boy looks down at his finger on the floor in a state of silent shock. Sherman looks at it as a piece of debris that needs to be gotten off the floor, and I look at it in a state of disbelief with nausea developing in the pit of my stomach.
The move had been so brutal and swift in its ferocity, it takes a few seconds for the arterial blood flow and reaction to catch up. The blood starts first, spurting in beats; then, the boy’s eyes blink, and he screams out. Quickly, Wertzel picks the finger up, stuffs it in the kid’s shirt pocket, turns him, and sends him on his way.
Meanwhile, I go back around to my pallet and grab a mop handle off the top of it. I come back to Wertzel’s side with it an upright position, holding it in a way where it can be thrust or swung, depending on how it’s needed most.
He sees me coming and takes a step back. “Easy, navy boy. Don’t make me slice you, Deal Pickle.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” I ask him, getting the handle in more of a swinging pose.
“You do your job, Aquaman, and let me do mine.”
I take my first swing at the psychopath. Keeping the knife out in front of him, Sherman ducks under and slides to the side, grabbing a box of candy bars and slinging them at me. I notice him looking toward the front of the store, and my eyes follow.
Here comes Frances with the boy, his hand wrapped in a large towel, jogging to keep up beside her. A hysterical woman (his mother I’m assuming) is trailing behind. Sherman quickly pockets his knife, and I slide the mop handle under the shelf.
The kid has quieted down now, but his mother has picked up on the wailing. Frances looks at Wertzel first. “Sherman, you need to come with me.” She looks at me. “Mitchell, you don’t look so well. Take a break.”
The four of them walk off leaving me alone. The queasiness is getting worse, so I decide to take her advice. On my way out, I catch Joe Simpson (another stocker) and ask him for a cigarette. I don’t normally smoke, but right now, I feel one is justified. Since we’re near the front door, Joe lights it for me so I don’t have to take his lighter with me. I hurry outside with the lit smoke.
I take a seat on the front bench and take three draws from the cigarette. That’s all it takes for the stomach acids to rise to the top. I go over to the huge trash bin, lift the top, and heave twice. I’m finishing the smoke when Frances comes out.
“What happened in there, Mitchell?”
“I’m not sure, really,” I answer, still in a state of disbelief. “What does Sherman and the kid say happened?”
“They say it was a horrible accident.”
Accident my ass.
“Mitchell, you still don’t look so good. Your face has a green complexion, and it’s your weekend off anyway. Why don’t you take rest of the night off?”
Not knowing what I might do to Sherman Wertzel if I see him anymore tonight, I decide to take her advice.
“I think I will…not feeling so hot right now.”
She claps me on the shoulder. “Try not to the think about it over the weekend. Get some rest and I’ll see you Monday night.”
* * * * *
On the early morning walk to the boardinghouse, I call the only number I know in Oakboro, Texas.
“Hello.”
“Hi, Gwynn. This is Mitchell Deal. Hope I didn’t wake you.”
She laughs. “I know your voice, Mitchell Deal. And no, I’m always early to rise. And I was wondering if you were ever going to call me.”
“I just got this cell phone, and I was waiting on payday.”
“What’s up?”
“Got off early and called to see if you wanted to get some breakfast.”
“I can always eat some breakfast. Are you at the boardinghouse?”
“Almost there. Just made the turn on Elm.”
“I’ll pick you up in fifteen minutes.”
She’s there in ten, and I’m sitting on the front porch when she pulls up.
“Hop in. I know a good little place.”
In six minutes, we’re in a booth at the Oakboro Diner. “How did you manage to get off work early this morning?” she asks me, her big blue eyes gazing over the rim of her coffee cup.
“I wouldn’t want to make you sick before breakfast.”
“Ah, go on. I’m a big girl. I can take it.”
So, I go on and tell her about the incident an hour before: everything that happened between Sherman, the boy, and me. When I’m done, her eyes are much bigger now.
“My God,” she says, “that’s the most horrible thing I’ve heard in a while…just took the boy’s hand and cut his finger off?”
“Lopped it right off,” I answer. “I thought he resembled a weasel, but now I’m thinking he’s a damn psychopath.”
She sets her coffee down. “His whole family is a little bit strange. He lives outside of town with his ma and pa. The parents only come to town about once a month for supplies, and they don’t interact much when they do. Sherman is the most talkative one. I hear his pa runs a cow burial service.”
It’s time for my eyes to widen. “Cow funerals…never heard of that before.”
“Me neither, not until I moved to Oakboro. But oil and cattle are big in Texas, and you have some wealthy eccentrics around here.”
“I guess something has to be done with the ones that don’t make it to the slaughterhouse. I hear cows are worshipped in India.”
“I’ve heard that too.” She grins. “Well, maybe they will do something with Sherman so you won’t have to.”
“I hope so.”
The waitress brings her food and my milk. My stomach doesn’t feel settled enough to layer it with greasy food.
“So what is Mitchell Deal going to do with a whole weekend off?”
“Last night was payday. I thought I might try to find some type of car today.”
Her eyes light up. “Let me take you.”
“You want to go car shopping?”
“Hey, when shopping’s involved, I’m in.”
I laugh. “Spoken like a true woman.”
* * * * *
Gwynn and I are sitting in the lobby of A-1 Car Sales waiting for a salesman to become available. “My dad used to tell me not to go car buying on a Saturday,” I say to
