Heartland, p.7
Heartland, page 7
Sonny now had almost turned genuinely sunny – as he swooshed back his forelock and raised his glass up on high.
–Hell if that compadre – if he didn’t go and get it in one …
There could be no mistaking Mervyn’s gratification whenever he heard Sonny Hackett saying that – as that old barman stood proud and seeming even more statuesque than ever, impressively rangy in his striped blue collarless shirt and black waistcoat, and that silver mane of hair reaching all the way down his back.
Sonny, emboldened, was once more up on his feet, clicking away with his Cuban-heeled boots as he tugged up his collar and curled his lip, Elvis Presley style.
–So then, he declared, I take it then, gentle barman sir, that you wouldn’t have any particular objection if I took the liberty of choosing me another little disc that might belong to the category we just been talking about? Even though I’m aware of the circumstances and that, strictly speaking, we oughtn’t to be doing anything like this at all …
The barman folded his cloth and sighed as he sympathetically shook his weary head.
–That’s all right, Mr Hackett sir – be assured that I understand the situation perfectly. And also that I ain’t got no objection whatsoever to you playing music as a kind of balm to settle your jangling nerves, which, given the circumstances, I guess they gotta be. Jangling, I mean.
Nobody quite knew what to say to that, least of all Hackett.
As the pool balls went: ker-plunk!
And: thlack!
–I’m fed up with this game! Shorty McHale announced, flushing deeply. Do you know what I think, our fellow? That maybe you and me should think about heading home.
He looked at his brother, but his brother said nothing.
–This jungle’s raw – I think it’s making me feel sick … complained Shorty again.
–Well then, don’t drink it. C’mon and we’ll finish the game.
Ker-plunk …
Thwack …
The balls were going nowhere, missing their target every time. The Runt obstreperously flung down his cue and sat for a minute on a beer keg, trembling.
–What’s the matter? he heard Shorty ask. What’s the fucking problem now?
The atmosphere around the table was subdued and quiet. Then Big Barney looked up and announced:
–Porter Wagoner.
–What about fucking Porter Wagoner? demanded Red.
–Yeah – Porter Wagoner. What about him? shouted Sonny Hackett.
Big Barney looked a little embarrassed as he turned away with burning cheeks.
–No, urged Sonny, we’d like to hear. What is it you want to say?
–Yeah, come on Barney – tell us about Porter Wagoner, Red Campbell agreed. Get on back here, friend …
–Yep, amigo, interjected Wee Hughie, turtle-nodding again as he rubbed his hands vigorously, you can take it from Hughie that that is a fact.
Very slowly, Big Barney began to turn around, averting his eyes. Before, still wary, explaining:
–There’s this song that he sings – it goes by the name of ‘The Carroll County Accident’.
–It goes by the name of – what? asked Hughie.
–It goes by the name of ‘The Carroll County Accident’, hollered Mervyn from the bar, it’s one heckofa mighty famous tune, I got to tell you.
–Well, I never heard of it, Sonny Hackett protested.
–Neither did I, said Red, shaking his head.
As they all began arguing over the song, the hooch having pretty much taken them over.
With Mervyn coming over, laughing as he emptied the overstuffed ashtray, telling them that they’d argue over the skinning of a flea.
–And then dispute over the hide and tallow, he chortled good-naturedly.
And then – unusually for him – lit up a rollie of his own and sat down to join them.
–I’ve just got me an idea, he began, although it might be one that you boys find a little unusual and hard to accept. However, why don’t we just try it? Yep, just for once, why don’t you boys try listening to one another? Because I think that might be a very welcome and interesting departure.
–Now you are talking sense, Mr Walker, Big Barney Grue beamed, licking some beads of jungle off his moustache and hoisting his britches up over his enormous girth before hauling himself away from the table across the floor, as the record machine leaped into life.
It was Porter Wagoner.
–Who sure does paint a mighty unusual picture, mused the barman, with that old head of his, swear to God, thinner than a peanut and that great big duck’s ass sweep of hair thrown back off of his head, stiff as a stilt in that glittering red rhinestone suit o’ his.
–Yeah, now I remember where I seen him, Hughie Munley exclaimed. It was on The Grand Old Opry, on the telly one Saturday night.
–Very well then. So I suggest, for once, that you all just bend your ear and listen, suggested Mervyn.
And which, surprisingly, they did.
–Porter Wagoner, Wee Hughie Munley nodded approvingly, Porter Wagoner.
As the clean steel guitar clipped jauntily along, as though impatient to get down to the business of delivering its important message.
–That sure is one mighty fine kicker of a tune all right, observed Red. I definitely got to hand it to you there, Mr Walker, you were right – because them’s good words. Although I got to admit that I ain’t altogether sure what they mean.
The older man gravely shook his head.
–Very well then, I’ll tell you, he said, I’ll tell you, Red, because I think it addresses a very important and pertinent subject – that of the secrets that small little out-of-the-way places can hold. Places where – so often, as I’m sure you know – no one has really figured just what exactly’s going on. O sure, they got a kind of an idea. And they got their suspicions. But they know in their hearts that they ain’t got it pegged. Not really, if you know what I mean?
All of a sudden, Red Campbell appeared once more quite agitated as he looked all about him, this way and that.
–How exactly, Red began hoarsely, what precisely do you mean by that, Mervyn – because, to be honest with you, I don’t think I really understand.
Mervyn nodded and leaned across the table.
–The narrative in question, he began to explain, it essentially told the story of a road accident which had taken place just outside the county line, in a small town in the middle of America. Where decent people lead God-fearing lives.
–Leastways they were supposed to be, he added morosely.
Then he gathered his thoughts.
–You see, Mervyn continued, what we are talking about in this song here, regrettably, is adultery, Red. Yep, that reliable steady old perennial when folks, to their shame, they been playing back door bogus. And here, of all places, roundabout Carroll County, which is just about as law-abiding and God-fearing as you can get. And no place to be slipping outta the trades if you got yourself a morsel o’ sense. But then that’s a commodity that us vulnerable human beings don’t, in the end, seem to possess a whole lot of. Which is why, when it come to it, these two folks they paid the same price as everyone does for transgression and lying and cheating – they lost their lives in what seemed to be an accident. But then we got no guarantee about that, do we?
He smiled and narrowed those kind, baggy eyes as he spread his aged hands on the table.
Sighing regretfully, long and hard, as he proceeded.
–Because I guess that’s always gotta be the way in the wind-up, ain’t it fellers? Whether we care to admit it or not. That in places such as that old unfortunate Carroll County – and which ain’t a whole lot different to hereabouts, let’s face it – what we got ourselves is a whole mess of dangerous secrets and murky shadows. O boy, the secrets that we keep.
Sonny grabbed the bottle and decided all that was horseshit.
–I don’t know what you’re talking about, he said.
As Mervyn smiled and gripped him by the arm, applying just a little bit of pressure as he faced him.
–That’s surprising. Yes, that surprises me, Mr Hackett. Because it’s not all that complicated, really. I mean it’s not like I’m trying to make some real big statement or something here. All I’m saying is that, all of us, we got our quiet, unspoken-of corners.
Then he turned around and smiled at Red.
–Do you like it, Mr Campbell – do you like that song? he said to him. That tune we just played – do you like it, Red?
–No, Red retorted, sullenly avoiding Mervyn’s penetrating gaze, as a matter of fact I don’t. Because I don’t have the foggiest what it’s supposed to be about.
–A little matchbox circled with a rubber band, the barman explained, that was what they found underneath the dashboard. And right there inside of it, a golden wedding band. Now what was that doing in there, do you think?
–I don’t know, Red Campbell replied, I don’t know anything about rings or dashboards. And I don’t care much, to tell you the God’s honest truth. Anyway, it’s only a song.
–Was there matches in the box as well, or just the ring? quizzed Wee Hughie Munley anxiously, feeling unbelievably dumb just as soon as he’d opened his mouth.
Everyone looked at him, and he wished the sawdust and the floor would swallow him up completely.
Sometimes that happened – he said the first thing that came into his mind.
Impossibly calm, Mervyn had decided to finish the story.
–So that was it – a dark sin had been committed and everyone in the county knew that that was the case. But the truth was destined never to come out. Because that’s what happens in songs that have secrets. Do you know what I’m saying?
–So nobody was ever the wiser, were they not Mervyn? Wee Hughie choked, doing his best to get back in the game.
–That’s right. And life went on just as it had before.
–Just as if nothing had ever happened, nodded Hughie, visibly relaxing.
Big Barney Grue seemed tired, tugging agitatedly at the matted strands of his beard.
–And no one ever got to know the truth, concluded Mervyn.
Then the barman did the strangest thing – rose up to his full height and began laughing uncontrollably.
And I can remember at that point coming almost close to capitulating and giving the game away – betraying my presence upstairs, I mean – because I just didn’t think I could bear the tension.
As I watched the barman, in silence, just standing there with his two arms folded and his aged eyes wrinkling as he smiled and said – to himself, it seemed:
–Do you see that willow?
Its leaves were brushing, ever so gently, against the glass.
Red Campbell lifted his eyebrow as he half-turned towards the window and replied:
–So it’s a willow – what about it? he said irksomely. It’s there every night …
–I’ll often find myself wondering about it – but not just that. Plants in general …
–What do you mean, complained Red, plants in general?
Then he got up and strolled over to the counter.
–So what if it’s a willow? So what about plants? Huh?
Mervyn Walker remained implacable, electing to remain silent for quite a considerable period of time. Before, eventually, continuing:
–There was this book I read and it said in there – it said in that book: that, just like us, plants have their secrets.
Sonny Hackett firmly rapped the table.
–Ah here now – quit. Stop it, you hear, this dumb talk …
–Hur hur, chuckled Hughie, did youse hear the one about the talking plant?
But Mervyn Walker wasn’t smiling.
If anything now, he looked extremely grave.
–I was just wondering, he continued, I was just wondering, Red – or any of you, as a matter of fact – might have any views on that particular subject?
Red had had about enough, he announced.
–Listen here, he began, as far as I’m concerned this conversation is going nowhere. First it was songs that mean nothing and now it’s plants. And I’m sorry if it happens to bother you, Mr Walker, but I really have to tell you that right now I don’t figure that I appreciate a great deal of what we been talking about in the last twenty or so minutes. Especially not now – not tonight. Not in a situation like the one we got ourselves into here.
His fingers were trembling as he reached for his wallet of shag, clearly in anticipation of the barman’s response.
Only to find himself surprised – if not, in fact, amazed – to look up from his pouch of tobacco to see the barman grinning fiercely right into his face.
–For heaven’s sake, man, can’t you tell that I’m only joking. Or what is wrong with you? laughed Mervyn Walker.
–There’s nothing wrong with him. He’s just on edge, like the rest of us, waiting for you-know-who to come. If he had stuck to his word and come at the time he said he was coming, then everything would have been fine. And nobody’d be going on like Campbell, grinding those stupid choppers!
–So what if I happen to do things with my teeth? What business is that of yours, Hackett?
–Gets on my nerves so it does, and you’ve always been doing it. You always used to do in the factory so you did …
Wee Hughie got between them, pale and clearly alarmed, as he called out to the barman:
–Do you hear the two lads? God but things don’t change very much, do they Mervyn? They were always bickering on the floor, God help them …
–Only when he started that hateful fucking grinding! spat Sonny, that accursed, cunting noise …!
–What noise? I don’t hear anyone else complaining about noise …
To avoid any further disagreement, Hughie began searching in his pockets for coins – with which he sometimes performed diverting tricks.
But, right then, he couldn’t seem to locate any.
Finding himself taken aback as he was roughly pushed to one side by Sonny Hackett, who was in the middle of glaring at Red Campbell as he passed.
–One of these days, I swear to you, Campbell …
–I was wondering, choked Hughie, did I ever tell youse the joke about the three wells?
–No you didn’t, Sonny replied, and please don’t bother for none of us want to hear it.
–Well well well, squealed Wee Hughie, with such a degree of fervour that his small round face was beginning to turn a dangerous-looking blue.
Chapter 10
The Story of Mickey Wrong Moon
This bad feeling between you and me, Jody wrote, it can’t go on forever and I know, same as me, that you understand that, Ray – and that’s why I want you to know absolutely everything that I went through that night, both in the outhouse and the bar later on, just so as you and me can be honest and straight and direct with one another. In a way that we haven’t been able to do for years.
Because one thing is for sure, Ray, he went on, there ain’t gonna be anyone else on this earth who is gonna be able to understand what we been through and all the trouble the two of us has seen together.
But you go through life, don’t you Ray, old friend, and you deal with things the best that you can, hopefully coming around in the end to see that if things are gonna work out at all, then what you got to do is be true to yourself. I’ve come to see that now, I guess, and I’m happy about it. I think it’s important, though, at this point, to be straight – and to let you know that it was my special partner, my irreplaceable soulmate Greta Mae who suggested that I sit down and write this letter to you. And I pray that, in spite of whatever recent hardship you’ve undergone, that you’ll understand what her reasons might be. Because there ain’t nobody, man or woman, who hasn’t had it difficult one way or another.
Most of all, I really and truly do genuinely hope that you don’t mind too much me going into all of this explicit detail about what went through my mind in that stinking hellhole tumbledown shack where they dumped me – and don’t get it into your head that any of what I say is intended as any form of accusation or score-settling, for believe you me, whatever it might be, it most expressly is not that.
All I am trying to do is, once and for all, my best to get things straight in my head – and, hopefully, after all these years, leave all the bitter memories of Glasson County far behind us both.
I would also like to say to you, Ringo, that if you do manage to get it together and decide in the end to take up my invitation and come over here to visit us, that what you’ll find waiting for your inspection right here in Sweetwater is a garden and golden country, the most wondrous and magical estate as you could ever in your wildest dreams imagine.
And to give you some idea, as I sit here penning these coupla words on my knee, the light all around me – it’s just about as pure and clear as gin, old amigo. Everywhere you can smell the scent of something perfumed coming up, such as jasmine or maybe the fragrance of the noble magnolia itself in full bloom. Somehow, friend, this here county it gets right down into your blood. Over time it bathes you.
When you do eventually get around to figuring that the time has arrived for you to get on board that plane, and you’ve finally laid all the troubles of your past to rest, then get on up there and haul that body o’ yours right on over here to Georgia state. My love, be assured, has already heard all about you. And is more than aware that whatever might have happened in the bygone days of yore, that you and me we once were two loyal vaqueros, best compadres – and nothing anyone can do or say will ever change that. OK then, having said all that, I reckon it’s time for me to get up and go. So stay in touch, my friend, and let me know whatever’s going on.
Even now, after all this time, I can see him vividly, crouched in the stultifying gloom of that tumbledown wreck – shivering, a hideous patchwork of bruises, his hands bound with cable ties behind his back.
Rising to his feet and stumbling as best he can around that damp, weed-covered earthen floor – in among the truck tyres and beer crates stinking of stale ale, in the swelling shadow of the bulky propane gas tank. As the generator hummed and droned steadily on, over and over, almost taunting him, drilling right into his head.
