Read Online PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay by Neal Barrett Jr - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Neal Barrett Jr
Tags: General Fiction
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was grateful for the help. He'd nodded off again for a minute and a half. He was tired, he was hot and he needed to pee. Sitting up straight, he squinted at the big German plane in the live oak tree.
He had spent a lot of mornings in old aircraft of the Allied and enemy persuasion, waiting for the instant, waiting for the magic moment she'd appear. He had left his mark in mad dog Messerschmitts, Zeros and P-38s. Fat-bellied Wildcats, Mustangs and Spits. Mac sacks, Pepsi cans and chicken buckets littered the cockpits of ancient airplanes. Twice-—and he wasn't proud of this–he'd left peculiar stains.
It was always the same. No matter when she got in, two o'clock or four, she'd open the door behind the rusty, corrugated wing, open the door and just stand there awhile before she turned in. Stand there, dry her hair and yawn, watching the sun come yellow through the trees. And the fine thing was, the thing that made Jack's heart swell, was she didn't wear anything dirty, something short and black like you see in a girlie magazine. She wore a long nightgown that came below her knees, a nightie with Mickeys and Minnies all over, like a little kid'd do. And even if Jack was freezing cold, or broiling in sweat like he was doing now, he never thought about leaving, not till he saw her up there. Not till the warm and loving thoughts had time to settle down inside his head.
This time, though, there wasn't any love up there, there was sorrow and murder in his head. Sorrow for himself, and murder for Cecil R. Dupree, who was up there with her where he, Jack, had never been. Sorrow and shame, because he knew what he ought to do was climb up and kill him, kill the sorry bastard any way he could. Climb up and do it, not even think about what might happen after that.
What he did wasn't anything at all, because Huntsville had sucked all the killer part out, drained him and left him with a hole in his belly and a fright in his soul. The mean was still in him, he could feel it in there, mean left over from the Choctaw-Irish Oklahoma kid, from the man he became after that. It was there, but he just couldn't reach it anymore.
A big crow landed on the plane's right wing. Then another, and another after that. They squawked and they strutted, and poked each other with their bills. Jack knew crows were real smart. Grandpa Rait had told him so, when they sat on the bank at Shallow Creek, fishing for crappie and cat. Grandpa Rait was mostly full of shit, but he knew about crows, there wasn't any bull in that.
The door opened up and the crows scattered quick. It wasn't Gloria, it was Cecil R. Dupree. Jack's heart skipped a beat. The ugly flush across Cecil's face was darker than Jack had ever seen. His eyes were little cuts, his mouth was thin and mean. Muttering, talking to himself, Cecil made his way down the tree. Missed a few slats, nearly fell twice, stomped through the woods and headed toward the road.
Jack watched until Cecil was out sight. Looked up at the plane, looked a second too late. The door slammed shut and she was gone.
What he could do, he could go up there, he could climb up and talk. She was all distraught, she'd welcome some comfort right now. And, sorrow and anger and pissed off aside, what he knew, what he knew was surely true, was she'd brought Cecil there against her will. Nothing had happened up there, Cecil's face told him that. That mark was as good as those mood rings the stores used to sell. If Cecil'd done her, he'd be kind of coral, light strawberry, he wouldn't be black. Jack had seen him black once or twice, and he knew what that was like.
Go up and see her then, lay it all out, like he should have done before. Tell her they had to start dating or they'd never get close. She simply had to understand that. How love was a two-way street, he couldn't do it all alone.
Another thing he'd tell
He had spent a lot of mornings in old aircraft of the Allied and enemy persuasion, waiting for the instant, waiting for the magic moment she'd appear. He had left his mark in mad dog Messerschmitts, Zeros and P-38s. Fat-bellied Wildcats, Mustangs and Spits. Mac sacks, Pepsi cans and chicken buckets littered the cockpits of ancient airplanes. Twice-—and he wasn't proud of this–he'd left peculiar stains.
It was always the same. No matter when she got in, two o'clock or four, she'd open the door behind the rusty, corrugated wing, open the door and just stand there awhile before she turned in. Stand there, dry her hair and yawn, watching the sun come yellow through the trees. And the fine thing was, the thing that made Jack's heart swell, was she didn't wear anything dirty, something short and black like you see in a girlie magazine. She wore a long nightgown that came below her knees, a nightie with Mickeys and Minnies all over, like a little kid'd do. And even if Jack was freezing cold, or broiling in sweat like he was doing now, he never thought about leaving, not till he saw her up there. Not till the warm and loving thoughts had time to settle down inside his head.
This time, though, there wasn't any love up there, there was sorrow and murder in his head. Sorrow for himself, and murder for Cecil R. Dupree, who was up there with her where he, Jack, had never been. Sorrow and shame, because he knew what he ought to do was climb up and kill him, kill the sorry bastard any way he could. Climb up and do it, not even think about what might happen after that.
What he did wasn't anything at all, because Huntsville had sucked all the killer part out, drained him and left him with a hole in his belly and a fright in his soul. The mean was still in him, he could feel it in there, mean left over from the Choctaw-Irish Oklahoma kid, from the man he became after that. It was there, but he just couldn't reach it anymore.
A big crow landed on the plane's right wing. Then another, and another after that. They squawked and they strutted, and poked each other with their bills. Jack knew crows were real smart. Grandpa Rait had told him so, when they sat on the bank at Shallow Creek, fishing for crappie and cat. Grandpa Rait was mostly full of shit, but he knew about crows, there wasn't any bull in that.
The door opened up and the crows scattered quick. It wasn't Gloria, it was Cecil R. Dupree. Jack's heart skipped a beat. The ugly flush across Cecil's face was darker than Jack had ever seen. His eyes were little cuts, his mouth was thin and mean. Muttering, talking to himself, Cecil made his way down the tree. Missed a few slats, nearly fell twice, stomped through the woods and headed toward the road.
Jack watched until Cecil was out sight. Looked up at the plane, looked a second too late. The door slammed shut and she was gone.
What he could do, he could go up there, he could climb up and talk. She was all distraught, she'd welcome some comfort right now. And, sorrow and anger and pissed off aside, what he knew, what he knew was surely true, was she'd brought Cecil there against her will. Nothing had happened up there, Cecil's face told him that. That mark was as good as those mood rings the stores used to sell. If Cecil'd done her, he'd be kind of coral, light strawberry, he wouldn't be black. Jack had seen him black once or twice, and he knew what that was like.
Go up and see her then, lay it all out, like he should have done before. Tell her they had to start dating or they'd never get close. She simply had to understand that. How love was a two-way street, he couldn't do it all alone.
Another thing he'd tell
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