Cruddy - Lynda Barry [42]
He said, “What happened to your door, Lemuel?”
“I mphoph im!”
“What?”
The man stepped out, still shoving his top denture in. He had on suspenders and greasy pants, a nude pregnant stomach, wino shoes, and dirty ankles.
The father spit. “I didn’t catch that last you said.”
“I SOLD IT! Some colored guy come around taking all the doors, see.” He gestured at the houses. On his forearm was a smeared-looking tattoo. A lady in a bathing suit with a head too small for her body. “He drive up here collecting doors and I say, ‘Hey, you black bastard! You can’t just go taking them doors! They ain’t for free!’ Well, I got my due off him is what I’m trying to say.”
“Yeah?” said the father. “What’d you take him for?”
“Fifty cents,” said Lemuel.
They both started laughing. The father said, “You ain’t changed.”
Lemuel jutted his chin at me. “Ugly little shit. Looks like a dogfish. Must be yours.”
“No,” said the father. “No, he ain’t.”
Lemuel made a grunting sound and pig-eyed me for a while. He said, “Let’s get us something to drink then.”
The father said, “I brought you one. Clyde, go get a fresh soldier out of the car for your uncle Lemuel. Get him that one we bought him special. In the white bag. That’s right.”
“Clyde, huh?” said Lemuel.
“Yup,” said the father.
“But he ain’t yours?”
“Nope.”
“Shit,” said Lemuel. “What are you trying to pull on me?”
“Well,” said the father. “That depends.”
Lemuel’s voice got lower. “I heard it was you that found Old Dad.”
“That’s right.” The father rubbed his face with both hands.
“That had to be a shock,” said Lemuel.
“A hell of a shock.”
I held the white booze sack out to the father. “Not me, Clyde. It’s for your uncle Lemuel.”
“Clyde, huh?” said Lemuel. “Well, who beat the crap out of you, Clyde? Or did you come out of the box that way.”
“He don’t talk,” said the father.
“No?”
“Faller’s disease.”
“Faller’s,” said Lemuel.
“Brain damage,” said the father.
“But he seems to understand you fine.”
“Oh yes,” said the father. “Understanding’s no problem for Clyde if you keep it simple. Remembering is what he has trouble with. Can’t remember nothing at all. Maybe it’s a blessing for him. He’s had it rough.”
“Rough,” said Lemuel.
“He’s a stray,” said the father. “His daddy come looking for work up to our place one day, and drove off without him. Never came back. Never said boo. I thought, what the hell. Keeps me company.”
I need to mention that while this interesting conversation was going on, there was a smell so horrifying that my stomach was ripple-convulsing. Nothing at the slaughterhouse ever smelled as bad. Where was it coming from? It felt like the fumes were coating my eyes. The father and Lemuel didn’t seem to notice it, neither of them reacted, but I could hardly hold myself steady. I was trying to breathe through my mouth but I could taste it.
The smell was coming from the trailer. It was so strong the air almost radiated with visible waves. I saw what looked like dried blood on the door. I saw dried brown crusts on the handle and thick spatters on the step-up. There were bottle flies crawling on every crack and crevice. They were going insane trying to find a way inside.
Lemuel pulled the bottle out of the white sack and whistled low. “Holy Christ,” he said. “Whitley’s. The Gateway.”
“The Gateway.” The father nodded. “Many are called but few can get up afterwards.”
They passed it and glugged and then the father passed it to me and I glugged.
Lemuel looked astonished. “He drink?”
The father said, “If you had brain damage, wouldn’t you?”
Lemuel looked me up and down.
This new booze, this Whitley’s, it was very different. It seemed to evaporate off your tongue as you drank it. I felt it go straight to my legs and I began to sway.
The father pointed at me. “Clyde, lay in the grass before you fall and bust your face again.”
Then it was quiet. Lemuel pulled out a tin of Copenhagen and untwisted the lid. His bottom teeth came spitting out and he took a honking black wad and pushed it into his cupped lower