The Rabbit Factory: A Novel (7 page)

The car had two hundred and sixty-something thousand miles on it. And smoked. Rings probably shot in the ass, he figured. He was going to get a better one next year that would do more than sixty without coughing and cutting out and farting unburned fumes all over the place, in case he had to make hot pursuit after somebody. He needed to get that muffler fixed. And find out why the whole car kept shaking sometimes.

Perk was hoping to get to the Grand Ole Opry and the Bluebird Cafe in Nashville and Dollywood in Knoxville both, on vacation next summer. It was said that Dolly came to her place six times a year. Maybe he’d be lucky enough to be there when she was there. If she could just hear
one
of his songs. At one time he’d wanted to take his deputy sheriff ex-girlfriend Penelope up there. But just when he thought she was almost ready to give him some, she’d caught him cheating with his old flame Earleen Lundt in the back seat of his cruiser parked down on Papa Johnny Road, and she had broken it off. Now whenever he met her on her patrols she gave him the big Fuck you with her finger, which hurt, especially if he was hauling his daddy to town for groceries. But he figured she wouldn’t go without a man for long. She’d find somebody. Probably some intellectual since she’d been pretty intellectual herself. Liked to look at photographs and shit like that.

He turned on the blue lights as he eased closer to the guy with the bag, who had turned around now and was looking at him. Some dork trying to dump something, looked like. Or maybe he had unsafe brakes since he’d hit a deer. He wondered what Earleen was doing tonight. Maybe on her break giving blow jobs out behind the Sonic in Water Valley. Maybe he’d cruise by there later for a footlong chili-cheese dog. With onions.

He pulled his car over and he got out with his hat on. Really a cap.

“Evenin’, mister,” he said. The car was rattling loudly behind him. Shaking, too, so that the headlights wobbled.

“Huh?” the guy said.

Perk nodded toward the deer that was still moving some.

He guessed he’d have to shoot it. He’d had to shoot lots of wounded deer that drivers had hit. He’d gotten pretty good at it, could usually get them with a head shot from about ten feet. He practiced on Saturdays in his daddy’s pasture, but he knew he’d never be as good a shot as Penelope, who could shoot the pants off him and his brother Rico and most of the other cops he knew. He decided he’d better raise his voice over the muffler noise.

“Raise hell with a fender, don’t they?” Perk almost shouted.

“What?” the guy said. To Perk he looked nervous. Strange-looking man, too, wearing a long bloody apron under his flimsy coat. He hadn’t shaved in about a week and he had a dark-blue knitted toboggan on his head and a cigar in his mouth and he had very thick rubber boots on his feet, the kind you’d wear if you were going after polar bears maybe. And holding some kind of a garbage-bag package as if he were about to carry it into the woods. A door was open at the back of the truck and there were some boxes back there. The truck was sitting there idling. The truck had a Tennessee tag. Shelby County. Memphis. The deer was still kicking, but not very energetically now. Perk looked closer. The deer had only one horn. All this looked a little peculiar to him as he walked closer, so he said loudly:

“How ’bout comin’ on down here and let me get a look at you, sir.”

“Huh?” the guy said.

“Come on over here, sir, you’re almost blockin’ the road!”

The guy threw the bag down and the cigar down and ran into the woods like a crazy person with asylum employees after him.

“Wait a minute, come back here, hold on…,” Perk said, but by then the guy was nearly gone. What was he running for? He walked after him a little way, and for a while he could see the white tail of the apron flopping, but then the guy must have stopped somewhere and hid. It was quiet off the road once he stopped crunching around in the scattered frozen snow. He could hear his cruiser rattling. He could see it shaking. He’d left his flashlight in the cruiser. If he went back for it, the guy might run completely away. But what was he guilty of?

He stood for a short time just listening. Then he picked his way carefully back, crunching over fallen limbs, and got his flashlight from the seat. The deer had begun a low groaning and grunting that sounded almost like some kind of tribal chant. He started to shoot it.
Poor bastard gonna die anyway,
he thought.
Shit. Save a bullet. Might need that bullet.

He eased back into the woods. It was awfully cold. It was worse than that. It was bitter. It felt like the North Pole. God, he’d hate to have to live at the North Pole.

“Okay now,” he said, pretty loud. “You might as well come on out. I’m gonna get your tag number, see. I can find out where you live.”

Tall trees with their naked winter branches stood around him saying nothing. His breath whistled out in small and gentle white explosions. His feet were getting cold, clad in only thin nylon socks and plain black leather boots. And shit, Christmas was right around the corner. He didn’t have his shopping done yet. And by now everything had been picked over at Wal-Mart probably. The car kept rattling and shaking behind him. It was actually kind of embarrassing when you pulled people over.

He couldn’t understand why the guy was hiding. People did dumb-shit stuff, though. Rico had told him that drunks would roll down their windows at a roadblock and blow their beer breath all over you and swear up and down that they’d had only one or two. Six-packs, they meant. Didn’t the guy know he was going to freeze to death out here?

“Hey, mister!” he yelled. “Whoever you are! You better come on out! It’s gonna get cold as a witch’s tit!”

Just then some more snow started falling, landing soundlessly on his shoulders. Maybe they’d have a white Christmas this year. He waited for a few more minutes. He turned his face up and watched the flakes drifting down. Maybe he could go out to the mall tomorrow and try to get a few things. He knew his daddy wanted a fish cooker and some Jeff Foxworthy deer-hunting videos. He thought he’d get Rico a deluxe three-burner Coleman stove to take camping out. He liked camping out. Or used to. When he was married to Lorena he did, and the two of them went all the time. John W. Kyle State Park. Down to Enid. Up to Tishomingo. It was a damn shame they’d split up. Perk had always really liked her. And Rico seemed like he was losing control more and more all the time. Perk was afraid he was going to wind up killing somebody if he didn’t get some help.

“Okay, bud,” he called. “I’m callin’ a tow truck for your truck. I don’t know what you’re hidin’ for, but we’ll find out.”

There was nothing, no sound.

“Last chance,” he called. “I heard it was goin’ down to zero tonight.” That was just some bullshit to try to get him to come out of the woods, because it was only supposed to go to eight. “I wouldn’t want to be out here.”

The snow was falling faster. Suddenly it doubled in intensity. His coat was getting covered. It was covering his boots and flakes were hanging on his arms, so soft, so melty. He started singing a song under his breath, one he’d been working on in his head for the last few nights:

When my eyes saw the light

From your window last night

I was standing alone in the street.

I could tell it was you

In that red dress so new

Kicking off shoes I’d put on your feet.

“Okay, well,” he said to himself. He worked his way back with snowflakes drifting across the flashlight’s brilliant beam. The guy had dropped a box, already partly covered with snow, in the woods. He stopped and looked down at it. No telling what the other thing was.

I held on to your wine,

Hadn’t been gone no time,

Long enough for you to meet

Some slick-looking Clyde

Who was starting to ride

My sweet thing clean under the sheets.

He kneeled next to the box and touched it. He picked up the lid. It was full of frozen meat. It looked like there were some old steaks and some old roasts and some old ribs but there were no wrappings on any of the meat and it was all frozen together into one solid chunk that looked strange. How would you cook it all at the same time like that? Was he throwing this stuff away? What for? And why was he picking this place to do it if he was from Memphis? Did they not have garbage cans in Memphis? What was the bloody apron for if he wasn’t some kind of butcher? Okay, well, maybe the guy was clearing out the truck to make room for the deer. But hey, that was illegal, taking from the side of the road a deer you’d hit. You were supposed to call the game wardens and let them dispose of it properly.

The deer had stopped moving. He’d have to call the DOT, tell the road guys there was a nice buck up here they’d want to pick up in the morning. Well, nice if he hadn’t broken that horn off. And if the dork in the apron wanted to run around in the woods the rest of the night, that was his business. He’d make a note of the tag and a description of the truck and then call a wrecker to get it off the road. He thought about seeing what was in the bag.

He warmed up instead, sitting back inside his cruiser with the heater blasting on high and his fingers thawing out and sipping the last cup of lukewarm coffee from his thermos. He got his pad and pencil out and wrote the chorus for his new song, which he’d decided to call “Some Other Fool.”

Don’t call me up for lunch

And damn sure not brunch,

Don’t talk in my ear about rules.

Just remember the day

You were french-kissing Ray,

Don’t play me for some other fool.

The deer was dead by then. He got back out of his cruiser with his coat unzipped and walked over to it and got it by the remaining horn and dragged it over to the shoulder of the road, slipping around in the roadside snow, getting his boots mushier and wetter, beside an almost solid wall of little bushy cedar trees that were in partial darkness since his cruiser was right behind the truck. And as it sometimes happened with his new songs when they were in the heat of being born, the words just wouldn’t stop coming:

I tried my best,

Couldn’t get enough rest,

She’s got an itch that needs scratching all night,

Had to sleep in the day

While she gave it away

And in the mornings

Did the milkman’s wife.

There was a sharp blow just below his left shoulder blade and he looked down to find the bloody point of what appeared to be a long-bladed knife poking through the front of his shirt. He just had time to turn a bit and see the strange-looking man with the bloody apron stepping back into the cedar bushes, his teeth chattering, saying something he couldn’t quite make out because he was falling dead toward the side of the road.

“You goin’ to sleep?” Henderson said. He’d raised his head and was scratching his chin.

“Nah. Just laying here. Who you writing?”

“My mama. I ain’t wrote her in a couple of weeks.”

“How’s she doing since that operation?”

“She’s a lot better. I had a letter from my sister last week. We been so busy I ain’t had time to write.”

Wayne lay there and didn’t say anything for a while. Henderson wrote some more and then put down his tablet and pen.

“Well if you ain’t goin’ to sleep, you want to go get some coffee?”

He knew he wasn’t going to be able to sleep for thinking about what she’d done to him. He wished it could have lasted longer. It was the largest thing that had ever happened to him. Including knocking out Stevenson in Philadelphia two months ago. The headaches had started after that fight.

“I might as well, I guess.”

“We get on down there, might still be some of that chocolate pie left.”

“You gonna turn into a chocolate pie.”

It only took a few minutes to get down to the galley, and it wasn’t full at that time of night. Some scattered groups of sailors were sitting around talking. Two crew-cut marine guards in camo and green T-shirts were eating hamburgers and playing chess. There was just a skeleton crew behind the steam tables and they’d cook eggs to order if you wanted them, but Wayne didn’t want any eggs. He looked at some sandwiches and passed on them, too. He had to watch his snacks and try to stay at his proper weight, and not get over two hundred and one pounds, the limit for amateur heavyweights. Right now he was holding fairly steady at one ninety-seven.

“That tuna salad’s really fresh,” a cook called out.

Henderson took one, and a bag of barbecued potato chips, and a piece of pie. This headache wasn’t just terrible. Some were.

“I thought you just wanted some coffee,” Wayne said, reaching for two cups. He filled them from the decaf urn and poured milk and sugar in both, then got a spoon and stirred.

“You ever seen Henderson come in here and not pig out?” said the cook.

“Growin’ boy got to have his snacks,” Henderson said.

They settled at a corner table where some rock and roll was playing at a low volume. Henderson had gotten after them one time to get some Jackie Wilson and Otis Redding and they had.

Wayne sat there and sipped his coffee and watched Henderson eat. He wanted to tell him about this girl he’d met, just didn’t know how to. This girl. This whore in Memphis who gave him a blow job for fifty bucks. Henderson would think he was apeshit. A couple of pilots in nylon coveralls came in and grabbed some candy bars and went back out. The marines had pushed their trays aside and were studying their board. Henderson started talking about Ali and Ray Robinson. Wayne saw a cook dozing in a chair. He could feel the ship moving beneath him, carrying him on out, away from her, plowing through the waves. There were faint creaks here and there. He could hear the clatter of the dishes back in the scullery. Somebody dropped one and it broke and somebody else said, Well no fucking shit, sweetie.

Where did she live? Where was she from? How old was she? What was her last name?

There were too many things he didn’t know. He didn’t know where to start. He didn’t know anything at all about her except her name and what she did. And that she was a country girl. How was it going to sound to Henderson? Nutty like a fruitcake. Like he’d lost his frigging mind.

He didn’t tell him.