The Evening Road Read online

  Copyright

  Though partially inspired by the events of August 7, 1930, in Indiana's Grant County, the characters and particulars of this novel are entirely fictitious. There is no intended resemblance to real persons, either living or dead.

  Copyright © 2017 by Laird Hunt

  Cover design by Pete Garceau

  Cover art by Shutterstock

  Author photograph by Ulf Andersen

  Cover © 2017 Hachette Book Group, Inc.

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  First ebook edition: February 2017

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  ISBN 978-0-316-26832-5

  E3-20161213-JV-PC

  For the thousands

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Ottie Lee

  Calla

  The Angel Runner

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Laird Hunt

  Newsletters

  OTTIE LEE

  I was working the crank on the new pencil sharpener, feeding it fresh Ticonderogas, trying to get the points just right. Sharp enough was the idea so you could stab without pushing too hard, dull enough so the tips wouldn’t snap straight off, leave important evidence behind. The personage I would introduce those sharp pencils to was my boss, Bud Lancer. I’d shed my heels and stocking-foot up on him when he was leaned back in his chair, deep into some afternoon snores. He was awful big so I’d take two Ticonderogas in each hand. Give out one chuckle when I did the work, another when I wiped the pencils clean. Bud, who was the one who had come up with the game, would laugh loud when I told him about it. I’d sit on the corner of his desk and swing my foot and shine my eyes over at him the way he liked it and hold up my perfect murder pencils and make him roar. Meantime, though, all the new machine was doing was eating up good writing implements and making my arm tired and obliging me to swear.

  I broke another pencil, spit into my wastebasket, said, “Shit goddamn,” and that’s when Bud burst out of his office with a cigar in his hand.

  “You can’t tell me you haven’t heard.”

  “Heard what?”

  “About the lynching over in Marvel.”

  “The what?”

  “Some cornflowers shot a cornsilk and set a hundred houses on fire and ran a rampage over the countryside. They got them over in the jail but they won’t be in that jail for long. There’s some boys going to get them out with sledgehammers if the sheriff won’t open the door.”

  “And do what with them?”

  “Didn’t I just say it? They’re going to hang them up like chickens. Pluck them first too.”

  Bud laughed and told me to put the pencils away, he would give me a ride over, we could go in his car.

  “But I was planning on killing you with them first,” I said.

  Bud grabbed his hat, then groped in his desk for his keys. He said it wasn’t time for games, that there hadn’t been a real public lynching in Indiana in he didn’t know how long. We ought to get on over there if we wanted a spot. He said for all he knew they would be auctioning off the good places beneath the tree, that it would be better than any picture show. If we wanted to see it we ought to get a start. I told Bud that I didn’t know. Game or not, I had those pencils to sharpen and two policy-adjustment letters to prepare, not to mention I had to get dinner for Dale and there was things we needed from the store.

  “Dale, hell,” said Bud, taking a quick suck on his cigar. “If he ain’t over there already you can bet he’s fixing to go.”

  “You think?” I said.

  “There isn’t any thinking to it. You know when it comes to fun with cornflowers, he’s always the first one in the line.”

  I gave out a laugh, but I didn’t deny it. After all, Bud was Bud. He had been my boss for five years and six weeks, and one of the things you didn’t do when you were in the workplace and he had a cigar in his hand, no matter how high his spirits, was contradict him. He had a cigar in his hand. I knew that when he got into his car and had started up the engine he would take one last long pull, then toss it out the window. Then he would put the car into gear and put his hand on my leg. One time, when he had his cigar in his hand and was fixing to get to some groping, I told him the file he had been talking about earlier was on his desk, which it was, but he had just the minute before said it wasn’t. I argued the point and wasn’t asked to go for any car ride with him that day or any other for a month. It got so stale in the office before the ship got steered back right, I thought he would fire me out onto the street. Then I’d have had to explain things to Dale.

  Not that Dale, I thought, would have made anything out of it. Bud Lancer was the size of man to spit all the Dales of the world out of his mouth like old teeth. Once, of a Friday, I saw Bud pick a full-grown man up by his arms, turn him over, shake him good, then drop him like some pig trimmings into the trash. Bud Lancer had been a fullback to ruin them all in his high school days and now he was my boss.

  “Come on, Ottie,” he said.

  “It’s cornflowers they’re fixing to put ropes on?”

  “How many times do you want me to say it. Who else? Put those goddamn pencils away and get your things.”

  I thought the great big bright idea was to head straight off to Marvel, but Bud got stopped by some of the boys who worked in the print shop down the hall and they had to colloquize awhile about how it was going to be the biggest thing anybody ever saw. One of the boys, Charley Goodwin, who Bud Lancer had gone to school with and who hated Bud and who Bud hated right back, claimed to have been to a lynching when he was making a delivery down to Kentucky, but they all said they didn’t believe him. He said whether they all believed him or they didn’t wasn’t any concern of his because it was true. They had hung a cornflower janitor right from a saloon sign, hadn’t cut him down for a week. Folks down in this Kentucky town Charley said he couldn’t remember the name of had set card tables out in the street and there had been a turkey banquet right there under the show. After the turkey was served a little girl sang “Dixie” and juggled five blue balls, then when the juggling was done they squirted the dead man with fuel oil and set him alight.

  “Dinner right there under a dead man and a fire show on top of it,” Bud Lancer said. “Did you hear that, Ottie?”

  Then of course the boys had to chuckle on awhile about that dinner and even if I didn’t think it was that funny I chuckled along with them. Bud liked my way of chuckling. He always said that and the way I could fill out a shirt that wasn’t even snug was what had got me my job.

  Charley Goodwin would have liked to of
fer me a job if he had had any to hand out. He was just the press operator, though, and didn’t have anything to offer but some bean-field charm and the orange ink under his nails. That didn’t keep his eyes from tiptoeing over my way about every two seconds, and it didn’t stop Charley, when we were finally fixing to leave, from asking Bud to let him ride with us to see the show.

  “When hell freezes over and heaven takes in all the frozen chickens, Charley boy,” he said.

  “It might freeze over sooner than you like,” said Charley.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Bud.

  “Means there’s plenty wondering. Plenty asking questions.”

  “Questions about what?” said Bud and took a big step closer to Charley when he asked this. Charley shrugged and gave a nervous laugh.

  “I’m just talking.”

  “Well, stop talking.”

  “You know I’m kidding you.”

  “Yes,” Bud said, puffing his chest out a slice, “I guess I do.”

  Bud had me wait out on the street under Frisch’s awning while he went to get his car. While I was waiting, I got to thinking about that little girl and that burning man and gave out a shudder started at the tips of my toes and went crab-walking up my legs because you couldn’t help but wonder if they were going to burn and lynch them both over in Marvel, but then there came Sally Gunner out of the drugstore across the street. Sally Gunner was part cornroot through her father. She worked three days a week over at the lumberyard and said every other time you talked to her that she saw angels in the morning when she ate her breakfast. One of the angels liked to dip its finger in her oats and say if they were too hot or if they were too cold. Another lived in a painting Sally had of Abraham Lincoln. Sally said that angel was her favorite and that it would sometimes smile at her and tell her stories about heaven. She had little bitty eyes and a handsome hawk nose so it always looked like she had to be somewhere fast. I had known her about my whole life. She had been my first friend outside the Spitzers’ Happy Home, which was where my own piece-of-shit old man would leave me for months at a time when he went on the road during my early years. Sally and me weren’t friends anymore like the way we had been, but not one week past when I was coming out of that same drugstore she had caught me up in a hug right out on the street and said, “My Abraham Lincoln angel told me this morning there was something special on its way for you, something you can’t miss, something that will make it all come clear!”

  “Make what come clear?” I had asked her.

  But she had just beamed and shrugged and gone hurrying along. That was Sally.

  “Hi, Ottie Lee Henshaw!” she called out now.

  “Hi, Sally Louise Gunner!” I called back.

  I watched her hurry off on her way for a minute, her head full of who knew what, until a group of three other gals I knew came by all dressed like they were off to see the sailors and sit on their laps. One of them, Candy Perkins, had out her lipstick and mirror.

  “Careful there, Candy, or you might trip and smack your head and wouldn’t that hurt the sidewalk something awful?” I said as she passed.

  “You waiting on big Bud Lancer to take you for one of his special rides, Mrs. Dale Henshaw?” she said right back.

  It was about the hottest day there had ever been and I won’t say that once Bud Lancer got me in his car and the air—oven-warm as it was—came streaming in I was sad to be sitting there. He had tossed his cigar out the window and had his left hand on the steering wheel and his right hand on my leg, and the air came flapping its buzzard wings into the window. He was talking about the lynching and getting there early enough for a spot and how his cousin had told him on the phone how they had hung a bloody shirt from the jail and everyone was riled up and so forth and so on, but I could tell by the syrupy tone of his voice that his hand wasn’t going to stay happy just to set there aflop on my thigh. Sure enough, even though Bud kept saying he had to get me over to Marvel early enough for me to see it all, he turned off sharp when we came to the lane where he liked to take me.

  The lane went past a pair of barley fields and a spread of run-down horse pens I expect they have long since knocked over or burned down. There was a stand of hickory trees next to a small pond where the frogs croaked like something big was about to jump in the water and set to destroying them. The pond wasn’t big enough to fish so there wasn’t ever anyone around. Bud was excited, what with the lynching to get to and all, so he went straight from putting his hand on my leg to making his try on me—which never went anywhere besides a fair amount of arm action and heavy breathing and pawing of my hair, especially pawing of my hair, since in those days it was long and thick and red—extra-quick. Still did all his regular damage to my makeup and the press of my clothes, though. Sometimes a blue jay came and watched us while Bud was at his pawing, but I didn’t spot him that day. I missed him a little because he gave me something handsome to look at while Bud was at it. King of the countryside. Elegant and true. I thought I heard him give out a squawk a way off in the distance.

  “Did you hear that jay?” I asked Bud when he was done splashing his sweat on me and had sat back in his seat.

  “My name ain’t Jay,” Bud said.

  That asinine remark was cause for some additional laughter and four or five pinches on my thigh. Then Bud’s spare hand left my leg and went up to the steering wheel and he started to whistle like he’d just scaled the mighty mountain and planted his flag instead of scrabbling around in the rocks down on the flats. I have never liked a man to whistle and long ago trained up Dale to keep his whistling to himself, but even if Bud couldn’t get it done, he paid me bonuses to let him act like he could, so I endured his whistle and looked out the window and wondered, now that I was off the clock and could think my own thoughts, what it was we had coming when we got to Marvel. Once, as a girl, when I was still doing those stints at the Spitzers’, I had seen a cornflower or some such who’d been selling bad tonic get beaten around the block, but never a lynching. A lynching was something else entirely.

  I thought about what Sally had said. Maybe this was it, that special thing. Thinking about what it might be and what it might look like and what I might learn made me gander at my hands, then at my legs in their not-so-nice stockings, then at my feet in their good goat-leather heels, then at the soft backs of my hands, then at my nails, then finally at my long red locks. My hair weighed about twenty pounds if it weighed an ounce and through good times and bad, Dale had never allowed me to cut more than an inch of it at a time. And I expect if I had come in to work with it all cut off Bud would have just fallen right over backward and died. I straightened myself up then smiled big at Bud, but he wasn’t looking. He was whistling and bobbling his head back and forth to the tune. Terrible sight and sound that might have got me glum but then it popped into my head that Candy Perkins and her friends had been heading to the show and that I might see them. And whether or not I had any special message coming, by God, I’d have a thing or two set to say to them when we got there.

  I was fixing to try a line out on Bud to see what he thought when he belched and said, “We ought to go on over to your place and see if Dale needs a ride.”

  “If Dale needs a ride?”

  “You said yourself his truck was broke.”

  I had said that and anyway this wasn’t the first time after Bud had had his fun with me that he had thought of Dale. He liked to see Dale after he and I had been for a ride. He liked to clap him on the shoulder and throw him over a few play punches. Dale seemed to like it too. Bud wasn’t just my boss, he was a big piece of cheese in the community and—problems with his people maker or not—probably could have sold Dale and any number of smiling others, I thought, tickets to get punched by him in the mouth.

  “Let’s go get that sorry critter, then,” I said.

  Bud gave a grin and turned off the blacktop and plumed the dust down the three or four roads to our house. I had thought Dale would be out in the shed or looking to the a
nimals but there he sat on the one of our front steps that wasn’t broken in a pair of clean overalls, just like he had been expecting us.

  “I was waiting,” he said when Bud pulled up.

  “Waiting on what?” Bud said.

  “On a ride to Marvel.”

  “Well, here you got you one.”

  “I can see that.”

  Dale didn’t smile, because his teeth were so bad, but he raised his eyebrow and nodded then climbed in the backseat and we drove off again.

  How did you hear about it?” said Bud. “Was it on the radio? My cousin said he heard a special announcement down at the barbershop. Said they put it through three times. You get the radio way out here?”

  “Jesus Christ, ’course we get the radio out here. Don’t we, Dale?” I said.

  Dale didn’t answer me. He had an awful lot of chaw in his mouth.

  “I got to check on my pig,” he said.

  “You what?” said Bud.

  “No, you don’t,” I said.

  I’d known pigs all my life but that pig of Dale’s scared me. She was giant-big and shiny and terrible smart-looking, glowed even in the noon light, would gander out the side of her head at you like she was a whale or a dolphin fetched up far away from its water and had a throat full of things to say you didn’t want to hear.

  I said no thank you again to seeing the pig, but Bud turned down the damn lane and we rode a bumpy half mile to the back forty where Dale kept that creature in a pig house he’d spent a year building out of wood we couldn’t afford. You would have thought she’d cast a spell on him the way he swooned over her, that sow the size of three he kept swaddled up in perfumed straw and fed better than us. She was kind of just a huge puddle of pink half buried under her covers when we were still rolling, but when we stopped she hopped right up, trotted over to the rails, and gave a good deep snort you could hear straight over the engine.

  “There she goes with that talking,” I said.