Off the Chart. James Hall
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on a makeshift easel. An old hobby she’d recently resumed when Vic questioned her once too often about her childhood days in the lawless Florida Keys.
‘Don’t have any photographs of those days,’ she said. ‘Painting will have to do.’
After two weeks of labor, a scrap of beach and two crooked palm trees were emerging from the canvas, and in the sand by the shoreline there was something resembling a treasure chest tipped on its side with its glorious contents spilling out. In the last few days as she worked at her canvas on lonely afternoons, Antoinette had let slip that on that very beach her courtship with their father had reached its first ecstatic peak. Perhaps, she whispered to her two children, that was even the very spot where Vic was conceived.
For as long as Anne could recall, her parents had talked of returning to that far-off land where they had met and fallen in love. Someday very soon, the story went, when their savings grew to ample size, the Joys would abandon those wretched hills and make the long pilgrimage back to paradise to reclaim their rightful place in that balmy land of sun and water and abundant fish and forever thaw the bitter chill from their joints.
‘We’ll never do it,’ Anne said on one of those quiet afternoons.
‘What’s that?’ Her mother continued to paint.
‘We’re never going to Florida. That’s all a fairy tale.’
Antoinette set aside her brush and looked around at her daughter.
‘Of course we’re going. Soon as the nest egg’s big enough.’
‘We could go now,’ Anne said. ‘There’s nothing keeping us here. You could work. We all could work.’
‘And what would you have me do, Anne Bonny?’
‘You could waitress,’ she said. ‘I could baby-sit. Vic could have a paper route. Daddy could do anything – drive a truck, deliver things. Or he could be a mailman. They have mailmen down there, don’t they?’
‘Waitress?’ Her mother laughed and turned back to her painting. ‘Lord, lord, you’ll never catch me slopping food for a bunch of overfed idiots. No, sir. I’d rather die in these hills than waitress down there in Florida. And your daddy’s way too fine a man to stoop to delivering people’s bills and catalogs. When I go back home, I’m going in style.’
‘You’re just scared,’ Anne said. ‘You’d rather have us eat coal dust the rest of our lives. It’s all a lie. Every bit of it. Just one big goddamn lie.’
Her mother dabbed at the canvas and slipped off into one of her deadly silences.
On that final evening, Anne was sprawled on the love seat listening to Vic struggle with the archaic locutions of a pirate novel he’d plucked from the shelves of the school library. It was then she heard the rumble of Al Woodson’s GTO coming up the dirt drive. Her brother halted the scene and closed the book around his finger. As was his habit, Al pulled up beside the front porch and gunned his engine three times before shutting it down.
Anne’s mother put aside her brush and looked across at Jack.
‘Tell the man it’s too late for a social call. Kids got school.’
‘He doesn’t come but if it’s important. Just be a minute.’
His words were neutral enough, but Anne saw the cocky edge had drained from her father’s face. Her mother saw it, too, and stood up, and her hands knotted into fists and hung beside her hips.
‘You didn’t do anything you shouldn’t have, Jack. Tell me.’
Her father hesitated a moment, then shrugged his admission and made a wave at her painting.
‘Just to get us where we want to go a little quicker. Handful now and then, nothing serious.’
‘Oh, Jack, no.’
‘Risk worth taking,’ her father said. ‘Anyhow, there’s no way those old boys sniffed me out.’
‘Don’t go out there, Jack. Just poke your head out and send them home. Tell them we’re putting the kids to bed, saying our prayers. Settle it in daylight if there’s anything to settle. Give us time to think. Or else make a run for it.’
‘All right,’ her father said. But his words were as vacant as his eyes.
He opened the door, put his head out, then slowly opened it the rest of the way and stepped onto the porch. It was only a few seconds before the voices went wrong, turning high and croaky, then flaming up with curses and a sudden unnatural silence. Then Anne heard the moist thump of fist on bone and the scuffle of heavy boots on the planks of their front porch. The living room floor trembled and Al Woodson grunted a command to his little brother.
Frozen in the center of the room, Antoinette stared at the curtains. Just beyond that window Jack Joy groaned like a man lifting more than he could manage, and the whole house shuddered.
Antoinette flew across the room, whisked the shotgun from its bracket, and was out the door barrel-first. A second later the shotgun’s blast got two quick pistol shots in reply and the front window exploded. Jack Joy hurtled into the room, tearing down the red-checkered curtains and coming to rest in a sprawl of blood and mangled parts.
Outside, the shotgun roared again, and Vic stepped out the door with Anne close behind him.
Through the smoky dark Anne saw Al Woodson blown backward against the blinking schooner, his arms and legs tangled in the nest of wires. The bulbs continued their beat, but the big man was unmoving. On the floor at Anne’s feet lay her mother. She’d taken a slug in her seamless forehead and lay with arms flung wide against the porch as if waiting for her darling man to lower himself onto her one last time. Her foolish eyes still open, catching the green lights and the blue ones and the red, the eternal blinking of that schooner.
In the yard Sherman Woodson knelt with his hands high. Vic held the shotgun his mother had dropped. In his right hand Woodson still gripped his chrome pistol, but his hands waved unsteady circles in the air.
‘Your daddy done wrong, kid. Had his hand in the fucking cookie jar. We didn’t have no choice but to pay a visit. But didn’t nobody mean for this—’
Vic unloaded on the man and kicked him spread-eagled beside his brother into that web of lights that continued to twinkle across the dark valley below.
Anne stooped down and fingertipped her mother’s throat, felt the cold silence of the woman’s flesh, then raked the bloody hair off her face and closed the woman’s eyes. Anne blinked away the itch of tears, then turned on her brother.
‘Now what? There’s a hundred Woodsons within earshot.’
Vic dropped the shotgun in the dirt and stalked into the house and came out with a flour sack under one arm and Antoinette’s painting under the other.
‘What’s that?’
‘Our nest egg,’ Vic said.
Vic marched across the barren yard and stuffed the painting and the sack of money into the backseat and got in behind the wheel and cranked it up.
Full of the dreamy numbness that was to take up residence inside her head like a never-ending trance, Anne walked over to the car and got into the shotgun seat, and the two of them rolled silently down the hill, headlights off, and idled through the darkened town, then hit the highway south. For the next few hours bright lights raced up behind them, then slowly fell away as Vic held the pedal down and screamed through the black night.
Outrunning the Woodsons at last, they drove hard through Tennessee and Georgia, then entered the ceaseless gray monotony of north Florida, driving without rest or food, until the sky turned blue again and winter changed to summer in a single day and the birds grew stalky and white and America finally petered out and became no more than a dribble of rocky islands where the road ran narrow and low, seeming to plow a path right through the blue sea, as if Moses himself had gotten there just seconds before, leading the way to the promised