Crimes in Southern Indiana Page 8

  Stanley thinks this is what having neighbors gets you. Sometimes you just want to poke out someone’s eye with an ink pen. Not a Bic. But a Paper Mate FlexGrip, thick and comfortable. Stanley says, “Why don’t you go wake Carl up and we can burn my house down, or better yet let him burn up my new mower.”

  The mower is becoming more and more distant. Motion lights are lighting yard after yard.

  Looking down at Stanley, Brent says, “Stanley, Earleen left. She’s gone. You don’t have to find her. She’s taking care of her father.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your father-in-law and the elevator,” Brent says slowly. “They blame you for him losing his arm. You know this, Stanley.”

  Stanley wanted to pretend he was someone else. Pretend what had happened was one big accident. But in his state of mind, that wouldn’t work. He had to accept that his wife wasn’t on her way home and his father-in-law didn’t love him like his own son. Instead Stanley looked up at Brent and the neighbors corralling around him and everything turned black. And he wondered, Will any of these nosy neighbors ever call an ambulance?

  The Old Mechanic

  Here was a time when the shell shock of war was ignored. What the repercussions of warfare did to a man’s brain. The seeing, hearing, and participating. And like the war, the abusing of a woman was overlooked. People pretended it never happened. This was a time when till-death-do-us-part was an enforced rule of matrimony. When wives didn’t leave their husbands. They obeyed them.

  But when the Mechanic beat the woman, violation rattled the opposite room’s walls. The woman’s body bounced from wall to wall like a winning pinball. There were no electronic harmonies for a high score. Just her thick pleas of sorry with no pity in reply. Just savagery. And with the door closed to the eight-by-eight box of a bedroom, violation traveled through the Sheetrock walls, arrived and infected the living room. Where, on a couch worn down to comfortable seating, two girls’ adolescent eyes stayed glued to the black-and-white television. A television that decorated a corner with Tom and Jerry. With their own cartoon addictions to violence, displayed for a child’s entertainment. Their slamming of doors on each other’s various body parts. Shattering of dishes over each other’s skull. Wooden mallets matching the fist pounding on flesh in the opposite bedroom.

  It was something the beautiful and bright wallpaper couldn’t hide. All that ugly in the air. The girls knew that any attempt to defend the woman, their mother, would get them the same treatment. The rapture of ten knuckles divided by two fists.

  Those thoughts took root through their innocent minds, became part of their daily living like inhaling air. They were the accepted norm of life.

  Their eyes never blinked and their hands were never tempted to touch the coffee table before them, to dig into the glass bowl of the Mechanic’s hard red unwrapped cinnamon candy in the center. It was an unannounced rule. Don’t touch what belongs to the Mechanic.

  On the television, Jerry slammed a wooden mallet down on Tom’s head.

  The bedroom door opened with the weeping pleas of their mother, and the Mechanic approached the coffee table, his body damp from the downpour of his abusive actions, stopped and scooped a handful of cinnamon from the dish. Filled his mouth. Shook his head, his laughter following his footsteps into another room.

  In the kitchen a tin of beer popped. Then the savoring sound of lips to foam. The girls’ eyes glued to the television, concealing their fears. Their mother still moaning. The Mechanic said, “Hope the two of you don’t turn out like her. Irresponsible. Disrespectful.” No reply. Not a word. Hiding their fear, the girls had their underage poker faces on.

  “Two of you hear what I’m saying?”

  Not a word, just their mother’s weeping pain dying down in that box of a bedroom. Their tiny fists, images of squeezing them tight in their minds. Knuckles like peanut shells popping open. Those images hiding their fear.

  The Mechanic yelled, “Two of you get married, supper is ready when your old man walks through that front door after busting his body down all day.”

  On the television, Tom choked Jerry.

  With no reply, the Mechanic turned it up another notch. “Answer me. Quit acting like your irresponsible mother in the other room.”

  In unison, the girls glanced up at the Mechanic’s face and, nodding, they said, “Yes, Daddy.”

  On the television Tom was squeezing Jerry’s life to the limit. Then at the last minute Jerry spat in Tom’s eyes. Tom dropped Jerry.

  On the couch, the girls glanced at each other with identical thoughts in the black void of their eyes. Their inner jaws salivating and storing. Gauging their distance.

  Grabbing another handful of cinnamon, the Mechanic went back into the bedroom. Slammed the door behind him.

  Quick to take aim, from the girls’ mouths to open air, two fountains of weak water pressure, taking turns, they spat and spat. Aiming into the dish and coating the candy, only stopping to mix their saliva into it. Every so often the Mechanic would take a break from the beating, grab a handful of candy. Their spit went unnoticed, and he’d return to the bedroom while they sat defenseless. But internally they laughed at the Mechanic’s ingesting, his savoring and swallowing of their spit. But externally, nothing could drown out or stop the soundtrack of their mother’s abuse, which sometimes kept them up until sunrise.

  There were other times the Mechanic came home, evicted everyone from the house to the yard until dark. Bedtime. And even an evening when the girls’ dog, Lucky, wouldn’t stop his barking and the Mechanic shot him dead. The Mechanic’s reasoning: he’d a bad day at work.

  It took years and years before the mother built up the courage to ignore the understood rule of matrimony. Divorced the Mechanic. Got remarried, to a man she referred to as “crazier than a loon,” but who adored her with respect, love. Not ten knuckles. And he let her sleep through the morning sunrise. Wake up to The Price Is Right while spooning Taster’s Choice coffee into her mug of hot water without the bark of violence.

  But the Mechanic wasn’t out of the picture. He had visitation every other weekend with his two girls. One summer the Mechanic picked the girls up from summer school unannounced. Took them out west on a vacation to see the Grand Canyon. Mount Rushmore. Yellowstone Park. Unknown to their mother; she wasn’t asked. All she could do was file a complaint with the local law enforcement and wait. For three weeks the girls wore the same clothes they’d gone to school in that day. It was a hostage vacation.

  These were the stories the younger daughter, Sue, told her son, Frank. She referred to them as her early childhood memories. They were the stories she told Frank after seeing the Old Mechanic at the grocery, gas station, or bank. And Frank always questioned her. Why are we running away from him? Is he gonna attack us?

  Pregnant, Sue had married out of high school. It wasn’t long after Frank’s birth when the calls started, then the letters from the Old Mechanic wanting to visit, to meet his grandson. She couldn’t get the memories out of her mind, the hatred and fear she held against this man she viewed as a monster, not her father. Her husband, Will, couldn’t fathom a boy not knowing his grandfather, let alone a daughter who detested her father. Will had lost his own father at an early age to cancer, grew up without that influence, wanted his son to have it. He just couldn’t understand. And she told him if his father had made his mother spit blood every other day for years on end, he would understand. More words ensued along with back-and-forth arguments about life and the stress that it brought, bills, food, quality time, and how there never seemed to be enough of any of it, until neither Will nor Sue could hold it together. She didn’t want Frank growing up in a home of raised voices and clashes of any kind. She filed for divorce after five years.

  Sue focused on her son. Will had every other weekend.

  Sue tried to raise Frank with a life devoid of conflict, tried to keep him away from the violence she’d known. Keeping it normal. With toys, a bicycle, and a swing set.
It was a life that forbade contact with the Old Mechanic. Aft er nine years had passed, punctuated with more unreturned phone calls, unacknowledged letters and cards from the Old Mechanic, Sue’s sister, Mary, approached her. Their father had spoken with her about Sue and wanting to meet Frank. Mary told Sue she should give their father a chance because she had, and he’d changed. He was harmless now. Though he had never apologized for anything he’d done all those years ago, Mary thought Frank deserved to meet his grandfather. He was old enough to make his own judgment about the man.

  Aft er weeks of rationalizing, Sue told Frank, “Your grandfather wants to meet you. Take you on a little trip.”

  In Frank’s mind, running away and joining the fair and living out of garbage cans didn’t sound bad. Other than the stories and seeing him in town, the grandfather was present only in the Hallmark cards, on Christmas and birthdays, offering many Lincolns or a check made out from him to Frank.

  Frank asked Sue, “Why do you call him the Old Mechanic instead of Dad? And why didn’t you let me meet him before now?”

  Sue told him, “He worked for the Army Corps of Engineers and later became a diesel mechanic who could do most anything mechanical. He was good with his hands. And I never let you ’cause I didn’t want you around him after all I seen him do to your grandmother.”

  “What does he want to do to me, I mean with me?”

  Frank imagined a road trip where the Old Mechanic would threaten him with those fists from the stories. Force Frank to gather up roadkill from the side of old country back roads. Hold him hostage until nightfall. Tie the dead, decaying animals from the trees of people the Old Mechanic holds a grudge against.

  When the Old Mechanic had told Sue what he wanted to do with Frank, where he wanted to take him, she bit her tongue and let the fear pass. “He wants to take you to the Gun and Knife Show. Then out to dinner. Get to know you.”

  “And you agreed to this? Can’t you come with us?”

  Sue doesn’t let on that it scared her at first and says, “Yes, Frank. He deserves a chance. And no, I’m not coming with you. For God’s sake, you’re fourteen. I’m thirty-two, it’s high time I put the past in the past, let you meet your grandfather. He’s an old man now. He’s harmless. And it’s not healthy to live like this.”

  Harmless? Frank thinks to himself. Angry, terrified, he plays through all of those horror stories. The beatings. The shooting of the dog. The summer kidnapping. Frank imagines the Old Mechanic taking him to some compound guarded by brick walls, razor wire, and booby traps. Inside he’ll chain Frank to a wall in his bomb-shelter basement next to his punching bag that’s stuffed with the men and women he has disposed of, with those hands flaying, carving, and grinding their bones into ash remains for whatever madness he found offensive.

  Shaking Frank’s hand, the Old Mechanic has a grip as strong as a vise. Frank believes the Old Mechanic could cave in another man’s skull, crush his windpipe with one swipe.

  The Old Mechanic, with his swollen belly of red, white, and black checkered flannel trimmed by two strips of red suspenders. Frank has seen him around town, but never up close. Age has settled upon his frame, sagging his skin like mucus. His hair is peppered with gray, matted down like Ward Cleaver’s and hidden by a blue knit-cap reminiscent of what Nicholson wore in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest. A book Frank’s read and a movie he’s watched with his father. Reinforcing Frank’s imagination with the fear of loose-cannon lunacy. His face is pitted by liver spots. Old engravings of acne from his teenage years. The features remind Frank of some cross between an oversized whiskerless rat and ALF the sitcom alien puppet.

  The Old Mechanic asks, “You ready?”

  Frank just nods, says, “Sure.”

  The mother gives Frank a farewell peck on the cheek. Tells him to enjoy himself, eyes her father, at a loss for compassion or words, just memories. She tells him, “Be back by six p.m.” Then stresses, “Don’t be late.”

  Frank’s blood thins and his heart pulses to an irregular rhythm in the front seat of the Old Mechanic’s Dodge truck. The Old Mechanic beats the horn with one hand. Generously offers his displeasure at the navigation skills of the driver in front of him. Frank wonders again why his mother agreed to this. The Old Mechanic screams, “Drive like this in Tennessee or Texas and your ass’d be into the rail.”

  Not thinking, Frank blurts out, “This is Indiana. He’s not driving in Tennessee or Texas.”

  The Old Mechanic glances at Frank with acidic eyes that corrode his sternum and he says, “See, Frank, you don’t got no navigation skills. Can’t follow these people poking on the road. They’re only holding you back from your destination.”

  Frank frowns and says, “I’m fourteen, can’t even drive yet.”

  The look in the Old Mechanic’s eyes from Frank’s comment, combined with the forward motion of his voice, the command and control, supports the fear in Frank’s frame. Lets him know the Old Mechanic is feeling him out. And the gun show is a trial run.

  At the gun show, tables are set up and spread out like an oversized school cafeteria. Vendors in black Hanes T-shirts with beer guts poking out over military green pants, selling new and used guns and knives. Some of what the Old Mechanic calls pot metal. Used junk. “But also some good deals,” he tells Frank. “Just gotta know your hardware, keep your eyes open.”

  They walk between the tables. Up and down the aisles. The Old Mechanic appears at ease to Frank, happy. In his element. They stop at a table and the Old Mechanic picks up a gun. Frank closes his eyes, somehow fearing he’ll load it. Begin a strain of elderly shootings. The Old Mechanic tells him, “See, this is what I’m talkin’ about, it’s a Beretta Modello, made in ’34, used by the Italians before W. W. Two. A real antique.”

  Frank’s at a loss for words as he watches the Old Mechanic place it back on the table without taking aim at anyone. They pass more tables. The Old Mechanic shakes his head, points to a table piled with guns and knives, tells Frank, “All that there is cheap knock-offs, used garbage they call antique firearms. More than likely they sat the shit out in the weather, let it rust, tried to make it look old. Not good for anything else.”

  Frank keeps his eyes forward. His mouth shut.

  At another table the Old Mechanic picks up a pistol that reminds Frank of the one he’s seen in a 007 movie, and the Old Mechanic asks, “Know what crisis this heifer was said to have caused?”

  Frank offers, “A bank robbery?”

  “No. This was believed to have been used to take out the archduke of Austria. Mr. Ferdinand. Initiated W. W. One. It’s an FN Model 1910.”

  A vendor butts in, “Well, nobody knows that for certain, it’s just—”

  The Old Mechanic turns to the vendor, his face a beestung mask, says, “It’s just none of your business. Can’t you see I’m talking to my grandson?”

  Frank’s heart is running a gym class relay as the Old Mechanic throws the gun on the table. They walk off with the Old Mechanic grumbling, “Got no appreciation for men such as myself who fought for the civil liberties of that idiot and this country.”

  Frank’s insides tighten as he visualizes the Old Mechanic wrapping his hands around the vendor’s neck. Frank wants to hide beneath a table. Curl up in a ball. He knows how his mother and aunt felt being the Old Mechanic’s audience every day.

  Frank wants to leave but the Old Mechanic wants to buy Frank something. They stop at a table of knives. The Old Mechanic picks up a switchblade. Decides this is it. Not the one with a safety feature to keep the ejecting blade from puncturing someone or something. The Old Mechanic buys a NATO paratrooper switchblade with a surgical-razor-sharp blade. No safety. Just reinforced spring action. Enough force to plunge the blade through human skin.

  He pays for it and Frank questions him about it, doesn’t know if his mother will approve.

  “Your mother? Frank, you’re fourteen, what are you gonna do if you gotta use it on someone?”

  All Frank can think as he puts it into
his pocket is what his mother said: the Old Mechanic is harmless.

  At a local Ponderosa Steakhouse, a waitress serves platters of an all-you-can-eat steak-and-shrimp. Everyone in the restaurant helps knives slice steaks on ceramic plates with blood and grease. Lips smack among muffled conversations surrounding Frank and the Old Mechanic.

  Frank takes a slice of rib eye into his mouth, working his jaws and savoring the medium-rare juice as he swallows. Apparently the Old Mechanic’s standard of medium-rare and what the grill man prepared are two separate things. The grill man doesn’t know how to grill. The Old Mechanic locks eyes with Frank as his jaws work the meat and he says, “Shit’s cold. Tough. Wouldn’t feed this cut of cholesterol to a mangy hound.”

  Frank sees the rabid madness in his eyes as the nostrils in his pitted nose expand. He drops his fork and knife onto his plate. They bounce into everyone’s earshot. Frank keeps his mouth closed. His jaws work the meat as he glances at all of the eyes that burn into the Old Mechanic. Hearing the clatter of silverware, the waitress returns.

  “Everything all right, sir?”

  The Old Mechanic says, “Where you find these cooks and cuts of cow, a janitorial service? It tastes like floor scrapings from the bottom of a slaughterhouse Dumpster. Had better C rations in a foreign trench. I brought my damn grandson here for a good steak. This is embarrassing.”

  Frank dabs a piece of crusted shrimp into the thick red sauce. Then his mouth. The waitress apologizes and says, “I’ll get a manager.” The Old Mechanic grabs his steak knife, holds it up. Frank watches those vise-grip hands. His throat draws tight as his innards swell. The waitress turns her back. The Old Mechanic pauses, then lays the knife back on the plate next to the rib eye, pushes it to the table’s edge, and raises his voice.

  “Hey?”

  The waitress turns her attention back to their table and the Old Mechanic waves his hand, purses his lips, and tells her, “That won’t be necessary.” He goes quiet as if to consider something and asks, “Know who I am?”