The Funeral Bill

Chapter 6

"I never struck them."

"That's not what they said."

"You kill that dog?" Jeffers asked again.

"Said you should have to pay."

"You kill that dog?" Jeffers leaned forward, puffed smoke.

RD gnawed at the inside of his cheek: "Why don't you give me a smoke and I'll knock off a few dollars on that bill."

"You kill that dog?"

"I know who did. I'll tell you for ten dollars."

"So you know it's dead."

"I know you been asking about a dead one, and that one's been lately put out of its misery."

Jeffers shot a gleaming stream of spit at the little man without hitting him: "I didn't cause its misery."

"But you killed it."

"I put it down."

"Then why are you ragging on me about killing a dog?"

"Cause you're the one who gutted it to start with."

"I don't know about that," RD said.

"You don't know you gutted a dog?"

"I didn't."

Jeffers was silent.

Looking at the spit webbed across the parched-green leaves of the boxwoods, RD said: "What's that dog mean to you?"

"Nothing. Having it slaughtered on my property does mean something."

"Well I'll help you look for your dog-gutter if you pay for LaRae."

Jeffers felt the slight palpation of his heart: "I'm not paying you for a goddamn thing."

"You will."

"Why do you think I'll pay?"
"You want peace, don't you?"

Jeffers legs were numb, up to his stomach. At that moment, he wanted more than anything to chase RD down and beat him senseless.

Slightly hunched, RD eased up onto the porch as if he sensed weakness. He stood up and reached for one of the Ziploc bags of pennies and plucked it down from its nail. Jeffers' head twitched and he ground his teeth. There was no feeling whatsoever in his legs, as if he were dead from the waist down.

RD turned and walked down the steps.

"Hey," Jeffers called. "Come get this." Jeffers held up the funeral bill.

RD stood in the yard, with a big smile on his face, danced a burlesque and mocked masturbation and then spat a reddish-brown streak. He wiped his chin: "You can knock four cents off that bill," he said. He turned and walked out of the yard, disappearing behind the trees.

His Sunday evening phone calls with James were little more than reminders—for James it reminded him that his father was still alive, and for Jeffers that his son was little more than a beggar, begging for a donation. Tonight James called asking about some article he'd sent Jeffers regarding blood circulation. Poor circulation: that was what was wrong with Jeffers' according to James.

They sat in silence, Jeffers listening to his son's breath and the hum of foreign ambience at the other end of the line. He yawned. He flicked off the lamp beside the chair and sat in the dark so he could see through the window to the little, unlighted house across the road. He opened his shirt and put a hand to his chest, his heart. His feet were cold in his bedroom shoes.

"Any more thought given to what you're going to do with the Ashcross place?"

"Some," Jeffers said.

"I spoke to the United Methodist Ministries. They said if I could get the land, they'd help me with the church."

"That so?"

"Yes."