Black Heart on the Appalachian Trail by T.J. Forrester Read Free Book Online Page B

Odell darts past my leg, and I follow him to the table. Wrappers fly. He stuffs a wrinkled sausage in his mouth. The kid’s got shaggy brown hair, a rock star look, and squinty blue eyes. He wears shorts, no shirt, and ribs show through skin like rows of bent branches. He chews through three sausages, starts in on the potato chips. The boy eats like it’s going out of style. If I had a restaurant, I’d want it full of eaters like him.
    â€œEat up,” I say.
    â€œWe got some box wine and a twelve pack of Old Milwaukee,” Roxie says, and trickles me a glass of wine. I drink it and another. Odell falls asleep on the couch, and I cover him with a blanket, ask Roxie if I should carry him to the bedroom. She says the boy can sleep through anything and won’t wake until morning, so I spread backpacking gear on the floor—tell her about the sleeping bag and how it has baffles to keep the down evenly distributed.
    â€œIt’s a Mountain Hardwear 15 degree,” I say. “Top of the line. . . . Too long for you but they sell a small that would fit you pretty good.”
    Roxie hands me a beer, but I put it on the table and tug herpants to her ankles. She pushes me away, shoots up again. Then she takes off her hip-huggers and walks around in blouse and panties. She throws the backpack over her shoulder and I’m pleased. She’s into the idea, the first time I’ve seen her seriously consider my plan.
    â€œ Moowhaaah ,” she says, and bends at the waist. Head down, she stomps around the room. “ Mooooooowhaaaaaah. ” She extends her index fingers and puts one on each side of her head. Her foot scrapes the carpet. “I’m a stoned-assed bull and you’re the matador. Show me some ass, Mr. Matador.”
    I take off my shirt, my pants, my underwear, and she rams her head into my butt cheeks. Her fingers dimple my skin like pink worms. I laugh so hard my sides ache, lean over the table and roll the needle in a circle. One bump wouldn’t hurt, might temper the zipper of a headache I’m sure to have tomorrow. I walk down the hall to the bathroom, relieve myself, then eyeball the mirror. I stick my fingers in the corners of my lips and pull the skin tight. Then I grab a brush on the counter and comb my curls across my forehead. Then I tease them straight up in the air. I should have been a frontiersman. I would have walked through the mountains and eaten meat on a stick every chance I got. I love meat on a stick. Chicken, beef, pork, name it, and I’ve eaten it on a stick. My stomach’s stuck on spin cycle, and I puke bile into the rusty toilet bowl. If I want to get high, I better do it now. That coke’s going fast.
    Roxie cusses in the living room and I hurry in there and shoot her up. “These veins,” she says. “These veins are like spaghetti. I got spaghetti veins. I’m a fucking bull with spaghetti veins.”
    I pick up the box wine and hold the spigot to my lips. Drain the box, toss it on the floor. Drain the last beer and toss it next to thebox. The sun’s coming up, and through the window the trailers look dirty in the brown light. A car drifts down the road. Some sucker headed to work, no doubt. In the yard across the way, a woman with curlers in her hair clips weeds around her mail box. Weeds! Who thinks about weeds first thing in the morning?
    â€œTaz,” Roxie says. “Taz, come here.”
    She tells me she spilled the coke, drops to her knees, rakes her fingers through the carpet. I think of the boy and can’t remember if we fed him or what. He’s asleep on the couch, and I don’t know how he got there.
    â€œGive it up,” I say. “That dope’s history—”
    â€œYou’re such an asshole.”
    â€œI’ll take you to get some more. Just relax and we’ll go in a minute. Take a shower, why don’t you? You smell like hell.” My hands shake, and I