worth of chemicals running through his system. If we don’t drain the vintage out of him he’s going to be high as a kite, and who knows when he’ll come down. Let my boys extract it now, Paxton. You can watch if you want. But then you and I need to have that talk you promised me. Now that your father’s producing, you need to understand what your responsibilities are.”
“Get off my property!” his father yelled.
“Is it painful?” Pax said. “The process, I mean.”
She patted his arm. “Maybe to watch, honey. But it don’t hurt them none.” She gestured to the chubs, and they started walking back. “It’ll be good for you to be here, though,” she said. “Your dad can be kinda feisty.”
———
Rhonda stood well back from the old man and issued instructions to the boys. Everett, the serious boy with the shaved head and earring, sat on one side of Harlan, then hooked a foot around his ankle to hold down his legs and grabbed an arm. Clete took the other side. The third chub, a younger kid named Travis who had thick black hair and Elvis sideburns, worked the needle. Pax crouched near his father’s knees, talking in a low voice through the paper breathing mask Rhonda had given him. His father could not be soothed. He struggled and shouted, but Rhonda’s boys couldn’t be budged, and in a few minutes his father was exhausted.
“Like trying to shave a cat,” Clete said, and Travis laughed.
“Shave a cat,” Travis said.
Aunt Rhonda excused herself. “Best not for me to get too close,” she said, and went outside.
The boys started with the insides of his father’s forearms. Travis would swipe the surface of a sac with iodine, then slide in the needle. Pax winced every time, his stomach turning. But his father didn’t seem to feel the needle; they might as well have been poking at Ziploc bags. After his arms they opened his robe and lifted his T-shirt to siphon the larger sacs on his belly and chest. They ignored the smaller blisters and pimples.
When the syringe filled, Travis placed it in the Styrofoam cooler, then picked up a new needle and syringe from a box on the floor.
The siphoning seemed to go on and on, but when Pax checked his watch only fifteen minutes had passed. A sour odor filled his nostrils. He felt queasy, and sweat painted his neck.
At some point his father passed out or simply fell asleep; his head lolled to the side and he began to breathe deeply. The robe had fallen open, and Pax was alarmed to see that an erection tented his boxer shorts.
Pax pushed the robe over it and Clete laughed. “Happens every time,” he said. “This stuff’s better than Viagra.”
“Cut