Stranger

Three

Do you understand people? Can you guess what’s going through their minds? I used to date a girl who would be nice as pie with me all day, then turn ’round in the evening and say the day had been total crap. If she was nice to me one week she’d be one hell of a bitch the week after. As if she’d overspent from her good-nature account and needed some back.

Three days after I killed the blue-eyed stranger pretty much the whole of Sullivan was like that. That mood pendulum swung from gratitude to one of hatred. OK, so it was concealed hatred. But they hated me when they said their Good morning, Greg s. When I delivered firewood it pained them to be so ingratiatingly nice. Though nothing would be said to my face, I knew from the stiff bits of conversation that they were only being nice because they thought it mandatory. Well, that was the usual routine after I’d gone and done their bloody work for them.

This time it wasn’t going to be exactly the same.

I drove the truck along the same old route, dropping off bundles of sticks and baskets of logs at those pleasant suburban houses with their double garages and swimming pools out back.

“Thank you, Greg.”

“Have a nice day, Greg.”

“See you Friday, Greg.”

“Here, help yourself to a cold soda, Greg.”

Yeah, that was the same old song they sang… they sang it all day as I hefted the firewood to the wood-burning stoves they used for cooking now that the electricity supply was down to six hours a day. And I was civil in return. I wished them good day. Thanked them when they offered food or a drink. But you could read the minds of those townspeople, all right.

You’re a weird one, Greg Valdiva. What makes you tick? How do you know when a stranger has bad blood? Do you get some kind of porn thrill hacking out someone’s brains with an ax? Weren’t you disgusted with yourself when you hit the bread bandit so hard he shit blood all over the sidewalk?

You’re a disgusting son of a bitch, Valdiva.

For two pins we’d make you leave town.

Hell for one pin, Valdiva, we’d shoot you dead, you monster…

Yeah, that’s what they were thinking.

But isn’t that what you are deciding?

Maybe. But then I am some kind of monster. But I was Sullivan’s own pet monster. I kept the more dangerous monsters from the outside world at bay.

Today, then, it was the old routine. Nice salutations. Disgusted stares. Except for when I reached a house at the end of the street with cherry trees overhanging a kind of cute rustic picnic table and chairs. Eight or maybe nine teenagers clustered ’round it smoking cigarettes and drinking beer out of these big, oversize plastic bottles. Most of them I’d pass the time of day with now and then, except for a snotty-nosed guy who always looked at me as if I was something hot and filthy he’d just stepped in. His name was Crowther. His family had something to do with the battery factory over in Lewis. Crowther was pissed. Pissed as in angry. And maybe pissed as in being drunk. One day he’d have inherited Crowther Electrical and become a millionaire ’round about a hundred times over. Only ten months ago the battery factory, along with most of Lewis, became nothing but a pile of burnt brick. That gave the guy a well-I’ve-got-nothing-else-to-lose kind of quality.

“How’re you doing, Valdiva?” Crowther shouted this in a friendly way. But the way he was looking down his nose at me, you could tell he was getting all juicy with contempt.

“Fine, thanks,” I replied.

“I see you’ve got wood?” Crowther grinned at his people. “Have you got wood for me, Valdiva?”

“I’ve got wood for anyone who wants it,” I replied.

The others laughed in a good-natured way. They saw I’d got the joke and was easygoing enough to run with it.

“How much wood have you got for me, Greg?”

I looked at the girl who’d spoken. She was pretty. And she was smiling a nice smile.

That got up Crowther’s nose. It killed the superior grin on his face. “Valdiva, why d’ya do that crap job?”

“Delivering firewood?”

“Sure. Why do you moonlight, delivering sticks, when you know you’re the main man ’round here?”

“I don’t know about that.” I pulled bundles of wood from the back of the truck and set them down in the drive.

“Sure you are, Valdiva. You’ve got a real profession. Being the firewood guy, well… it must be so demeaning for you.”

“Got to pay the rent somehow.”

“They’d give you a fucking mansion if you asked.”

He jerked his thumb back at the house behind him. “They’d give you my fucking house, come to that. And they’d throw me out and I’d wind up living in your old hut down by the lake. What do you think of that?”

I kept it light as I began stacking the logs beside the stick bundles. “I don’t need a big house, Crowther. Not one as big as yours, anyway.”

“It’s a nice house for entertaining company.” Crowther stroked the bare knee of the girl sitting beside him.

“I imagine it is,” I said. “By the way, I got a note from your father asking for an extra gallon of kerosene. Where shall I put it?”

“Let’s see…” He playacted thinking about the question. “I know… how about somewhere where the sun doesn’t shine?”

He laughed at his own joke, but this time his cronies didn’t. They looked shocked and glanced at one another in a way that oozed pure discomfort.

Maybe the beer had lubed Crowther’s tongue. “Say, Valdiva, how does it feel to-to, you know… do it to one of those bread bandits? You know…” He made chopping motions with his free hand. “You know, slice and dice?”

“Crowther.” The girl at his side hissed his name like he was making a big social gaffe at a cocktail party.

He didn’t listen. “You know, I’ve seen what you did to them. Man, those guys were mincemeat. I mean, you don’t hold back, do you? You really fucking cream them. Wham! Off go their faces. Wham! Off go their hands. You really mess those wops up, don’t you?”

His drinking buddies were getting agitated by Crowther’s spiel now. They pulled at his arms, hissed his name. I heard one whisper pleadingly to him, “Hey, come on, man. Cool it; you’re going to get him annoyed.”

“Why shouldn’t I get him fucking annoyed?” That was the indignant drunk’s voice. The one that gets louder and more penetrating with every word. “Why shouldn’t I get the bastard annoyed? Who the hell does Valdiva think he is? He walks in here last year and suddenly he becomes the town hero. But all he does is turn some filthy bread bandit into jelly every few weeks.” He was on one now. Crowther was moved by the spirit, as they say. The spirit of what, God alone knows, but he lurched to his feet, then rolled up to me before throwing himself down to his knees. Hands together like he was praying, he made his eyes go all big and adoring like he was talking to Jesus. He started crying out. “Oh, my Lord God Valdiva. Forgive me if I spoke out of turn. Do not smite me. Do not turn thy back upon my miserable face. Do not withhold your bountiful gift of wood.” He started laughing as he remembered the joke. “Please, please, oh mighty Valdiva. Please give me your wood. For thy wood is a beautiful thing to behold. Give me wood, master. Give me great wood!”

Crowther’s friends made as if they intended to scurry across to drag him away, but they only came a few feet, then they stood there in a huddle, looking nervous and unhappy. They shot little glances at one another as if to ask, Oh, shit, what do we do now?

Drunk, but with a glittery kind of anger, Crowther still knelt on the floor pretending to plead for forgiveness.

I froze my expression into a neutral mask. “I’ll put the can of kerosene right here next to the wood,” I told him. “The next delivery’s Friday. But if your father needs more kerosene I can drop a gallon off tomorrow afternoon.”

Like he’d been pulled up by the hair, Crowther snapped up onto his feet. “Yeah, and we’re expected to be grateful for that, are we?”

“Look, I don’t want any trouble. I only-”

“You don’t want any trouble. You are trouble. Did you know that? Everyone’s shit scared of you, Valdiva.”

“Remember what I said about the kerosene.” I shut the flap of the truck.

“But I’m not scared of you, Valdiva!” His face had been red. Now the color drained, leaving it waxy white. “I’m not scared, d’ya hear?”

“Crowther.” I compensated for his yelling by talking in a whisper. “Take it easy, all right?”

He stopped shooting his mouth off now. His eyes bulged at me from that white face. As I turned away to climb into the truck he grabbed one of the cut logs from the pile and swung it at me. A numbness spread down the side of my face. At that moment there was no pain. I just said to myself, OK, turn back and stop him from doing it again. Only the blow had been harder than I thought. I found myself rocking back on my heels. When he raised the log again I didn’t defend myself.

… Christ, I couldn’t defend myself. I just remember seeing Crowther’s face blaze with fury. The eyes blazed pure fury, too. Maybe this was the same expression I wore on my face when I killed.