The Wettest County in the World by Matt Bondurant Read Free Book Online Page A

Hal he placed one in the old man’s trembling hand. Hal nodded, and Forrest clapped him on the back. Jefferson dried his hands and folded the other five neatly and placed it in his shirt pocket.
    Much appreciated, Mister Forrest, Jefferson said.
    Well, I appreciate your help, Forrest said. It won’t happen again.
    Jefferson scratched his head and looked at him thoughtfully.
    I’d like that, Jefferson said.
    That makes two of us, Forrest said.
     
    L ATER M AGGIE was standing in her coat and men’s felt hat counting the money in the till. The restaurant was quiet and empty. Jefferson and Hal had both gone home, Hal driving south down the hill into Henry County, and Jefferson Deshazo striding off into the snowy darkness to his cabin that lay a few miles south. Maggie had her own car, a cut-down Model T truck that was her father’s before he died, and she always insisted on driving herself wherever she wanted to go. She usually stayed late, counting out the till and collecting the receipts. Forrest had a place on Cook’s Knob, to the north up in central Franklin County, but it was a long drive and it had been snowing hard in the mountains. On nights like these he would stoke the stove hot and have a few knocks of white mule and sleep in the back on a bedroll between the racks of canned goods. Forrest stood there watching for a moment but she didn’t look up, her eyes intent on the small pieces of paper and stub of pencil.
    Whata you doin’? Forrest asked.
    Eatin’ ice cream, Maggie said.
    She took a cup down from the cupboard and poured herself coffee and tucking her long hair behind her ear she gave him a tight smile, her dark eyes smudged with weariness. Her coat hung open and Forrest could see a fine spray of dried blood across the waist of her dress.
    You better get on, Forrest said. The roads are fillin’ up.
    I’ll be out in a minute, she said.
    Forrest stepped out into the parking lot to check on the snowfall. It fell slowly and in fat shapes, large torn pieces drifting so slow you could catch any one you wanted to, and this meant that it wouldn’t last much longer. Still, there was far too much on the road for him to get up across Thornton Mountain. There was a splash of blood on the snow and Forrest pushed some fresh snow on top of the mark with his foot. Across the lot Maggie’s truck stood next to his pine-green 1928 Ford. Something seemed wrong with the shape of it, the outline of it against the falling snow, and so Forrest walked across the lot to his car and as he neared he could see that there was a body slumped against the front fender. It was the man he had hit with the knuckles, the blood coagulating on his forehead in a dark smear. He must have dragged himself there. The other man he had kicked into unconsciousness was gone. The car lot was empty other than his car and Maggie’s truck. There was no wind and Forrest could hear snow falling softly through the trees and the whine of a truck engine somewhere high up in the mountains.
    Then he saw his hood slightly ajar and the hot anger returned and he figured he’d toss this man into the ditch and break his legs for it. He’d prop his ankles on a stone and stomp until his shinbones cracked. The thought of it made him tired and he sorely wished the man hadn’t done it. He bent down to feel the man’s neck for a pulse and felt the steady pull of blood. He was alive, and that meant he would suffer much more before the night was out. It amazed Forrest that so many men seemed to wake up in the morning needing some kind of beating or another, men saying and doing fantastic things for the sake of getting another man to smash his face. Perhaps it was the aftermath, the burning humiliation of it they sought, when the aching morning came and they rolled over in the dirt and felt their mouth for teeth or lightly touched the split ear, the face in the rearview mirror swollen and crusted with blood. Forrest figured if these men wanted it he might as well give