Read Online The Dirty Parts of the Bible: A Novel by Sam Torode - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Sam Torode
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constant vibration, and my ass had long since gone numb. So when Craw said he was ready to get off for a break, I heartily agreed. “Next stop is Muskogee,” he said. “There’ll be friends there. And food.”
He opened the hitch on the side door. “Let’s hope your exit is better than your entrance,” he said.
“You mean, we have to jump while the car’s still moving at full speed?”
“We can’t exactly ease into the station, waltz out, and wave hello like a couple of Hoover tourists. They’d throw us in the can.”
Craw could tell I was worried. “Just follow my lead,” he said. “Aim for the grass, watch out for the bushes, and don’t forget to roll.”
He slid open the door, tucked his hat under his arm, yelled something—a prayer or a curse, I couldn’t tell which—and shoved off. His body touched down with
a thump and tumbled over the grass like a sack of laundry.
It sure looked easy. I took a deep breath, pinched my eyes shut, and jumped for all I was worth.
Which, once again, wasn’t much. I hit the gravel face-first, flailed, bounced, and landed smack in the middle of a thistle bush.
It took a minute for Craw to catch up with me. “I said aim for the grass ,” he said. “Not land on your ass.”
Warm blood ran out of my nose and lip and trickled down my chin. But instead of helping me up, Craw started rutting around in the weeds. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m bleeding to death, and you’re picking wildflowers?”
“To send back home to your mama,” he said. “For your funeral.”
I climbed to my feet like a groggy prizefighter. My clothes were torn at the knees and elbows, and my arms and legs burned with gravel scrapes and nettle stings. I swaggered around like I’d just survived nine rounds with Jack Dempsey.
Craw crumbled up a handful of weeds and squeezed them till the juice came out. Then he took a chaw of tobacco, spit it over the weeds, and rubbed the mixture together in his hand. “Here,” he said. “Put this on your wounds.”
“Like heck,” I said. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“It’s ragweed and snuff,” he said. “The best medicine there is to stop itching and bleeding.”
I wasn’t in the mood for some half-baked hillbilly cure. “Why don’t you fetch some poison ivy while you’re at it.”
“Oh ye of little faith. Just try it. Unless you’d rather wait for an itinerant doctor to come riding up.”
Eventually, I decided to humor him. After all, it couldn’t sting any worse than the pricklers already did. I was wrong: when Craw smeared his concoction on my arm, it burned like the devil’s poker.
“Give it a minute,” Craw said. “You ever heard of a medicine that feels good at first?”
While I waited, he lectured me on the scientific method. “Everyone scoffs at a pioneer. Did you ever stop to consider the person who first discovered milk? It took a lot of nerve to be the first man to pull on a cow’s nipple and drink whatever came out. You can bet his friends never let him live that down. And yet, a million years later, nobody thinks anything of drinking cow juice.”
As it sank in, the ragwood-snuff salve went from fire to ice. To my astonishment, it was actually cool and soothing. Within five minutes, I could hardly feel my scrapes and scratches.
Craw was still talking. “If the world was full of skeptics like you, nobody would ever discover anything. Eggs, for instance. Would you have been first in line to eat a white ball that fell out of a hen’s ass? I think not. But I bet you’d trade anything for a hardboiled egg right now.”
When I asked for more salve, Craw beamed in triumph. Then he took some cigarette papers out of his pocket and told me to use them for bandages.
“My boy,” Craw said, “I’ve been collecting cures since before you were born. I know all the secrets of Indian shamans, Voodoo witch doctors, and mountain grannies. For instance, a turpentine and lard poultice will clear up a chest
He opened the hitch on the side door. “Let’s hope your exit is better than your entrance,” he said.
“You mean, we have to jump while the car’s still moving at full speed?”
“We can’t exactly ease into the station, waltz out, and wave hello like a couple of Hoover tourists. They’d throw us in the can.”
Craw could tell I was worried. “Just follow my lead,” he said. “Aim for the grass, watch out for the bushes, and don’t forget to roll.”
He slid open the door, tucked his hat under his arm, yelled something—a prayer or a curse, I couldn’t tell which—and shoved off. His body touched down with
a thump and tumbled over the grass like a sack of laundry.
It sure looked easy. I took a deep breath, pinched my eyes shut, and jumped for all I was worth.
Which, once again, wasn’t much. I hit the gravel face-first, flailed, bounced, and landed smack in the middle of a thistle bush.
It took a minute for Craw to catch up with me. “I said aim for the grass ,” he said. “Not land on your ass.”
Warm blood ran out of my nose and lip and trickled down my chin. But instead of helping me up, Craw started rutting around in the weeds. “What are you doing?” I asked. “I’m bleeding to death, and you’re picking wildflowers?”
“To send back home to your mama,” he said. “For your funeral.”
I climbed to my feet like a groggy prizefighter. My clothes were torn at the knees and elbows, and my arms and legs burned with gravel scrapes and nettle stings. I swaggered around like I’d just survived nine rounds with Jack Dempsey.
Craw crumbled up a handful of weeds and squeezed them till the juice came out. Then he took a chaw of tobacco, spit it over the weeds, and rubbed the mixture together in his hand. “Here,” he said. “Put this on your wounds.”
“Like heck,” I said. “You’re trying to kill me.”
“It’s ragweed and snuff,” he said. “The best medicine there is to stop itching and bleeding.”
I wasn’t in the mood for some half-baked hillbilly cure. “Why don’t you fetch some poison ivy while you’re at it.”
“Oh ye of little faith. Just try it. Unless you’d rather wait for an itinerant doctor to come riding up.”
Eventually, I decided to humor him. After all, it couldn’t sting any worse than the pricklers already did. I was wrong: when Craw smeared his concoction on my arm, it burned like the devil’s poker.
“Give it a minute,” Craw said. “You ever heard of a medicine that feels good at first?”
While I waited, he lectured me on the scientific method. “Everyone scoffs at a pioneer. Did you ever stop to consider the person who first discovered milk? It took a lot of nerve to be the first man to pull on a cow’s nipple and drink whatever came out. You can bet his friends never let him live that down. And yet, a million years later, nobody thinks anything of drinking cow juice.”
As it sank in, the ragwood-snuff salve went from fire to ice. To my astonishment, it was actually cool and soothing. Within five minutes, I could hardly feel my scrapes and scratches.
Craw was still talking. “If the world was full of skeptics like you, nobody would ever discover anything. Eggs, for instance. Would you have been first in line to eat a white ball that fell out of a hen’s ass? I think not. But I bet you’d trade anything for a hardboiled egg right now.”
When I asked for more salve, Craw beamed in triumph. Then he took some cigarette papers out of his pocket and told me to use them for bandages.
“My boy,” Craw said, “I’ve been collecting cures since before you were born. I know all the secrets of Indian shamans, Voodoo witch doctors, and mountain grannies. For instance, a turpentine and lard poultice will clear up a chest
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