The Heart is Deceitful above All Things Read online

  Aaron taught me Bible and the rules, and I learned. I learned well enough to go on a long drive to the city and have my own street corner. I carry my pamphlets in one hand and pass them out with the other. All day I preach hellfire and damnation. Plain and simple. Kids ride by on bikes and skateboards and spit at me. Grown-ups either bless me or squeeze my cheeks and pat my crew-cut hair. But I know I’m going to heaven. I know the evil’s left me. When police pass by, I don’t hold my breath anymore. I can feel him working through me, working his miracles, healing and curing. And when I fall, when I displease him, I pay, like Aaron, leaning over the desk, breathing in the rich lemony wood polish, and waiting for him to rest his hand on my head for a minute. I cry, and I’m cleansed. I’m with him, my grandfather, just me and him and the rod of correction, restoring me.

  And the truth is sometimes I mess up my lessons on purpose and make myself not say ma’am or thank you, I let myself get caught reading a book from his study, I start to crave the strap that hangs on the silver hook behind the bookcase in his office. I need to be put into myself, to feel his hot, minty breath against my back and hear him pant quietly as he brings the strap down, to watch him dab his brow with the white embroidered cloth napkin that he carefully unfolds from his pocket. I always thank him after, like the others do, but I mean it. I don’t cuss him later, telling everyone that it didn’t really hurt. My heart feels full after, until it slowly seeps away. Sometimes I need more than the nod I get when I’ve memorized more Bible than anyone, when I’ve helped Job scrub me so hard that my skin is raw and cracked, when I’ve turned in Aaron again for not using toilet paper as he holds his thing to pee. I feel his love vaporizing out of me. I let Aaron turn me in. I let him feel closer to Jesus, I give him the gift of letting him feel powerful with my grandfather as he reports me. But all he gets is a nod from my grandfather like I get when I turn Aaron in. He gets the same closed-face nod and dismissal, but I get to stay inside and I get to feel his love.

  Then one day she comes. I hear her voice from downstairs, loud and slurring. She’s preaching. I race out of my bed to the banister and look down. ‘. . . but he is powerful,’ she shouts, ‘. . . and never lets the guilty go unpunished . . .’ She says unpunished slowly like it’s many words and a swear word, too. ‘. . . Nahum 1:3 fucker!’ I hear a face slapped. I run down the stairs. ‘Guilty, guilty, guilty,’ she says.

  ‘Get out of this house immediately,’ I hear him say, but without his commanding sermon voice.

  ‘Jere-my-yah!’ she yells out singsong. ‘My kid, right?’ she says. ‘Or is he yours? I’m the whore, I can’t remember, maybe you can.’ Slap again. She laughs, then screams my name. ‘What will you do, calls the cops?’

  ‘Leave immediately,’ he says, but there is something strange in his voice. I stand at the bottom of the stairs, panting. Neither of them turns to me.

  ‘We’re going,’ my mother says to him. My grandmother stands off to the side, wrapped in a robe she pulls tight. Her face looks defeated, but her eyes watch with a fierce gaze. ‘Jeremiah . . .’ Sarah reaches out her hand. Her skin glows like warm honey, and her fingers wiggle like little twigs off branches. She doesn’t look at me, but I walk slowly toward her like I’m in a trance. I extend my hand out and up, but when I’m near her I don’t have to reach up like I used to. I slip my hand in hers, and it’s warm and it closes tight. My grandfather says nothing. My grandmother says nothing. ‘See ya,’ she says, and starts walking to the door, taking me with her. I turn my head toward my grandfather. His jaw’s working back and forth, but he says nothing. ‘God bless you, and thanks for turning my kid into a Jesus freak,’ she says, and opens the door. ‘Fucking hypocrites, fucker!’ she shouts, slamming the door behind us.

  The concrete is freezing against my bare feet, but I love the silky freedom of standing on it. ‘Jesus . . .’ She sighs and turns and spits on the door. I can’t help but laugh. ‘Like that, kid?’ She looks at me for the first time. ‘Damn, you’re huge. He must be feeding you more than he ever fed me.’ Her hair’s cut short and spiked with a green streak in it. She’s got a ring through her nostril. ‘He won’t fuck with me,’ she slurs. She pulls me down the stairs with her. ‘I got it over him.’ There’s a semi idling in the shadows. She motions wildly, and it backs up. ‘Told you, we’re partners,’ she says, patting my hand. When we step on the grass, I wiggle my toes in the damp fuzz and laugh again. She lets go of my hand and reaches for the truck door. ‘This is your new daddy,’ she says.

  My smile folds as the man in the turned-backward baseball cap nods at me. I look back to the sealed front door. ‘Let’s go,’ she says, and clicks her tongue like my grandmother. I climb up and stand behind her seat mechanically. She hops in the front. ‘So fuckin’ easy . . . told ya he wouldn’t fuck with me.’ She drums on the wide dash. ‘Not with what I got over him.’ I keep wanting to ask what, but I can only turn and watch the front door get smaller and smaller.

  ‘This is Kenny’s. Owns his own rig,’ she says, and passes the bottle in a brown paper bag back to him.

  ‘So, little man. Ain’t seen your momma in a while, huh?’ He’s got a blunt, stubby, but friendly, handsome face.

  ‘Two years,’ she says, and reaches back for the bottle, ‘two years.’

  ‘If we hadn’t been driving by, it mighta been another two.’ He laughs. ‘This ain’t like a stop for cigarettes.’

  ‘What’s mine is mine,’ she says.

  ‘Gotta mighty fine momma,’ he says, and grabs a handful of her short hair in his thick, hairy hands and pulls her in for a kiss. ‘Now, I know you learned some religious instruction, but we-all can’t be havin’ none of that here.’ He points to a silver crucifix hanging on his rearview mirror. ‘I got my own thing with the Lord, but if’n you start up any preaching, I’ll tell ya . . . there’s the door, don’t let it hit ya in the eye, understand?’ He winks at me. ‘Now there’s a little bed on back there.’ He points to a satin silver curtain behind him. ‘Go on back to bed’––he motions with his head––‘go on.’ I walk through the curtains to a little room in the back of the truck cab. I climb under sweaty-smelling blankets on the mattress, and I fall asleep listening to the low rumble of the truck competing against their laughter.

  ‘You be listenin’ out for me, Kenny.’ Through the gap of the curtain I can see Sarah flip her head down into a platinum wig and come up tossing long curls, her shoulders bare in a tube top.

  ‘Always do.’ He thumps the wheel.

  ‘Always don’t, and I won’t be gettin’ my arm broke while you’re doin’ some goddamn lizard.’

  ‘Gonna be right here listenin’ out for you and fixin’ up my comic book.’ He flips pages in his logbook. ‘Last weigh station set us back some. Gotta toy with it some.’ He shakes his head over the pages. ‘Plus pickin’ your kid up . . .’

  ‘Fuck that, I’ll bring in more than your whole run.’ She bends her leg and places it between his. He runs his hand along her thigh.

  ‘Why you think we’re stoppin’, sugar?’ He puts his hand behind her head and starts to pull her head down.

  ‘No, don’t even be messin’ my lips up, ’less you wanna pay for it.’

  He laughs and lets her go. ‘Do good tonight. I’ll be listenin’ for ya.’ He pats her ass, and as she slides her leg off the seat, she whispers something in his ear that makes him laugh.

  ‘Later,’ she says, and I hear her open the door.

  ‘You know it,’ he says, and stares down at his book turned spine out on his thigh. The door slams, he sighs and tosses the book off his leg. He switches on a country tape and jumps around, making the cabin shake like on a Ferris wheel ride. I cover my mouth not to laugh out loud as he shakes his ass wildly and sprays deodorant under his arms, inside his jeans, and on his hair, which he brushes and pushes till it rises like an overpass across his head. He squeezes a big blue glob of Crest into his mouth. I wait for him to spit, but he doesn’t. He licks his lips and slips on cowboy boots that look like they have c
heetah skin on them. He opens the door and I hear the metal tap of his boots on the truck steps, but he comes back, grabs the crucifix off the mirror, and slides it around his neck. Then he leaves, switching off the light and slamming the door behind him. I hear his heels clicking away, and I pull myself out of bed to the door window. I watch him disappear down a long line of trucks like his, lined up like sleeping dragons.

  It’s dark in the cab, and I don’t know how to turn the light on. There’s a little toilet in the back behind the curtain, and I need to go, but it’s too dark back there. I stare at the silver curtain and wait to see the red eyes of Satan staring back out at me. My heart throbs in my chest, and I put my hand on the door handle next to my mother’s empty seat. My bladder is almost bursting. A harsh light glares through the windshield, and I tell myself it’s another truck, but then I see the red eyes floating inside the light, disembodied, glowing like fireflies, and I pull on the handle and push out as hard as I can. The door swings out, and I do, too. My feet dangle over the tar black of the lot like I’m bait on a fishline. I let go and fall to the ground, stumbling slightly as an eighteen-wheeler barrels past. I quickly regain my balance and reach for the truck door and slam it with all my might before Satan can escape. I stand there panting, staring at the sealed door, expecting Satan to start barking and clawing at the window. I wait until my feet start freezing, which isn’t very long because I realize, looking down, I’m barefoot in my pajamas. ‘Shoot!’ I say out loud, and my voice sounds small and flat in the cold, windless air. The pressure on my bladder stabs into me. I look around. There’s nobody, so I lean against the tire and piss, my eye on the cab door. I hear the click of a door opening. Satan’s coming out. I step back, my piss forming a lazy arch shooting up and out of me. ‘You have a good night, baby,’ I hear from behind me. I jump and turn suddenly, the pee still flowing out of me, refusing to shut off. The cab door of the truck next to ours slams and a girl climbs down the truck steps, her eyes on me.

  ‘You gonna hose me down now, or what?’ The pee tapers off to a drizzle. She smiles. ‘I think you’re about done,’ she says, standing across from me. ‘Why don’t you put that little baby bean away before you frighten everyone.’ I blink at her and then down at my thing in my hand. She laughs, and dimples form in her rouged cheeks. I shove my thing back in my pajama bottoms and turn back to our truck, forgetting Satan and wanting only to get away from her. I climb the steps and yank on the door, but it’s locked. I try again.

  ‘Here . . .’ She steps up next to me. ‘Let me help.’ She pulls the handle, but it doesn’t budge. ‘Wake ’em up.’ She knocks loud on the door and smiles at me. She’s got a lot of makeup on, and it sparkles like glitter. She doesn’t look old, though there’s something worn about her. Her black outlined eyes roll up. ‘They in there?’ She bangs again. I shake my head. ‘Where are they?’ she says, and steps down. Her skirt is so short that when she steps down I see her red panties. I shrug my shoulders and try the handle once more. ‘You’re locked out,’ she says, sucking on her thin lips. ‘You’ll have more luck banging your head against a wall.’ A plum-colored outline extends past the boundaries of her mouth, giving her a tough appearance. ‘Come on.’ She motions to me and starts to walk away. ‘Come on, you can’t stay out here, you’ll freeze . . . come on . . .’ She motions hard. The cold metal of the steps is starting to burn. ‘Come on!’ I jump down and follow her.

  ‘Milkshake,’ she says without stopping or turning. She reaches back her hand. Her nails are painted gold.

  ‘No thanks, ma’am,’ I mumble. She stops and turns to face me.

  ‘I ain’t offerin’ you one. I’m Milkshake.’ She rolls her eyes and puts her hand out again for me to shake. I give her my hand, and she pumps it once hard. ‘And you?’ She lets go without waiting for an answer and starts walking. She walks in her high heels like they’re sandals, her feet lost inside them, making flip-flop noises. I catch up with her.

  ‘I’m Jeremiah,’ I tell her.

  ‘Cool,’ she says. ‘Glad to meet ya, wouldn’t want to be ya.’ She laughs. ‘Just kidding.’ She flips her hair back again. ‘See, there . . .’ She points to an old station wagon sandwiched between two trucks. She starts to run a little, her shoes dragging like scuffs. She wraps her arms around herself. She’s only wearing a tank top, red like her underthings. ‘Come on,’ she shouts, and I run to catch up. She digs in a little leather purse hanging across her shoulders. I can see money crumpled up inside it. She takes out keys and opens the back. ‘Get in.’ She gets in the front and turns the keys in the ignition. I panic. I’ve heard stories about kids being kidnapped, sacrificed, and eaten. I grab for the door handle. She turns back at me. ‘Relax!’ She grabs my arm. ‘We ain’t goin’ nowheres. Just turning it on to get the heater goin’.’ She points to a dirty beige metal thing near my feet. ‘The heater . . . see?’ She climbs over the seat next to me. ‘What the fuck would I do with you, anyways?’ She pulls off her heels and rubs her feet. ‘Damn,’ she says. There are runs up and down her stockings. They’re black. ‘So, that your daddy’s truck?’ She says, pulling on her toes.

  ‘He ain’t my real daddy,’ I say. I rarely say ain’t at my grandparents. I almost taste the soap in my mouth. Sarah says ain’t. She says it a lot.

  ‘But that his truck?’ She spits on her feet and rubs harder.

  ‘He owns it, Sarah, my momma, said.’

  ‘He thinks he’s a bad-ass. That’s a chicken car,’ she says. ‘Spends most of his money on the chrome.’ I shrug. ‘It got a toilet?’

  ‘Uh-huh, TV and fridge, too, and a bed.’

  ‘It’s a condo, damn. What’s he haulin’?’ I shrug. ‘He an asshole?’ I shrug again. ‘You know those lights all along the outside? Chicken lights. Any trucker with them’s an asshole . . . I know truckers.’ She sucks her lips. ‘I like Kenworths men myself.’ She sniffs her feet. ‘Damn, they stink.’ She puts one up to me. ‘Wanna whiff ?’ I jerk my head back, laughing. She shoves her foot in my face. ‘Won’t charge ya none. C’mon, take a whiff,’ she says, laughing. I try to push away her foot. I slide down the seat, laughing so hard my eyes tear. She climbs on top of the seat and puts her foot above my face. I’m pushing up as hard as I can, but laughing makes me weaker. ‘Beg for mercy,’ she says.

  ‘No.’ I push harder, but her foot lowers.

  ‘Mercy,’ she laughs, ‘beg . . .’

  ‘No!’ I shout.

  ‘Then suffer,’ she yells, and forces her foot down on my face.

  I thrash and yell between laughs, ‘Mercy, mercy!’ She rubs her foot around my squished cheek and then pulls it off and collapses back in her seat, wiping black mascara tears off her face. We sit in silence, catching our breath. After a few minutes she asks me if I’m hungry.

  ‘I got Dunkin’ Donuts somewhere,’ she says, and reaches into the back.

  ‘This your car?’ I ask.

  ‘What?!’ she says, bringing out the pink-and-white box. ‘How old do you think I am?’ I shrug. ‘This is my momma’s.’ She flips open the box. ‘Help yourself.’ I grab a chocolate sprinkle one. She takes a cream-coated one. ‘How old do you think I am? Guess.’ She’s taller than me, not much, even in the heels, but she’s wearing makeup and dressed old. I shake my head and wipe crumbs off my mouth. ‘I’m twelve, almost thirteen. I can’t drive yet, stupid.’ She talks with her mouth full.

  ‘I’m ten,’ I lie.

  ‘You look younger.’ She takes a big bite, and cream gets on her nose. I don’t tell her.

  ‘Where’s your momma?’ I ask.

  She snorts. ‘My momma’s a toss-up, you know, hubba.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Crack. Crackwhore. She goes on runs. She won’t be back for days.’ I nod, though I’m not sure I understand. But I’m glad her momma won’t be back. She licks her fingers. ‘I take care of myself, plus all the lizards look out for me.’

  ‘Lizards? My momma was worried about Kenny doin’ lizards.’

  ‘Well, she should
be at this truck stop.’ She swallows. ‘They don’t stop for nobody, most ignore the signs, not me. They don’t want me, I ain’t a-knockin’.’ She takes another bite. ‘Your daddy didn’t have no signs on his truck.’ She laughs, showing me her doughy mush.

  ‘What signs?’

  ‘Lizard signs, stupid.’

  ‘What are lizard signs.’

  ‘You don’t know what a lizard is?’ she asks, her mouth open and pieces of doughnut falling down her tank top. I shake my head. ‘OK’––she swallows––‘a lizard is a prostitute. Sex for money.’ I nod. ‘If you’re workin’ a truck stop, then you’––she points to herself––‘are a lot lizard. Got it?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’ I reach into the box between us and take a cream doughnut like the one she has.

  ‘Now a sign is . . . OK . . . hole up.’ She gets up and digs in the back. She turns around with a flashlight. ‘C’mere.’ She shines the light out of the window and onto the door of the darkened truck next to us. I lean in close to her. She smells like perfume, but it’s too heavy and I feel a little sick. The light dances over stickers on the truck door. ‘Lookit.’ She shines it on one of a cartoon lizard garishly dressed, with a red slash through it. ‘See?’ She turns to me. ‘That means he don’t want any.’ She switches it off. I slide back to my seat.