In the fall of ’78, Martha Wilberforce had driven several hundred tedious miles northeast when about an hour after St Louis she clapped eyes on the epitome of everything about this country that made her spit: in the front of the faded Westfalia behind her sat a breezy couple straight out of Woodstock.
They were so close Martha could count the freckles. But what really got Martha’s goat was the ☮ symbol in place of the VW emblem. The Germans had killed her real dad, or so Martha liked to believe, leaving Martha, a foundling, to the tender mercies of her adoptive mother. And Vietnam had gotten her only son. She didn’t like German vehicles and peaceniks made her sick to the stomach. Still more, she was a proud and fierce disciple of Phyllis McAlpin Schlafly.
Martha eyed the road ahead only when she had to, more intent on the rear-view mirror with the crucifix dangling from it.
As they approached some lights the van shifted out of the mirror’s purview and the couple pulled up alongside her so that they were virtually cheek-to-cheek. The aroma of pot, and the rock music, did nothing to quell her darkening mood.
Martha deliberately turned on her radio, rolling through the stations until serendipitously chancing upon Ed Bruce. With the slimmest of smiles she turned it straight up and stared dead ahead: “When I die I may not go to heaven. I don't know if they let cowboys in. If they don't just let me go to Texas, Boy! Texas is as close as I've been.”
Martha pumped it up a notch every time the chorus came round. Just before it finished she tore her eyes from the windscreen and snuck a glance over her left shoulder at the girl next to her and spied the right-hand first: the slender wrist draped over the windowsill might have caught Michelangelo’s eye, with nails long enough to tap to the pulse of Bob Seger’s Hollywood Nights.
Martha regarded her own stocky digits, chewed up nails, flaky cuticles and the blood draining from her knuckles as her grip on the steering wheel increased.
She snatched a glance at the face, hoping to avoid eye contact and was in luck—the girl was examining a map, so she caught the profile: treacle hair, natural lashes, cheekbones, a smattering of freckles, gold nose-stud, a smiley mouth with white front teeth that pushed the lavish lips apart and one long honey-toned leg suspended by a moccasin-clad foot perched on the dash.
Martha lingered a little too long and turned sharply when the girl looked over.
I bet Mother never gave her a scourging when she caught her precious teen fooling around with the girlfriend. No, sir. I bet she beat a graceful retreat … trickled right back out, slick as you like. I bet her mother didn’t grab her by the hair, drag her down the stairs, bouncing her off every piece of furniture in the house, out the door, across the mud-caked yard and make her kiss the shit-encrusted behind of the hog. Then lock her in with the swine for three stinking days and nights.
On the first night, Martha thought her mother had relented and come to let her out. Instead she crammed a battered version of the King James under the door. Martha cranked up the volume to a level that was clearly meant as a statement and risked another peek just before the lights turned green. This time she wasn’t so lucky—the couple were both looking at her and the boy was grinning toothily with his hands held up in a dumb gesture of surrender as if to say, “Ok, you win.” The girl was smiling beatifically.
Martha’s eyes shot forward, she engaged the transmission and lurched forward, only to stall. The van glided off. Martha started the engine, pulled away but stalled again. The honking started. When she did manage to pull away her right foot went down hard so that the water in the radiator of her son’s dilapidated Dodge pickup and Martha’s blood both began to boil. The crucifix rattled on the mirror and the picture of her none-too-handsome son fell out of the recess in which it was jammed.
She imagined Freckles and her dopey fuckbuddy guffawing as they gaily drove north on the interstate past the setting sun. They weren’t laughing in actual fact, but in Martha’s imaginings they were slapping the dashboard with unbounded glee.
The van was now but a few hundred yards ahead, and Martha hung back judiciously. She could contact a traffic cop, mention the marijuana, give him the license plate and press on with her original plan. But this was too grand an opportunity to pass; the cops out here would do jack, anyways. And besides, this was her mission and Martha was a missionary … of sorts.
The evening light was fading and it looked like they were getting set to find somewhere to bunk down. After the sign for Carpenter Park they turned off, and it was perfectly obvious where they were headed.
Martha was so tired, in an aggravated, hot mess and frustrated beyond redemption. She and her passenger had been cruising around Carpenter’s for several demented hours. Her passenger didn’t seem unduly bored, agitated … or anything really. He just sat there occupying a large volume of space, staring passively through the windscreen, his head cocked slightly. But a ways off the beaten track, quite a long way … finally. Martha’s stomach lurched; she swallowed involuntarily: “There!” She croaked, jabbing a finger triumphantly. Martha killed the engine and lights, and they sat watching from a distance.
It was getting light when the rear door of the van slid open and ‘Freckles’ stumbled out. Not so hot by the looks of it. She braced one hand against a gnarly old oak tree, dropped her head and threw up. “That’ll teach her to drink liquor and smoke crap.” Her passenger said nothing. “Round the campfire, no doubt, chugging it back, puffing weed and singing songs to Satan.”
Again, Martha was wildly off the mark.
‘Freckles’ looked up vaguely in their direction as if she’d caught their conservation—Martha froze—but she wiped her mouth and clambered back into the van. Martha relaxed and blew out hard. “It’s time. Off you go, now. Make us proud.” The passenger silently worked a rubbery mask over his large head, climbed out and started toward the van. “Michael,” as an afterthought Martha reached over and clutched his sleeve through the open window, “no funny business, eh. None of that. Just the knife…. But bring me back something sweet, ya hear?”
He appeared less clumsy than her man back home. That had begun well enough, but ended real bad with the chainsaw mishap. Hopefully this one was a little more … surgical.
The cries were godawful. There were tremendous kicks and powerful bangs, and a heck of a fight by the sounds of it. It sounded awkward in there for Michael. “Not laughing now, are we, Freckles.” Martha snorted. She could make out something comprehensible amid the glass-shattering screams as the shrieking gave way to pleading. “No, no, … stop! Please Stop! I’M!—” “—You’re what? Sorry? Too late for that, dearie.” “Oh, Jesus Christ!” She pleaded. Martha pricked up: “That’s it. That’s it! You holler for the LORD! Repent! Repent, you Godless bitch!” Martha was gazing up into the dawn sky, one fist constricting the dangling crucifix till it bled with her blood. Michael had done it! “Repent and let him in! Let him into your filthy heathen heart!”
The sun broke over Carpenter Park—a gust whipped up the golden leaves and laid them gently back down, arranging them just so. He walked back with the knife in one hand and something bloody in the other. His coveralls stained with large dark patches. Martha’s ecstasy subsided and she checked around to ensure they were all alone. She reached over, opened the door and he climbed back in. He was breathing heavily through his torn mask and stank of the abattoir.
When he gave up his offering to Martha, her composure began to fray. Not because she was squeamish, she’d been raised on a farm, but because on the dainty hand, the left hand he had given her, was a gold band on the ring finger. She stared at it. “What did she say, Michael? Was she sorry? You know … at the end? Did she beg for Christ? What did she say, my angel?” She fingered the girl’s ring. He placed his hand flat on his stomach and then slowly brought it up and clasped it carefully with the other one and gently rocked them. The blood drained from Martha’s face: “What are you saying? She was—she was pregnant? Is that what you’re saying, Michael?” He nodded silently. “Oh, you big dumb bastard.” She pounded his great ox head, her eyes flashing with fury. “You monster!” He dropped his chin to his shoulder, but remained inert. “Get out! Get your dumb, brute hide out of my dead son’s goddamn truck!” She leant back over to her side and started kicking him. He finally lumbered out, disconsolate. Martha crumpled into the seat and bawled her guts out. She didn’t care if they were caught now, she was done.
Slowly, though, ever so slowly, the tears abated. The sniffles dried up and the sun warmed the car. He was standing there, back by the van, idly stabbing at that gnarly oak tree. “Right. Pull yourself together, Martha. This was a terrible mistake. But just a mistake, that’s all. She’d be sure to do her homework next time, and the Lord forgives after all … if the cause is righteous: To the pure, all things are pure.
She started the pickup and he stopped poking at the tree, turned toward her, hopeful. But she pulled away and left him standing, his big dumb head cocked to the side, like he didn’t exist. Didn’t even glance in the mirror. As she drove, however, Martha’s spirits revived sufficiently and her wrath waned; she tossed the severed hand out of the window, veered to the side, u-turned and wound her way back to the murder scene. He was gone. Damn.