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Branches

A Novel

The Permanent Press

Somehow I always end up right back here, twenty-two miles into the heart of isolation: The old place is nothing but charred wood now, all sooty and cracked timber beams. The roof is gone. But the foundation is there, as if the fire just decided to take everything from the waist up, leaving the rest— the lumbered floor, ashen from exposure, and the rotting support poles thrust into the gnarled hide of West Texas— for the skunks and rattlers and coyotes to claim. I don't get out here much anymore. Truth is, I stay as far away as possible, if I can help it.

The two-way chatters in my patrol car, little squawks and bursts of static, impossible to understand from where I am in the yard, and this dusty, vagrant wind doesn't help either. But that's okay. What I wish I couldn't hear is Danny yelling: Daddy, I can't move my legs! I'm sorry, Daddy!

And I want to shout at him that I ain't really his daddy, but he already knows that. And he's splashing around like a minnow down in the well. I thought the drop would've killed him, but I was wrong. I figured the water might still be deep enough to drown the life from him. But it didn't happen. And he's not alone down there, but I don't think he knows it yet. There's two others, both Mexicans, probably decomposed to hell by now. The stink carries on up to the yard, not like any thing I care to think about— not like the raunch of shit, or even spoiled fruit, as some have mentioned about decay. Just Death, pure and simple, unmistakable, the stench of guts burst open and bile, like the last thing in the world someone would want to smell. The very last thing any fella would want hanging in his nostrils.

Daddy—!

My stepfather said he built this well, but I know better. My stepfather's father told me he'd built the well. And I suspect that's the whole truth. The old man said he'd gathered all the stones himself— a month of quarrying around in this nowhere of nowheres to find enough rock to line a well. And it's a dandy too. What my stepfather did do, though, was add the little shingled awning, sheltering the well like it was a tiny house or oasis or something. He also put in the draw-pole, so us kids and my momma and him too could crank the bucket on down down down to fetch water. Except the bucket is gone, so is most of the awning. So is my stepfather and my momma. My older brother Kent, he's dead too— skidded his Harley into a bunch of mesquite trees. That happened when I was still working as a highway patrolman, and I was first on the scene, found him tangled in gray limbs, might as well have been some tornado-blown scarecrow. Jesus christ, Kent, I said, what've you done now? But he didn't answer because he was already on his way to the hereafter. My younger brother Taft, he's dead also. But he died when we was babies and I don't remember much about him. And my older sister Alma, she lives in Wichita Falls. And Mr. R.C. Branches, my natural father, I never really knew him— no good tramp of a man, carrying his tuberculosis retch to the grave. So, as far as I know, I am the last there is of the Branches men.

Now I'm sitting with my spine plumb against the well, sucking on my third Camel. Everything stretches away from this spot— the yard is just weeds and more weeds, with chunks of strewn and bent, rust-absorbed metal bars from a fallen swingset poking through the scrub.

I think my legs are broke! You still there? Don't go, please! You still there? I'm sorry!

And what do I tell my wife? Danny sobs his head off, but he ain't flapping around in the muck no more. Stupid kid. Sure enough, I feel a right asshole for doing him like this. It wasn't supposed to happen this way at all. But my job as King County sheriff is to encourage the law, and that responsibility don't stop at my front door. I loved that boy as if he were my own, and almost as much as I love his momma. I'm truly heartbroken at this moment. And this unforgiving, sonofabitch breeze stirring the dirt and leaves, whistling through the black frame of the old house, might as well be blowing straight through me.

The wind sweeps around the well from a brownish cloud to the west, an afternoon zephyr, a spring gust. This evening it'll most likely rage, consuming the streets of Claude with dust and sand and throat-swelling air. When I get home, I'll dampen a couple of towels, roll them tight, wedge them along the bases of the front and back doors to stop the filth from drifting in through the cracks. I'll bring the dogs inside.

Mary should have dinner ready at six. Tonight is beef burrito night. It's also Funniest Home Videos night. And I'm half starving, so it'll be three or four beef burritos for this fella, extra cheese and green chili, thank you. Then I'll get reclined with a Miller Lite. And Mary will do whatever it is she does in the kitchen after dinner. And I plan to just laugh at that program until my side about pops. It's just the biggest kick when those kiddies fall, or some woman gets bucked clean from a horse, or someone leans over a table to puff out candles on a birthday cake and slips face-first into the white icing. And I won't explain to Mary about Danny yet, because I'll say the boy was going to his pal Auburn's house for some sort of homework get-together. I'll tell her Danny told me that. Tomorrow I'll organize the search party.

Climbing from my spot by the well, I walk to the edge of the yard to gaze at where the prairie widens past my boot tips. Imagine being on some beach and staring out at an ocean that floats a zillion chunks of debris— tons of scrub brush and barrel cactuses and mesquites— into infinity. Bits of grime sprinkle over me, pricking my cheeks and forehead. But I won't shut my eyes because there's still so much to take in and wonder at; the prairieland is alive and wild in the yellow-orange light, horndog with spring fever, and the widening shadows of late afternoon.

Taking two steps forward, it seems that the weirdness and surprise of life are pound into my brain here, in the asshole of West Texas, by the whole scattershot nature of the scrub and critters— things don't crowd things as in towns and cities but are thrown about, all whompyjawed, in pasture and peace, with a huge heaping of good earth for each weed and juniper bramble and stink beetle, each plop of cow dung, so that whatever grows here sticks out like a two-foot pecker at a pissing contest, fearless and foolhardy and brilliant against the dull soil and unproductive rock.

I turn, swinging my shoulders, popping the stiff vertebrae between my blades, and then head back toward the well. The painful racket of Danny weeping grows louder. And I cross paths with a giant, pebbled anthill, the titty-shaped mound belonging to red ants; evil creatures with grasping pincers and a nasty sting. About a five foot radius around the hill has been cleared of dried grass and other insects. So I can't help poking my boot into the belly of the hive to stir up trouble. Put alongside Mexicans, these red ants are monsters of intelligence, hard work, discipline.

This is truth: Nothing like TV and beer and Mary nearby to help ease away a sad day's work. Nothing like being home all cozy and relaxed in the evening while the world outside grows filmy and heavy in swirls of sand; the faint scratches of grit against the windows, the low whistle of the storm won't be haunting me one iota. There's this song my momma liked to sing— The oh high lonesome comes rolling in at night. The oh high lonesome shakes the walls with a fright. The oh high lonesome scares the dogs and chickens. The oh high lonesome shuts the five-and-tens. That ol' high lonesome don't bother me none. Thank you Jesus, thank you Lord The oh high lonesome is soon gone.

Danny, does Justice shoot the bootlegger holding the baby? A bootlegger drunk on his own tonic.

Bootlegger, make the brew in the garage and swallow it in the living room while rocking the baby in unwashed arms. But first, go crazy on hooch that's just a notch or two above kerosene. Tomorrow go blind from the junk. But first, chug a whole mess to make certain it works. Then become sloppy and mean in temperament in the living room. Whip the wife with the belt that came wrapped at Christmas— black leather, thick and reliable, a snake with a silver-plated buckle-head. Beat the wife until she's a ragdoll. Take the baby from the crib. Watch TV and sip poison from a Dixie cup. Do I shoot this man? Did I?

A six-month-old baby squirms and carries on. Me: Let me take you to jail, son. But don't give up the baby, bootlegger. Don't relinquish the child. Bootlegger: Try and take this baby and I'll crush her to death. Proof in slurred words— as Sheriff Branches comes closer, carefully reaching out with one hand, the other hand on the holstered revolver, squeeze the baby, bootlegger, and make her scream. But I'm reasonable. Not gonna hurt you, friend, or take your child. Just come with me. And child and man both slip into the patrol car. Nobody gets shot. Even the wife can walk to the curb, swearing between swollen pretty lips, Fucking lock him away for good!

Get put in jail, bootlegger. Then pass out. But first, rest the baby girl on a cell bunk. Then pass out, so Sheriff Branches and jailer Riggs can rescue the child. Convulse in sleep, drool and convulse. Then sleep and dream about pussy spreading open like a flower blooming in slow motion. Wake up blinder than blind. Go home three days later, because Branches knows the score. Go home blind, bootlegger, and let the wife be waiting with Christmas belt in hand. Blind fool, the snap burns against the thigh, the buckle-head bites at the bridge of the nose. I call that Justice.

Ever fought with a man who's got a stump arm, Danny? Big nigger prick— Rud Bataan. Had his left limb whacked off right above the wrist. Sonofabitch could slip that arm around a fella's neck and punch like a piston firing with his right fist. Official report: Mr. Bataan resisted arrest while drunk and disorderly in public. What'd I do? Ducked a swing from that freak, then pounded the nigger to the ground. Bataan, don't try and find your feet! Don't kick at me from the floor with them clod-hopper shoes! A lawmen's boots to the head for Mr. Bataan. Boot boot boot! Kicked that asshole so senseless his ears came loose. Know what? Once I'd dragged him to jail, had to get Doc Swinsen over to sew Rud's ears back on.

I've killed plenty, son. But I've also stepped forward and spanked guns from people's hands. I'm not saying I'm brave. Perhaps I just don't have much sense. Perhaps I want to treat people as I'd expect to be treated in their situation. I smile and treat folks as well as I can and even help them somehow before tightening the cuffs. If I find a person at his place of business, let's say Babe's Cafe or some dive. I always ask him to join me outside for a chat. See, that's when I put him under arrest. And I aim to go overboard to be kind to those I apprehend because it goes back to a personal standpoint. Let me explain some about Justice. It doesn't go to college, but works at the family business instead, taking up automotive repair as a sideline. It fixes old Model T's and Model A's, and repairs water pumps, puts on new fenders, figures ignition problems. Justice reaches manhood with a concrete notion of right and wrong. It's partial toward the due process of the law, falls in love with men who are finely dressed, who stand steady and unbothered even in the swelter of summer, who fulfill a role in society in an orderly manner. Justice now moves in mysterious ways: Son, imagine a dead man's clenched fists folded across his chest in some cabin somewhere. Along the right side of the body is a double-barrel hammerless 12-gauge shotgun— the barrels point at the head. A round has struck the face, tearing away most of it and cupping back the skull. Except the fists don't appear the way they should; the position is funny. Slip a finger to the shotgun's trigger. Check the safety. It's on. This means the victim didn't kill himself. The official record reflects that this man died by a self-inflicted gunshot wound. Justice has my grin plastered all over it.

Danny, listen up. It's the damnedest thing. Helen Keller introduced Akita dogs to this here United States. Ain't that something. Blind, deaf, but not dumb. That woman knew how to pick'em.

Know what else? Seeing Mrs. Campbell's pinto-colored Akita almost made me bawl like a little girl. Beautiful creature that dog— bred to hunt deer and wild pig, even bears. A national symbol in Japan of good health, a treasured protector of the home. Sweet Pea: Found dying on her side in the backyard; small dark eyes, with triangular-shaped ears still erect, the bushy high-set tail curled in the grass. Foul play. Scraps of alien meat and bone suggest poisoning. Who could've done this, Sheriff? Who did this?

Four days later— Tommy Afton's Malamute called Tiger, as well as his neighbor Mike Shaw's Australian Cattle Dog called Spike are both suffering and bleeding at the mouth. Again, alien meat and bone in the respective yards. I put Tiger down with a single shot between slanting eyes. Spike isn't that easy. He scampers under the porch steps of Mr. Shaw's house and yaps with pain. Three shots are fired, but only one hits the mark, striking the poor beast in the powerful muzzle. I pull the wounded dog out by the collar, his brown gaze showing alertness and smartness, and pump a final round into his deep chest. Mr. Shaw is inconsolable.

Six more dogs in the month of March— one Norfolk Terrier (Baby), one Basset Hound (Alfred), two Chihuahuas (Pico and Squeaks), one German Shepherd (Brutus), and one Toy Poodle (MowMow). Official report: Death by potassium cyanide poisoning.

Two weeks ago, April 1— Mary brings me coffee after I shower and dress for the day. Danny listens to his stereo too loud in his bedroom. Someone is killing our dogs. I go into the backyard and sit with my legs crossed. Who kills dogs anyway? Roddy Rottweiler sleeps with his tongue hanging out. Suzy the Irish Setter rests a paw on my knee. Good girl, I say. Sheriff, she says, it's Mexicans.

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Excerpted from Branches by Mitch Cullin, Ryuzo Kikushima. Copyright © 2000 Mitch Cullin. Excerpted by permission of The Permanent Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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