Ugly Behavior (24 page)

Monte shuffled a couple of feet into the room, still bent over. To
his alarm, he began to cry from the pain.

“Hey, old man, what did I tell you? I pay for the roof over your
head—you realize that, don’t you? I pay for both of them, too. Why do you
think she’s here? Because I pay! She’s a whore and he’s just a bastard!”

Monte, still bent over, spit on the floor. “You’re not even worth
their shit,” he said.

Monte didn’t see it coming, but he felt the thunder of it.
Suddenly he was on the floor, his side and his back on fire from a series of
Pete’s clumsy but enraged blows. He thought he could feel the blood pooling out
under him, then realized he’d pissed himself. He turned his head to the side to
avoid the spreading wet stink, which allowed him to watch Pete take a swift
kick into his daughter’s side as he passed her, on his way to grabbing
Brian—hysterical now—by the arm and jerking him into the bedroom.
Monte lay perfectly still as the piss spread to his cheek, watching through the
open bedroom door as Pete stripped the boy naked and beat on him with a belt.
There might have been worse, but he couldn’t see it all, so he tried not to
think that far. He closed his eyes.

The odd thing was, in the past Monte might have fantasized what he
was going to do to Pete later, if he could have. At least he would be figuring
out who he could call, who might do the job for next to no money. Monte didn’t
know men like that anymore, but he knew there were always men like that.

But those fantasies were bullshit. He’d never find anybody. Nobody
was going to do anything like that for him anymore. Nobody was taking him
seriously about a damn thing.

So he thought about things he could do. And Monte thought maybe he
could kill the boy. Monte was old and weak but he could still probably kill a
seven year old boy. If he was determined enough. If it would save that boy some
of the pains seven-year-olds had no business to know but that Monte knew all
about.

Monte woke up the next morning in his bed, naked, feeling like
he’d fallen down a rocky mountainside. When he moved he felt a sharp pain near
his left shoulder blade, but he discovered that if he held his body a certain
way, keeping that shoulder slightly back behind the rest of him, he could sit
up and swing his legs around without too much pain. He had a vague memory of
picking himself up, like picking up an armful of broken branches, and wandering
down the hall, finding his room, fumbling with the light switch, stripping out
of his stinking pajamas and boxers, leaving them on the floor just inside the
door, as far away from the bed as he could think of. Crawling under the
blankets so carefully, thinking that something was going to tear open if he
wasn’t as careful as he could possibly be.

He didn’t think he had turned off his bedroom light. But it was
off now, and what appeared to be his cleaned pajamas and boxers lay neatly
folded on top of the dresser, along with some towels, a basin of water, wash
cloths, giant bar of soap, a big bottle of peroxide.

It took awhile to clean himself up, and he didn’t have a mirror,
but he wasn’t entering any pageants this year, so that would have to do. It
took him even longer to get himself dressed, and he wasn’t able to struggle
into his shirt without some hellacious pain. But he managed. His daughter’s
message was pretty clear—in this house you took care of your damage
before you left your bedroom. Then you put a smile on your face and you walked
out the
door.Which
he did, more or less. What he wore
on his face wasn’t exactly a smile, but it would have to do.

His daughter was in the kitchen, bent over the sink, palms flat on
the counter to either side. “You okay?” he asked.

“Sure.” She spoke without turning. “Got to sleep a little late. We
all did. Brian’s still in bed.”

His eyes found the wall clock. It was a Mexican-looking thing:
brightly-painted clay rooster with a clock face in the center. It was after
ten. “Brian’s not going to school? And you’re not going in to the restaurant?”

“Brian’s feeling a little under the weather. I think we all could
use a day off, don’t you?”
 

Monte took it wrong at first. Man of leisure. Then he realized
that wasn’t the way she meant it. “Brian okay?”

“Sure.
Brian’ll
be fine. Sit down, Dad.
Let me make you some breakfast.”

She jammed two pieces of bread into the toaster, broke two eggs on
the edge of the skillet and got it sizzling, went searching through the fridge.
“No fresh-squeezed OJ, Dad. An orange okay?” Her voice muffled, throaty.

“Sure. It’s all great. Should I go say hello to Brian?”

“No, Dad. Just stay here and eat your breakfast.”

She had mastered her mother’s tone. She hadn’t meant it as a
suggestion. Monte sat with his elbows on the table, then moved them and folded
his hands into his lap, while she dropped the eggs and toast onto a plate,
filled a glass full of water, carried it all to the table, the orange balanced
in the crook of her elbow.

He watched her as she placed everything on the placemat in front
of him. The silverware had already been laid out on a perfectly folded napkin.
Her neck had dark purple and green bruises on both sides, strangulation marks,
a crust of blood just inside her right nostril.

“That looks bad,” he said. “Where is he now?”

“Let’s don’t talk about it. He’s still sleeping it off.” She
locked eyes with him. She had the look of a stern child, one too old for her
years. She sat down across the table from him.

“I’ll need a knife for the orange,” he said.

“Oh. Sorry.” She started to open a kitchen drawer, stopped. She
left the kitchen, coming back minutes later with something wrapped in
newspaper. She put it down beside his plate. “Happy birthday,” she said.

He looked at the package, reluctant to touch it. “What makes you
think it’s my birthday?” he asked.

“Isn’t it?” She seemed suddenly bored, or depressed.

“No. Not unless I forgot.”

“It doesn’t make any difference, Dad. Do you remember my
birthday?”

He thought a few seconds, even though he knew what he was going to
have to say. “No. But I remember the day you were born.”

“Oh?” Still bored. “What was that like?”

“Scary. I’d never been that close to a baby. Didn’t want to pick
you up because I was afraid your arms might break off.”

“That’s stupid, Dad.”

Maybe he should have taken offense at this, but he didn’t. “Yeah.
I was stupid. I just couldn’t see the human being in you. If you were talking,
maybe, but with you just making those baby sounds, and crying all the time, and
needing God-knows-what to keep you alive, I just didn’t know what to do with
you.”

“So you left.”

“So I left.” He stared at his food. “Sorry.”

“Don’t say you’re sorry, Dad. Just unwrap your package so you can
eat your orange.”

He examined the newspaper, then tore it away. Inside was a wicked
looking thing. “A hunting knife?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Now you can cut your orange.”

Monte kept thinking that wasn’t the right way to use a good
hunting knife, and this was a good one, he could tell. It had a polished bone
handle, the blade shiny as a new car.

“Something wrong?”

“No, no it’s great.” He put the orange on the plate. The knife went
through it like it wasn’t there. Monte felt himself grin involuntarily, then
stopped it. What was wrong with him? It was a silly present, he obviously had
no use for it, but it excited him just the same.

“Good. Maybe you’ll get some use out of it,” she said, and got up,
grabbed the skillet and a scouring pad, started cleaning up.

Like he’d ever go hunting again, or fishing for that matter. She
was a stupid girl. He didn’t understand how that could be. His wife had been a
smart woman. Maybe she got the stupid from him.

He thought about his daughter’s present while he finished his
breakfast, and he sat there for a while afterwards thinking about it while she
continued to clean the kitchen. He didn’t even know what she was cleaning
anymore. It all appeared spotless to him. He thought about the boyfriend
sleeping in the other room and he thought about his grandson and what he had
considered doing to the boy. And he thought about his daughter bringing him
here to live with her, saying how he had always taken care of her, when she
knew full well he hadn’t taken care of her at all. He thought about why in the
world she’d want a man like him around when she already had a man too much like
him in the other room sleeping it off. He thought about all of these things until
he couldn’t think anymore.

“Lacey,” he said. She turned around, surprised. He knew she was
surprised because he’d used her name, and he didn’t do that often. “Lacey, I
want you to wrap a scarf around your neck and take your son out for some ice
cream. He’ll feel better once he gets some ice cream in him.”

His daughter watched him a few seconds, then she said, “Okay,
Dad.”

The boy was groggy and red-faced but wasn’t unwilling to go. His
jacket was too big for him and Monte thought his daughter really ought to do
something about some better fitting clothes. Before they left, his grandson
turned to him and waved. “Bye, Grandpa,” he said. Monte raised his hand a bit.
His daughter rushed the boy out without a backward glance.

Monte didn’t know what was going to happen. You get past a certain
age and it seems like you never know what’s going to happen. He was old, and he
was weak, but he could still lie down on top of somebody with a knife in his
hand. He slowly made his way down the hall. He might be old but he was a tough
old beggar. He was persistent. He’d stay at it and stay at it until the job got
done.

Jesse says he figures it’s about time we did another one.

He uses “we” like we’re Siamese twins or something, like we both
decide what’s going to happen and then it happens. Like we just do it, two
bodies with one mind like in some weird movie. But it’s Jesse that does it, all
of it, each and every time. I’m just along for the ride. It’s not my fault what
Jesse does. I can’t stop him—nobody could.

“Why?” I ask, and I feel bad that my voice has to shake, but I
can’t help it. “Why is it time, Jesse?”

“’Cause I’m afraid you’re forgetting too many things, John. You’re
forgetting how we do it, and how they look.”

We again. Like Jesse doesn’t do a thing by himself. But Jesse does
everything by himself. “I don’t forget,” I say.

“Oh, but I think you do. I know you do. It’s time all right.” Then
he gets up from his nest in the sour straw and starts toward the barn door. And
even though I haven’t forgotten how they look, and how we do it, how he does
it—how could anybody forget something like that?—I get up out of
the straw and follow.

When Jesse called me up that day I didn’t take him all that
seriously. Jesse was always calling me up and saying crazy things.

“Come on over,” he said. “I
gotta
show
you something.”

I laughed at him. “You’re in enough trouble,” I said. “Your
parents grounded you, remember? Two weeks at least, you told me.”

“My parents are dead,” he said, in his serious voice. But I had
heard his serious voice a thousand times, and I knew what it meant.

I laughed. “Sure, Jesse. Deader than a flat frog on the highway,
right?”

“No, deader than your dick, dickhead.” He was always saying that.
I laughed again. “Come on over. I swear it’ll be okay.”

“Okay. My mom has to go to the store. She can drop me off and pick
me up later.”

“No. Don’t come with your mom. Take your bike.”

“Christ, Jesse. It’s five miles!”

“You’ve done it before. Take your bike or don’t come at all.”

“Okay. Be there when I get there.” He made me mad all the time.
All he had to do was tell me to do something and I’d do it. When I first knew
him I did things he said because I felt sorry for him. His big brother had died
when a tractor rolled over on him. I wasn’t there but people said it was pretty
awful. I heard my dad tell my mom that there must have been a dozen men around
but none of them could do a thing. Jesse’s brother had been awake the whole
time, begging them to get the tractor off, that he could feel his heart getting
ready to stop, that he knew it was going to stop any second. Dad said the blood
was seeping out from under the tractor, all around his body, and Jesse’s
brother was looking at it like he just couldn’t believe it. And Jesse was there
watching the whole thing, Dad said. They couldn’t get him to go away.

It gave me the creeps, what Jesse’s brother had said. ’Cause I’ve
always been afraid my heart was just going to stop some day, for no good
reason. And to feel your heart getting ready to stop, that would be horrible.

Because of all that I felt real bad for Jesse, so for awhile there
he would ask me to do something, anything, and I’d do it for him. I’d steal
somebody’s lunch or pull down a little kid’s pants or walk across the creek on
a little skinny board, all kinds of stupid crap. But after awhile I just did it
because he said. He didn’t make you want to feel bad for him. I wasn’t even
sure that he cared that his brother was dead. Once I asked him if he still felt
bad about it and he just said that his brother picked on him all the time.
That’s all he would say about it. Jesse was always weird like that.