Nightwoods - Charles Frazier [82]
Stubblefield kept driving, trying to think of the right thing to say. Like a magic spell in a story. A few perfect words that make your wishes true. But they wouldn’t come. He said, all at once, I’m sorry, I love you, I’ll kill that bastard.
—He’s moved on, Luce said.
—I found Lola. I could find him.
—Nice offer, but that’s all long gone.
She fiddled the radio up and down again and then switched it off and twisted in the seat until she was lying on her back, her head in Stubblefield’s lap, looking up at a full moon above pine trees, flowing bright and dark through the windshield until she fell asleep.
CHAPTER 12
SHOULD HAVE BEEN A NIGHT DRIVE like any other, but as soon as the beer and pills kicked in and the stars started jittering and pinwheeling, Lit set in on the same questions he had asked in the summertime when he came sniffing around for uppers. The difference was, now the trees were nearly bare and back then he hadn’t really cared about the answers.
Lit couldn’t possibly have a concrete clue to go on, Bud thought, only pool hall rumors and bullshit lawman instinct, thus far clouded by his need for pills. And the suspicions were the consequences of Bud’s own actions, primarily getting drunk and running his mouth to the wrong people. Nobody to blame but himself, except possibly Lily’s bitch sister, if she ignored his warning and set a fire under Lit’s skinny ass, either getting him all sentimental about his little baby girl from the way back years or the idiot grandchildren. Which gave Bud pause, since he’d never entirely clarified that last relationship to himself. Lit a granddaddy. Nevertheless, a deep disappointment for Bud that even his best friend had started acting strange.
Lit probed on and on into Bud’s past, but he didn’t mention Lily. Or Luce’s suspicions about the kids. But they were back there in the history Lit wondered about. However evasive Bud tried to be, however hard he squirmed to change the subject, Lit kept circling around. Every question had to do with Bud’s identity. What was Bud’s full name? Where all exactly had he lived in his life? Had he ever been married? In his previous life, had he ever encountered anybody who grew up here?
Bud felt a little glazed from trying to stay even with Lit on the uppers and beer, and he floated various lies and evasions that never rose above fair to middling. He could see where this was all heading. Lit penning him in. No way Bud could keep a string of lies consistent forever. In a few days, Lit would be right back at him, and Bud would have forgotten many details of his answers. His new lies would mismatch the old ones, which was exactly the way they trapped you. Then you went down.
Bud said, Come on, fuck this shit. What do you care about history? I thought we were friends.
—I guess we are, Lit said. You know a lot about me and my habits, but I don’t know much about you. Right now, I need you to be straight with me.
Sounded kind of self-serving to Bud. Lit mainly starting to get sad about the cutoff of Benzedrine if his questions ended up leading them both to a bad place.
—That’s what you’re needing? Bud said. Me being straight? And here I was having a good time. I thought what buddies did was ride around and tell each other lies, and drink some beers and take some pills.
—That too. But I’m getting some pressure about you, and I need the truth.
Bud said, Don’t pull that tired mess. I learned a long time ago, when somebody starts talking all sincere about truth, they’re usually getting ready to fuck you. Truth isn’t in your own self, and it sure isn’t in theirs. Whatever you tell me or I tell you, and call it truth, is nothing but convenient feelings and asswipe opinions. Real truth is way beyond people. Our brains weren’t tuned to get but a glimpse of it off in the distance.
—No. That’s not the way it is.
—Yeah, that is the way it is. People love the word, but all they use it for is like a club to beat you with. If we ever had truth in our heads, we couldn