Cruddy - Lynda Barry [82]
She bunched the towel around my neck and poured. Rivulets of Sun In spilled down either side of my nose. The smell was harsh and it stung. I said, “Ow! Ow! My eyes!”
Vicky said, “Keep them shut.”
She combed my hair hard and rolled in the first hot curler. It was spiked and molten and it branded my scalp. “OW, VICKY!”
“Quit being a baby. This is only going to take a—GET OUT OF HERE!”
The Stick’s voice. “What are you doing to her?”
“SHUT UP AND GET OUT!”
From downstairs, “SHIT AND GODDAMN! MY PROGRAM!”
The Stick said, “You’re pissing off Susie. His show is on.”
The theme music of Rat Patrol came shooting up the stairs at full volume.
The Stick said, “How long does it take to work?”
Vicky thought he was talking about the Sun In. She said, “Roberta already has a boyfriend.”
The Stick said, “I mean before I feel it?”
And then the truth came out and Vicky whapped me hard on the side of the head and some of the curlers flew off. “YOU GAVE HIM DRUGS?!!”
The Stick said, “How long?”
I said, “Any minute now.”
Chapter 41
ND SO I crossed through the dark field of fragrant hops with the sheriff’s blood sticky on my shirt in the hot night air, and there were about a million bugs hitting me in the face as I crossed to the berm. I was there when the train roared up on me, shot by just above me. Exhilaration. Distraction. When a train is passing a few inches above your head you can’t really think about anything else and there are times when a clear head is something I am most thankful for.
And when the train is gone, there is a kind of silence called a ringing silence. Something like the negative shape of sound. People call it a ringing but this word isn’t quite right. I think it’s more like the sound you hear when you are drowning, when water encloses you and keeps air away from you and sound moves differently to reach your ears. Would drowning be so bad? The canal was right on the other side of the tracks. How bad would it be to wrestle for a few minutes and then be done?
This ringing, this high-pitched sound was something I heard during my fever. My fever time in the trailer. The father told me to look for the sandman. Told me if it hurt at all I could cut a finger from his hand. He made so many promises to me.
I didn’t know how far I was from the Knocking Hammer. I only knew to keep the canal on my right as I walked the tracks. There was a hot wind and the insects were plentiful and loud, and these things comforted me as I made my way back to the father with Little Debbie in my hand.
It wasn’t very long before the drifting smell of the cull pile came my way. It wasn’t very long before I was in the shadows of the Knocking Hammer again, watching the father bouncing back and forth between the car and the lounge with armloads of things he was going to need on his trip. Clothes, booze, cigs.
Pammy snored in the front seat. She was in a muscle relaxer dreamworld. Her head lay tilted on the seat back and her fat arm protruded from the passenger window like she was giving blood.
And a little farther off, the shape that was Fernst rested in its final heap. I felt bad about Fernst. Very bad. I wanted to cover him with something but there wasn’t time. The father was almost done packing.
I lay hidden in the backseat as he drove the dark road away from the Knocking Hammer. I heard the slosh of booze and the satisfied inhale of a cig and the words of congratulations he spoke. He said, “I got barbed-wire balls and a cock of steel. Goddamn. I sure do.”
I didn’t mean to fall asleep. I actually thought falling asleep would never be possible for me again. But after all exhilaration comes the crashing. Wakefulness breaks apart.
And then it was light out and the father was panic-screaming and the car was weaving all over the road and the sun was bright bright bright and hot on my face. The father slammed the brakes on and jumped out of the car. I sat up and watched the dust clouds fly around his feet. He bent over and did some dry heaves. He was staring at the car.
Pammy was