He kept up the monologue and left it running. After a while, he could tell that it was beginning to take effect. There was a truth in it that Sanford trusted even with his most primitive gut instinct: Uncle Stewart knew that his party would come to an end without him. And if Sanford disappeared, people might get curious. Maybe, at least. There was a risk that they would, however small it might be. A risk. Uncle Stewart would never be safe if he let Sanford die out there. Somebody would have to eventually ask about him, at least—wouldn’t they? Wouldn’t Jessie, at least? Jessie would.
He had Uncle Stewart up his sleeve, therefore. He surely did not love him, but he had to keep him alive anyway. Sanford remained confident that he would not die that day.
Six
Over the next year and a half, life on the ranch settled into a pattern. Sanford tended to the farm and its stock. He was physically violated so often and with so many foul things that nothing was right with him down in his rear end. There was blood all the time, no matter what. His back still ached from the burn Uncle Stewart had inflicted on him. The petroleum jelly that he smeared on it every few days hadn’t helped at all; in fact, it seemed to make it worse. Every once in a while, Uncle Stewart would force him to write another letter home, and he complied to save himself another beating.
Every few weeks, Uncle Stewart would disappear for a while and then return with a new Mexican boy. Each new boy lasted for a week or so before Uncle Stewart began to regard him as a liability. By then, they had always seen too much of him.
Sanford had long since lost track of the number of boys Uncle Stewart had brought to the ranch, but he felt that he somehow gained an extra bit of weight with every one of them. The first few boys packed on the most weight, of course, but there was less each time. If there hadn’t been, he would have buckled under the load. By the time that the number of boys passed that first half dozen or so, he began to notice it pressing down on him.
So far, Uncle Stewart’s habit while a new boy was there had been to allow Sanford to skulk off and stay out of sight. Sanford hustled to keep the place running and was glad for the chance to gain some little piece of consolation in the feeling that he was making himself indispensable while his uncle remained inside the house with his new prize.
The recurring problem seemed to be that in order for Uncle Stewart to satisfy himself, to “really pull the weed up by the roots,” as he put it, he needed to reveal so much of his personal demon that the boys soon—without exception—began the long and familiar pattern of hollering in shock … then indignantly demanding … then screaming in terror … then begging for mercy … then blubbering like a child … until finally, inevitably, they fell into that shattered, infantile wailing that Uncle Stewart never failed to extract from each one. No matter where Sanford went on the property, he was never completely out of earshot of the worst of it. Sanford never looked down on them for it. He had sung every one of those songs himself, been tortured in all the same ways.
He hated the way it made him feel to hear the terrible noises, but the greatest damage was done by knowing himself to be relieved that it was somebody else’s pain and not his own this time. He cringed at the feeling of powerlessness and at his sense of personal cowardice; but the grim truth was that by the time the first year had passed, Sanford had come to take a degree of personal comfort in the terrible sounds. They meant that the demon was busy for a time. They meant that he could sleep—and that most of the time, anyway, Uncle Stewart would not show up to yank him out of his bed. Sanford could wake up to the roosters and not the monster.
For a while, he had entertained vague hopes of somebody dropping by one day and overhearing the goings-on inside the place, but nothing like that had ever happened, not even after all this time. Sanford didn’t know whether or not the Devil really existed, but he knew from experience that demons were real, and that the one who lived there had the Devil’s own luck on his side.
Sanford tended to move in slow motion when Uncle Stewart left him alone to do his work. He also felt things in slow motion that way, which made it better. He went even slower when his uncle was away from the ranch. By the beginning of 1928, Uncle Stewart was constantly taking day-long excursions, even a few overnight trips.
On the first day of February in the mild desert winter, Uncle Stewart had been gone all morning by the time Sanford took a break for lunch, the way Uncle Stewart permitted him to do. He was moving at turtle speed by that point, allowing his muscles to move at an easy pace and basking in the sensation of relief at not having to push himself. The slow movement of his own body weight helped him to avoid feeling just how heavy he had become—hundreds of pounds at least. Sometimes he practically waddled when he walked. The new holes that he had to keep poking in his belt to tighten it were no indication of how he felt. These days, he could feel his weight shift from side to side when he walked.
All this made that particular noonday moment of solitude on the ranch one of Sanford’s bright ones. He sat on the floor of the feed room in a ray of warm sunlight, staring at his book for the week—it was Sanford’s last copy of the magical stories of the American Old West by An Old Scout. A man so wise that he could have been a shaman of the West. And maybe he was. Now that it was time to dive into the story itself, Sanford read the title out loud, just to make himself as ready as possible:
“Young Wild West at ‘Forbidden Pass’ and How Arietta Paid the Toll.”
He spent several minutes studying the book’s cover, an action scene that showed Arietta directing her men to haul the bad guy up from a ravine with a saddle rope. Oh man, did the captured guy look mad! But in the background he could see that the bad guy’s two armed pals were still guarding their hostage, Young Wild West, who stood tied to a tall stake. The painting was so lifelike, so appealing, that Sanford could practically lean forward and fall face-first into the scene. He unintentionally whispered the opening lines as he read them: “Young Wild West was beyond a doubt the greatest and best known of the heroes of the Wild West, and though but a boy in years, he had made a name for himself that many an elder person would have been proud to own.”
He had to stop right there, just to chew on that one. To think: out of all the heroes of the Wild West, here was this guy Young Wild West, only a boy
in years,
but he had made a name for himself that “any elder would be proud to own.” How would it feel to be such a boy? What could that possibly be like? The image was so wonderful that Sanford bounded after it like a puppy chasing a horse. With that single sentence, the world of An Old Scout gained itself a new resident.
Car sounds pulled at his attention. Uncle Stewart was brilliant at picking bad moments to show up. He heard the chattering engine of the perpetually overheated Buick. Sanford immediately scanned the second paragraph of the story as quickly as he could, unwilling to break the spell, like somebody waking up from a dream of treasure and trying to bring it back in their hands: “He had earned the title of the Champion Deadshot of the West by his remarkable skill with the rifle and revolver, and he was ever ready to defend the title against all comers.” Sanford could practically feel how fine it would be to have such supreme confidence, such lethal capability, and yet to be restrained in one’s powers—unleashing them only against the forces of cruelty and injustice.
But he already understood that there was a more immediate problem and that it could no longer be denied. Uncle Stewart was back.
And with that, Sanford’s silvery moment shattered. He quickly forced himself out of slow mode. In the next second, he was back up to full speed while he closed the book and looked around for a good hiding place. It was important to keep this special book out of Uncle Stewart’s awareness altogether: it was bad enough to lose the moment, but he had no desire to listen to another belittlement of An Old Scout’s writing. He tucked it under the first unopened feed sack and stepped out of the feed room and into the main yard.
He saw the Buick pull to a jerky stop right in front of the house, throwing up a cloud of dust. Uncle Stewart spotted him and tooted the horn with about a dozen short blasts.
He even honks like he’s crazy. I hope he doesn’t have new adventures to tell me about.
Sanford was sick of hearing Uncle Stewart’s tales of stalking and accosting young boys.
“Sanford! Get over here now! Now, now, now! Sanford! Sanford! Get over here!”
“All
right!”
Sanford dared to let himself sound a bit irritated while he trotted up to the car. “What is it?”
Uncle Stewart hopped out, reached in and pulled a large tar bucket up off the floor in the back, and Sanford instantly recognized the sweaty glow and foul body odor that were the lingering traces of his demonic episodes. It was as if he stank of being down there in Hell itself with all the burning sulfur. But the truth was worse: that smell only came from Uncle Stewart, all by himself.
A dirty towel covered whatever was in the bucket. Uncle Stewart stared down at it for a moment, then raised his eyes and showed a face that Sanford knew as his Evil Little Girl. “Oh Sannn-fooord,” Uncle Stewart sang out. He held out the bucket to him. “I brought you a present. …” The sound of his voice cut at the air like a heavy saw on sheet metal while he repeated, “I brought you a pres-ent!” Sanford took a few steps over to the bucket, choking down the familiar urge to run.
Uncle Stewart’s face shone with a sickly-looking sense of delight while he snatched the towel away. An electric charge filled the air while he waited for Sanford’s response. Sanford looked into the big bucket. It was a furry dead animal, covered in blood. The dead animal was covered with some very long fur, almost like human hair. But when he moved closer, he saw that the very long fur actually
was
human hair. It was black hair, like Indian hair, matted with blood.
His stomach felt like it was full of ice water, but the rest of him was still not sure. He inched even closer, which delighted Uncle Stewart so much that he looked as if his head could pop off with all the fun of it. He started a long, low giggle, just barely under his breath, and kept it up like it was part of his breathing process—giggling on every exhale while he awaited Sanford’s reaction to the contents of the bucket.
Sanford saw that the hair was attached to a scalp. So the dead animal in the bucket was covered over with a human scalp.
So that’s it?
That was why Uncle Stewart was giggling so much? But no. A part of him knew there was more. It would not release him. By the time he was within three feet of the tar bucket, Sanford’s eyes could no longer assist him in denial. They saw what was truly there. It was not just a human scalp; the hair was attached to an entire head. The head was attached to nothing.
For another second or two, Sanford’s brain sent back demands to the eyeballs for a correction, but the object kept on being the freshly killed, severed human head of a boy or a young man. The skin was dark, like a Mexican or one of the local natives, but that could have just been the blood.
“Hey, Sanford! Do
not
puke! I mean it, stop! Nooo…. There. Good. Now, hold your cookies down and listen. First things first: I did not do this. Here, sit down on the front bumper, there. Yeah-yeah, sit down. You ready? Good. Now: all right, I did it.”
He grinned and raised his open right hand. “But with a valid explanation, Your Honor. It was a clear case of self-defense, and there is not a jury on the entire planet Earth who would find me guilty of a single solitary thing. The simple fact is that all the trouble of the enormous expense of an arrest and a long trial would be a public waste and a crying shame, because I would only be pronounced innocent and sent freely upon my way with the final verdict. Anybody with half an ounce of respect for society would skip the whole thing and save the civic resources for something that matters!”
“Uncle Stewart?”
“I know, I know. I’m getting to it. Anyway, there is one thing you need to understand about American law, my friend, and that is this:
self-defense is a perfect defense.
You are allowed to defend your life! From anyone who would take it. Or even do you harm.”
“But Uncle Stewart?”
“I know!
Now. Here’s all you need to remember about this, because Lord knows, you don’t want to be dragged into it and get yourself involved.”
“How can I be involved? I don’t even know what you’re—”
“Shut it!
Shut it. Right now. I’m warning you.” He paused to take a deep breath, slowly let it out, then went on. “Here, as I was
trying
to say, is all that you need to know: I was visiting a Mexican friend of mine this morning at his mining operation when the man who used to own this head appeared with a gun and attempted to take over the claim at gunpoint. He did not realize I was there, so I stepped out from hiding and shot him to save my friend. The law allows this. It is the same as self-defense, which is the perfect defense in this country whether you are aware of that or not.”
“That man tried…. You….”
“No! This man earned it fair and square. I already disposed of his body, so think about that! He was bigger than you and he’s already all gone! Ground up! Chewed up and spit out and stomped into a mud-hole and then walked into the dirt. You hear me, darling boy? These are my powers. I mean, where do you
think
his body is, if I didn’t make it vanish? Answer me.”