T he taxi driver said, “You going to see your fatha or your mama in this place?”
“My old mom,” Boyd said, holding the envelopes on his lap, the one with the deed not as fat as the one with the agreement the old lady had to sign, three different places.
“Is nice you go see her,” the driver said. “You bring her some candy?”
“She eats sweet stuff she gets pimples.”
“Yes? How old is she?”
“I believe goin on eighty.”
“She still has teeth?”
“I haven’t examined her mouth, but I believe they long gone.”
“Get her some candy she can suck on.”
Boyd could not tell where this guy was from, but not anywhere close to America. “She’s old-lookin from the life she’s had, married to a coal miner.”
“He die?”
“Yes, he did. Was shot.”
“Oh, you know who shot him?”
“Yeah, but I’m not tellin.”
“You say okay? You not gonna shoot him?”
Boyd said, “Where you from?”
“I come here from Albania,” the driver said, “but I’m not Muslim. I have to shoot some guy, I do it.”
He pulled into the drive of St. Elizabeth’s, the nursing home. Boyd got out and paid the driver, telling him, “You oughta try to control your emotions, partner,” and went in the building: two stories of red brick with white trim, a nice-lookin place to end your days. But wasn’t at all nice inside. It smelled of old people wettin theirselves all day long. A woman took him down an aisle, around the corner and down another aisle to Marion Culpepper’s room.
T here she was sitting in a rocking chair, a quilt over her legs to the floor, limp hair stuck to her head, eyes sunken, not showing much life in there. She had oxygen tubes stuck in her nose, the line going underneath the quilt to the floor. As a representative of the coal company, Boyd said, “Ms. Culpepper, don’t you have a cozy setup here.” The room had the rocker and a straight chair, a chest of drawers, a bed you pressed a button and it changed its shape and, on the wall, a picture of Jesus showing his Sacred Heart.
It was a room at the end of the trail.
Boyd said, “Hey, you got your own bathroom.”
Ms. Culpepper said, “Wasn’t you suppose to bring a jar?”
Boyd frowned. “I only was given these papers.”
“I told Sista to find when somebody was comin.”
“I never heard from her,” Boyd said.
“Miz Conlan’d never bring any.”
“As I say, I only brought these papers for you to sign, the deed to the house and how much you’re settlin for. It says five hundred, cross it out and write in what you want or you won’t sign it. You can discuss it with Ms. Conlan, she’s the one wrote it up. Or,” Boyd said, “you can sign it, and I’ll get ’em to write any changes you want.” He thought a moment and said, “I tell you what, you sign the papers, I’ll run out and get you a jar of shine.”
“I miss Otis,” Marion said.
“I ’magine so, but you’re gonna be with him pretty soon, aren’t you?”
“Doctor says they’s years left in my bones. I’m only sixty-nine. He told me I only had a touch of black lung, my cooked lungs was from smoking reefer all my life.”
Boyd said, “Try to get some Oxy off the nurse.”
“She said I need to be in pain. I’m not takin any sass off that company woman no more. She’s always short with me. I hear her yellin I get what she gives me or nothin. I said, ‘Where you think we’re livin, back in 1940?’ It all started with that goddamn fishpond of Otis’s. I threaten to cook the fish, he’d go up on Old Black and shoot us squirrels. One time he got us a buck.”
Boyd said, “Ms. Conlan’s stoppin by tomorrow. Whyn’t you come out’n demand what you want?”
“Six hunnert, I ever speak to her again. Up from five hunnert, what I been tellin her. Hey, you work for her, don’t you?”
Boyd said, “I’m in charge of”-came close to saying Disagreements, but changed it to-“drivin her around.”
She said, “You was with her, wasn’t you? The night Otis come up to you?”
Boyd straightened, saying to the widow, “Ma’am, I did not shoot your husband.”
“I know that,” Ms. Culpepper said. “I’ve heard her talk and now I’ve heard you talk, offerin to go out and get me a jar. Get two, please. I suppose you don’t have much patience, but she don’t have none. She like to get things done right now. She come to get these papers signed, you now what I’m gonna do?”
Boyd shook his head.
She threw off the quilt covering her legs and was aiming a shotgun at him.
Boyd said, “Jesus Christ.”
Ms. Culpepper said, “My Lord and Savior.”
“You surprised me’s all.”
“I’m gonna scare her good. Thinks I’m about to shoot her, but they’s no shells come with the gun. Was Otis’s, a state trooper give me. I asked him, ‘Say I want to go out and shoot a turkey for supper?’ He says no, he can’t bring me no shells since I’m stayin in this home. He believes it’s against the law.”
“What you need shells for?”
“Shoot the company woman, she comes in tomorrow.”
“Whoa,” Boyd said. “You can shoot that gun?” face='T(T1 said. “Near good as Otis.”
Boyd took his time before asking, “How many loads you think you’d need?”
“Jes one,” Ms. Culpepper said. “It’ll put her down. Maybe one more if I need it.”
Chapter Thirty
Liz Burgoyne came in the sun parlor from the patio to see Jackie Nevada waiting, getting up from the sofa, and it made Liz think of Raylan, the time she walked in and he asked her about Cuba stealing kidneys. Liz crossed the room in jeans and cowboy boots offering her hand, saying:
“Jackie Nevada. Harry’s told me about his poker-playing buddy. He makes you sound like a little girl, but you’re quite something else, aren’t you?” Liz smiling now. “Harry mentioned you’re wanted by the police?”
“It’s a misdemeanor thing,” Jackie said. “I didn’t show up for a hearing.”
“Picked up in a raid,” Liz said. “Harry told me about it. He said you like Manhattans, is that right?”
Jackie said, “If that’s what we’re having.”
T hey were both on the sofa now, the nearly empty pitcher on the cocktail table, both smoking cigarettes.
“You ever cheat?” Liz said.
“Why do only women ask that? You mean at poker.”
“Or on a guy.”
“Poker, I’ve never had to.”
“You’re that good?”
“You have to work with another player. Didn’t you see Rounders? They cheat playing with a bunch of cops. I’ve never cheated on a boyfriend either. Right now I don’t have one, but I live with seven guys. You know what they think is funny? Farting.”
“Why do guys love to fart?”
“They’re expressing themselves.”
“You hop in the sack with any of them?”
“Nope. There’s some fooling around, girls come for a party and we get high, but I don’t recall anything really
