“Was the drive-in open when you came through?” Wormy inquired.
“That’s where I got the coffee.”
“If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to go get a little breakfast.”
“Go eat,” A.J. said. “Sit and tell a few lies with Hoghead.” Wormy nodded.
Gratitude was etched on his features as he headed for town. A.J. entered the cabin to check on Eugene and was surprised to find him wide awake and staring at the ceiling. He looked over and produced a bare hint of a smile. The effect was grotesque on his emaciated features.
“Is it Christmas yet?” he asked. His hand gestured at the small tree Wormy had installed in the corner. It was actually a Christmas bush, but it was the thought that counted. It was decked with an odd combination of handmade ornaments-beer cans on strings-supplied by Wormy complimented by a selection of more traditional baubles contributed by Angel. She still came daily and was due later that evening.
“It’s Christmas Eve,” A.J. said. The room reeked of illness.
“Better give me my present while you can,” Eugene whispered. It was an unadorned pronouncement of fact. A.J. stepped to the tree and returned with the bundle he had placed under it. He handed the gift to his brother. Eugene’s hands shook so badly he had to help him unwrap the offering.
“It is a fine gift,” Eugene croaked. There were tears in his eyes as he hefted the beautifully restored Navy Colt with both hands and sighted down the barrel. “I wish I could shoot it,” he said sadly.
“Have at it,” A.J. said. “I bet you ten dollars you can’t hit that wall.”
“I ought to take your money, but I don’t want to kill Wormy if he walks by.”
“Wormy’s gone to town.” A.J. reached over and steadied the big pistol. Then he cocked it. “I think you need to shoot the wall.” Eugene grinned and squeezed the trigger. The noise was deafening. The pistol kicked so much in his unsteady grasp that the hole was more in the ceiling than in the wall, but it was an impressive cavity nonetheless.
“Damn, that felt good,” he said as he dropped the gun onto the bedspread. He had shot his last. “You owe me ten dollars,” he said. A.J. paid up. Eugene clutched the bill like a miser, and A.J. realized how significant his gesture had been, how satisfying it was for the dying man to take one last tenner off his brother. It was a noble gift. But the gods were not in a charitable mood that day, although it wouldn’t have cost them a dime to show a bit of mercy, so the fine moment was cut short. Eugene made a gagging noise. Then he began retching violently. He was doubled in hurt, and the severe vomiting spell caused his bowels to loosen. When it was over, he began to cry. The tears of wretchedness were pitiful to behold.
A.J. began the task of cleaning Eugene hindered by tears of his own. His task was made difficult by the obvious suffering any movement caused Eugene, and by his own notoriously weak stomach. But it had to be done, so he swallowed the bile at the back of his throat and kept to his work. Finally, mercifully, the job was over. Eugene was calmed, clean, and heavily medicated. A.J. was a mess, but life is hard and soap is cheap.
Eugene looked at A.J. His eyes were beginning to unfocus as the chemical cavalry found its way to his brain.
“I never wanted you to have to do that,” he said. His voice was clear. “I’m tired of this shit. I’m ready for it to be over.” He held his brother’s gaze until he drifted off. A.J. looked at what was left of him. It was time to fish or cut bait.
He reached suddenly and retrieved the Navy Colt. He hefted it, felt its cold, blue weight. Then he cocked it and pointed it at Eugene’s head. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath, and willed his finger to squeeze. The trigger moved ever so slightly, then a bit more.
His arm jerked up at the last instant when the blast erupted, and when the smoke cleared there were two holes in the cabin. He was disgusted with himself for being a coward.
“I’m sorry,” he said to his comatose brother. He dropped the Colt to the floor and sought saner latitudes. He was standing at the fire when Wormy returned. Their eyes met, Wormy nodded, and A.J. left without a word. He was quiet the remainder of the day, not because he had almost shot his brother, but rather because he had not managed the task.
But that was Christmas Eve, and it was now New Year’s Day. A.J. returned to the present and found himself in front of the smoldering remains of the cabin. The afternoon shadows had become long, and he stood close to the glowing ashes for warmth. Nothing in them was recognizable but the unmistakable shape of a gutted school bus. No sign of Eugene could be seen. The fire had done its job well in that respect. A car door slammed. He turned toward the sound and saw that Red Arnold had arrived.
Red was getting long in the tooth, but he still cut an imposing figure as he gaited slowly across the clearing. He arrived at the fire, and he and A.J. stood and warmed their hands in silence. Finally, Red spoke.
“Honey said Eugene was in there,” he said. He had turned around and was heating the Arnold hindquarters. Red’s homespun mannerisms aside, A.J. knew he was being questioned, and that the answers needed to satisfy.
“Yes.”
“Said you ran him off,” Red continued. “Told him to let it burn.” He lit a smoke and left it on his lips. He stuck his hands in his pockets and gazed at the sky.
“He told you the truth.”
“Talked to Wormy yesterday,” Red noted. A.J. was already aware of the chat. Red had come by the beer joint for his Christmas present. “Told me that Eugene was bad. Real bad.” He turned back around and began to warm his hands again.
“Real bad,” A.J. agreed. Red flipped his cigarette into the ashes and peered long at him. Finally, the old lawman nodded slightly.
“Damn shame,” he said. “Eugene was a good boy.” A.J. had to agree. He had had his ways, but plenty of worse specimens had strolled down the long corridors of time. Red began to walk to his car. Halfway there, he stopped and turned. There was a rueful smile on his lips.
“If Slim sees that bus, he’ll be wanting to shoot somebody,” Red observed.
“He does tend to be high-strung,” A.J. allowed. “If you can keep him out of here a day or two, I’ll take care of it.” He intended to dig a pit with the dozer and fill it with the remains of the cabin and its occupant. Then he proposed to raise a large mound. It would be a funeral ceremony in the old style-about two thousand years old, in fact-but he figured it would be just odd enough to appeal to Eugene. Red nodded and climbed into his car. He U-turned and headed for the lights of the big city, leaving A.J. alone in the twilight with the ashes of his brother.
A.J. had arrived at the clearing that New Year’s morning struggling with a sense of premonition, and he had been somewhat out of kilter since blowing the hole in Eugene’s wall. As he pulled up, he saw Jackie sleeping in his truck, so he fully expected to encounter Angel when he entered the cabin.
“A.J., you look pale,” she had said with concern. “You better sit down and have some of this soup.” Death, taxes, and Angel’s soup were the three constants of life.
“Maybe just a small bowl,” he agreed, banking on its medicinal properties to clear his head.
Eugene awoke and was bathed and medicated by Angel with help from A.J. Then he went back to sleep. Wormy checked in but had to immediately leave. He was having labor difficulties down at the beer joint. Bird Egg was plastered and in the spirit of the season was attempting to give away all of the stock. He had plenty of takers.
“We really should let him go,” Wormy said. Management was coming easier all the time to the former pilot.