Knockemstiff (18 page)

Just then my brother strolled into the kitchen. Pulling up his T-shirt, he made a big show of rubbing his hairy belly. A faded tattoo of a yellow Tweety Bird peeked through the brown fur. He grabbed a bowl from the cabinet above the sink and dipped some chili from a pot on the stove. “I got some brewskies out in the truck you get thirsty,” he said to me.

“And I got you a job delivering pizzas if you ever decide you want to go to work,” I replied.

He pointed his spoon at me and squished his face up like he was on the verge of busting into tears. Then he laughed and started back toward the living room, blowing on the chili as he went. I heard the old man say, “Watch it, honey. That looks hot.”

“Jesus, I don’t see how you stand it,” I said to my mother in a low voice. I walked outside and lit a cigarette. It was nearly dark by then, and I wandered deep into the front yard before I remembered the money I was supposed to pay back to my mother. Next time, I told myself. Wood smoke from a neighbor’s house hung in the chilly air. I thought about all those years as a kid when we’d been forbidden to step over the fences my father had erected around his property. He had always been in control of everything that touched his life, but now he couldn’t even manage his own heart. Somewhere over the next hill, a dog barked three or four times, and up the road a car engine sputtered and died. I’d grown up here, but it had never felt like home.

I turned and looked at the old man through the window. He was still watching the men on TV beat each other senseless for a chance at happiness. With my father everything had always been about the fight, and I sadly realized that we would never really know each other before he passed. For the first time since I’d been sober, I began to crave a drink. Even the smell of the wood smoke reminded me of whiskey. As I stood there, I recalled something that Jim told me every time he saw me. “You pick up the phone and call me before you take that first one, Bobby. At least give me that much respect.” But I’d called him a nigger behind his back, just to please my bitter old man, and I wasn’t sure I could ask for anybody’s help tonight.

My father suddenly punched the air and whooped loud enough that I could hear him outside. The look on his face was ecstatic. Then the plastic tube slipped from his nose, and I watched him grab for it. For a moment he seemed to hesitate, as if he might be considering his other option, and it became clear to me that he was tired of it all. But after glancing over at my brother, he carefully fastened the hose back in place. He took a deep breath, and I took one with him. The TV light brightened and then dimmed. Tossing my cigarette in the grass, I turned and started toward my car. The fight was nearly over.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

First, I’d like to say that, though the stories in this book were inspired by a real place, Knockemstiff, Ohio, all of the characters are fictional. I grew up in the holler, and my family and our neighbors were good people who never hesitated to help someone in a time of need.

Since this is my first book, I have a lot of people to thank: first and foremost, Michelle Herman, writer, teacher, and mentor, who believed in me when I needed it most; Michael Kardos, who pulled “Bactine” from the slush pile and didn’t send it back; Kyle Minor, my chief adviser in all things literary; my professors, past and present, all of whom have taught me so many things: Erin McGraw, Lee K. Abbott, Kathy Fagan, and Lee Martin at Ohio State University, and Ron Salamone and Veena Kasbekar at Ohio University.

Another round of thanks go to all of my peers in the workshops at Ohio State University, including Jesse Quillian, Doug Watson, Bart Skarzynski, Laurel Gilbert, Maureen Traverse, Kim Brauer, Loranne Temple, Libby Lantz, Brian Wade, and Joe Oestreich; oh, yeah, and that poet guy, Pablo Tanguay; Valerie Vogrin at
Sou’wester
; Kelly Daniels and the rest of the gang at
Third Coast
; and Richard Burgin at
Boulevard
.

Also, I’d like to say howdy to all my old friends and coworkers at the paper mill in Chillicothe, Ohio; and offer up a big, big thank-you with all my heart to my parents, Donald and Violet Pollock; my daughter, Amber; and my two granddaughters, Madison and Rachel.

A very special thanks goes to the great Richard Pine, the equally fantastic Nathaniel Jacks, and the wonderful Susan Hobson at InkWell Management. And last, but certainly not least, I want to thank Gerry Howard, my kickass editor, and everyone else at Doubleday who helped make this book a reality.

PUBLISHED BY DOUBLEDAY

Copyright © 2008 by Donald Ray Pollock

All Rights Reserved

Published in the United States by Doubleday, an imprint of The Doubleday Broadway Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

www.doubleday.com

DOUBLEDAY
and the portrayal of an anchor with a dolphin are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Some of these stories have appeared in slightly different form in the following magazines: “Bactine,” “Fish Sticks,” and “Giganthomachy” in the
Journal
; “Discipline” and “Lard” in
Third Coast
; “Honolulu” in
Chiron Review
; “Assailants,” “Holler,” and “Hair’s Fate” in
Sou’wester
; “Real Life” in
Boulevard
; “I Start Over” in the
Berkeley Fiction Review.

Map art by David Cain

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Pollock, Donald Ray, 1954–

Knockemstiff /Donald Ray Pollock.—1st ed.

p. cm.

1. Knockemstiff (Ohio)—Social life and customs—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3616.O5694K56 2008

813'.6—dc22

2007039806

eISBN: 978-0-385-52540-4

v3.0