Vernon God Little Read Free

‘Get it on record, then hold him.’ He creaks out of the room.
    â€˜Vaine?’ calls an officer through the door. ‘Fibers.’
    Gurie re-forms into limbs. ‘You heard the sheriff. I’ll be back with another officer to take your statement.’
    When the rubbing of her thighs has faded, I crane my nostrils for any vague comfort; a whiff of warm toast, a spearmint breath. But all I whiff, over the sweat and the barbecue sauce, is school – the kind of pulse bullyboys give off when they spot a quiet one, a wordsmith, in a corner. The scent of lumber being cut for a fucken cross.

two
    M om’s best friend is called Palmyra. Everybody calls her Pam. She’s fatter than Mom, so Mom feels good around her. Mom’s other friends are slimmer. They’re not her best friends.
    Pam’s here. Three counties hear her bellowing at the sheriff’s secretary. ‘Lord, where
is
he? Eileena, have you seen Vern? Hey, love the hair!’
    â€˜Not too frisky?’ tweets Eileena.
    â€˜Lord no, the brown really suits you.’
    You have to like Palmyra, I guess, not that you’d want to imagine her humping or anything. She has a lemon-fresh lack of knives about her. What she does is eat.
    â€˜Have you fed him?’
    â€˜I think Vaine bought ribs,’ says Eileena.
    â€˜Vaine Gurie? She’s supposed to be on the Pritikin diet – Barry’ll have a
truck
!’
    â€˜Good-night, she damn near
lives
at
Bar-B-Chew Barn
!’
    â€˜Oh good Lord.’
    â€˜Vernon’s in there, Pam,’ says Eileena. ‘You better wait outside.’
    So the door flies open. Pam wobbles in, bolt upright like she has books on her head. It’s on account of her center of gravity. ‘Vernie, you eatin rebs? What did you eat today?’
    â€˜Breakfast.’
    â€˜Oh Lord, we better go by the
Barn
.’ Doesn’t matter what you tell her, she’s going by
Bar-B-Chew Barn
, believe me.
    â€˜I can’t, Pam, I have to stay.’
    â€˜Malarkey, come on now.’ She tugs my elbow. The force of it recommends the floor to my feet. ‘Eileena, I’m taking Vern – youtell Vaine Gurie this boy ain’t eaten, I’m double-parked out front, and she better hide some pounds before I see Barry.’
    â€˜Leave him, Pam, Vaine ain’t through . . .’
    â€˜I don’t see no handcuffs, and a child has a right to eat.’ Pam’s voice starts to rattle furniture.
    â€˜I don’t make the rules,’ says Eileena. ‘I’m just sayin . . .’
    â€˜Vaine can’t hold him – you know that. We’re gone,’ says Pam. ‘Love your hair.’
    Eileena’s sigh follows us down the hallway. My ears flick around for signs of Gurie or the sheriff, but the offices seem empty; the sheriff’s offices that is. Next thing you know, I’m halfway out of the building in Palmyra’s gravity-field. You just can’t argue with this much modern woman, I tell you.
    Outside, a jungle of clouds has grown over the sun. They kindle the whiff of damp dog that always blows around here before a storm, burping lightning without a sound. Fate clouds. They mean get the fuck out of town, go visit Nana or something, until things quiet down, until the truth seeps out. Get rid of the drugs from home, then take a road trip.
    A shimmer rises off the hood of Pam’s ole Mercury. Martirio’s tight-assed buildings quiver through it, oil pumpjacks melt and sparkle along the length of Gurie Street. Yeah: oil, jackrabbits, and Guries are what you find in Martirio. This was once the second-toughest town in Texas, after Luling. Whoever got beat up in Luling must’ve crawled over here. These days our toughest thing is congestion at the drive-thru on a Saturday night. I can’t say I’ve seen too many places, but I’ve studied this one close and the learnings must be the same; all the money, and folk’s