Sample chapter from The Science of Paul: A Novel of Crime by Aaron Philip Clark

My grandfather died in his one-bedroom house on thirteen acres in rural North Carolina. His friend and one-time lover, Margaret, found him. Margaret used to bring him home-cooked meals twice a week and had cleaned his house on the third of every month. Part of me feels guilty for not inviting her to his burial, but I needed to put him in the ground myself. Margaret would have demanded a traditional service. She would have cried, hollered, moaned and clung to the body in some dramatic portrayal of a grief-stricken lover, something my grandfather wouldn’t have wanted. He always said Southern funerals were like auditions for chitlin circuit plays. They were contests to see who could holler the loudest and faint the hardest. He hated funerals—I hate funerals.

I rest my arm on the splintered handle of the shovel. Sweat beads down my shoulder, to my wrist, then curls around my finger and harbors under the nail before dripping into the dirt. Watching as the sweat mixes with the red clay, I wonder if the earth mourns men when they die. Does it know when a living creature’s time has come to an end? Does the earth welcome the deceased home? Or does it go right to work, heedlessly breaking down the minutia of cells in the meat and bone?

The casket is thin pine. The hinges have been taken from a pantry door, and the wood is already showing signs of critter infestation. It was all I could afford. My grandfather was meek; he wouldn’t care, but nobody should be buried like this—just a hair above how a family might bury their longtime pet. I ponder throwing in a few of his things. Perhaps a pair of dress loafers, his bow tie collection, his Bible, photos of his beloved candy apple red Austin-Healey Sprite. I know what my grandfather would say if he could: shoes are no good where he’s going, the Austin-Healey is a rust bucket, and I should keep the Bible for myself.

I glance up at Tammy, who is sitting on the trunk of her white 1984 Cadillac Seville. Her feet are comfortably propped on the bumper and her yellow sundress is blowing in the sweltering breeze. She’s exotic, breathtaking: full lips, cinnamon eyes intensified by halos of green, all compliment her bronzed skin. Years of college track have blessed her with toned calves and a flat stomach. Watching her is like watching some endangered species of butterfly or hummingbird, a kind of graceful exquisiteness. It’s always special, because I know our time together is coming to a close. Tammy is what men grow weak and rubbery in the knees for—she’s proof of God’s existence and even if she lives to be ninety, I doubt her beauty will ever fade. But every time I look at her, I can’t help but ask myself, Why the hell is she with me?

“You about ready?” she asks.

I lay the shovel on the ground and take a folded piece of notebook paper from my back pocket. The eulogy is a few lines with words jotted in blue ink. My grandfather deserves a million more words, but lately my words have been failing.

I whisper the eulogy so Tammy cannot hear. She has a way of making moments like this saccharine sweet, and everything is too damn precious for words.

I finish reading. She smiles, wiping the salty sheen from her arms with a damp cloth. My grandfather always said there was only one way out of life. How easy things would be if I were in that pine casket instead of him. He loved life. I can take it or leave it. Still, in the face of my despair I can’t deny the beauty that is the land. I had forgotten how serene it is: the cicadas call, the high cotton communes with the wind, and the thick aroma of earth accents its beauty like a woman swathed in a majestic perfume. This is where I belong. I was made here. My history is in the soil. My grandfather told me stories of his life here. He and his drinking buddies sitting around a card table, dominoes scattered, and a whiskey bottle shy of the last round. Cigarette smoke so thick it looks like lifting fog. They told of scarred-up backs, crooked noses, and bruised pride for looking at blue eyes for too long, for talking back to white men, for being uppity, for having a stride and straight back worthy of kings. But fighting tooth and nail didn’t stop them from loving their home, and when it came time for that last round, they drank to the South like it were a fallen comrade, deceased but not forgotten; eulogizing its hope and anguish, paying their respects in jeers and fondness. It was all they knew, and somewhere between the tears, blood, and bodies that fell, they claimed it as their own.

I close my eyes and imagine . . . I could be content here, on the land, alone, quiet so I can think, so things can finally make sense. I could plant, harvest, and fish. I could grow tobacco, learn to cure it, sell it at the markets, live like my grandfather did—alone and at peace.

“Paul?”

I open my eyes and Tammy tosses me a bottle of water. I crack the seal and take it down fast.

“You should take a break or something,” she says, getting back into the Caddy. She turns on the air-conditioning. Tammy is always concerned about my well-being, but today, just today, I wish she would leave me be. I go back to filling the grave, ignoring her advice.

I’m no stranger to the heat. Growing up I worked the farm with my grandfather. From sun up to sundown, we plowed brush, trimmed hedges, and tended to his vegetable garden. At the end of the day we would sit under the dogwood and rest. God, how he loved his dogwood, so I thought it only fitting to bury him beside its roots.

The grave is nearly filled when Tammy gets out of the car to check on my progress.

“Should I put some flowers on top?” she asks. Before I can answer, she plucks a cluster of dandelions and ties them together with stem and root.

“These are nice,” she says. She walks over and gently places them on the grave. She takes two steps back to admire her work. “See, nature’s headstone. So it doesn’t just look like a mound of dirt.”

“It is a mound of dirt,” I say. “It’s a grave.”

“You know what I mean.”

I tidy up my work, flattening the grave with the back of the shovel. I knock the excess dirt off and wrap the tool in a black trash bag.

“Pop the trunk, will you?” I ask.

The trunk bounces open and I lay the shovel near the bags of my grandfather’s belongings. I get into the Caddy and Tammy turns the ignition. After two blasts of exhaust, the Caddy roars to life. Every time the engine turns over, I’m reminded of the thick black residue that’s collected around the tailpipe and how I’ve been meaning to clean it.

We roll down the long dirt driveway. I look back toward my grandfather’s farm and say a silent farewell. Tammy accelerates over a pothole and the peaceful valediction is short-lived.

“Watch it,” I say, as she struggles to maneuver over the massive craters and ditches, “you’ll knock it out of line.”

“I know,” she says. “This road is a headache.”

“Do you know how to get back to Interstate 40?” I ask.

“Yes, but I want to stop for sandwiches. You’re not hungry?”

“I can eat,” I say.

Tammy pulls onto the main stretch, and I watch as the speedometer reaches 60 miles per hour and then teeters back to 55. The Cadillac breathes three hundred horses between white lines. The engine is strong. Tammy had it rebuilt after her father passed away—it has only thirty thousand miles on it. It was around that time she discovered her passion for road trips. She thought getting out of the city would help strengthen our relationship—us, the open road, and sandwiches. She picked rustic places to drive to, like the Pennsylvania hill country and the Poconos. She soon learned that the Caddy didn’t do well with highlands. It was too heavy and hard to steer when coasting down hills, and we could smell burning oil when climbing steep inclines.

We drive about twenty minutes down the road when Tammy pulls into the parking lot of a chain grocery and parks the Caddy about ten spaces down from the store.

“I’ll be right back,” she says.

Tammy grabs her purse and leaves the key in the ignition. I tune the radio, trying to find anything besides gospel and country. A pick-up truck pulls into the spot next to the Caddy. A heavy-set man, white, shirtless, and sunburnt gets out. He looks at me; his head cocked sideways, spits, mumbles something, and then heads into the store. I notice a small boy moving about in the truck. He’s about nine, his face splattered with freckles. The red blotches are so densely clustered, they look like they’ve been painted on. He looks at me from the passenger’s seat and then crawls into the driver’s seat and starts jerking the wheel from side to side. Making motor sounds with his mouth and the occasional honk, honk, he checks over his shoulder anticipating the shirtless man’s return.

I notice on the dented truck gate a faded white sticker with red words that read THE SOUTH WILL RISE AGAIN. Irritated and hungry, I watch as the boy jerks the wheel until it finally locks. A look of surprise and then disappointment comes over his face and he directs his attention at me. I recline in my seat, completely aware that the boy is now making faces and obscene gestures toward me.

Either the store is crowded or Tammy can’t decide between tuna or turkey. I envision her standing there with tuna in one hand and turkey in the other, reading the nutrition facts and trying to figure out which one I’ll prefer. I don’t care. I just want to be back on the road and I want this bothersome kid to disappear.

The boy’s faces fail to get a rise out of me and he starts chanting: “Blackie man, blackie man. Wake up, blackie man.” I open my eyes to see his face pressed against the window that’s lowered a crack. His nostrils are flared upward and wide like a pig. He’s hysterical, laughing and singing the song that won’t end—over and over: “Blackie man, blackie man. Wake up, blackie man.” I remember the crowbar that’s wrapped in a towel in the trunk. I wrapped it in a towel because it was making such a racket when Tammy took corners. I get out and look around the parking lot to make sure no one is watching. The boy gauges my size, his eyes ascending from my feet to my face. He stops singing. I must look like a giant to him.

The illusion of safety is gone and the only thing between us is glass—just glass. The reality of this is evident in the boy’s expression. He moves away from the window and returns to the passenger seat. I take a few steps toward the trunk of the Caddy. I look back at the boy and the cabin looks empty. I assume he’s on the truck floor, balled up in his arms, eyes shut tight. The way kids toss bedsheets over their heads to protect them from the bad men of their nightmares.

“Well, isn’t that sweet of you? You got out to help.”

Tammy has a way of sneaking up on me. I turn around to see her arms full of groceries.

“I thought you were getting sandwiches?” I say.

“They had some detergent and things on sale. You know, things are cheaper down here.”

I take the bags from her and she lifts the trunk. I load the bags in and get back into the car. Tammy begins to reverse, and I wait for the boy to pop his head up and make one last ugly face, but he doesn’t.

“Should we fill up now?” Tammy asks.

“No, we’re fine. We can fill up in Virginia.”

“Okay,” she says. She starts the car and slowly backs out of the space.

“How much were the groceries?” I ask.

Tammy doesn’t respond—too busy wrestling with the steering wheel, trying to straighten the Caddy.

“It’s time for an alignment, I think,” she says.

“Did you hear me?”

“Yes, Paul. I heard you.” She shifts into drive. “Since when do you care about how much groceries cost?”

“Since now,” I say. “So how much was it? You said things are cheaper down here.”

“I think forty-five, maybe fifty dollars.”

“Okay,” I say.

“Okay? That’s all, just okay?”

“I was curious.”

“Do you want to talk, Paul? I mean, we don’t have to drive the next eight hours in complete silence.”

“Talk about what?”

“Your grandfather. You did just bury him. And you didn’t even—”

“What, Tammy?”

“You didn’t even shed a tear, Paul. I know he meant a lot to you.”

“Tears stopped flowing a long time ago.”

Tammy sighs. I’ve exhausted her. She adjusts the air-conditioning setting so it blows colder and then gases the Caddy with a stomp of the foot peddle.

I didn’t used to care about money, but it has been on my mind lately—a lot has. I never imagined myself being taken care of, not the way that Tammy cares for me. Some men—the type that sit on the sofa all day drinking, smoking, watching cable TV, and circling a few employment ads in the newspapers just to keep their old ladies off their backs—would love to be in my shoes. But Tammy never causes waves about me not working. It’s like some unspoken arrangement—she doesn’t bring it up, not even to her girlfriends. She sees me as damaged goods, too damaged to interact with the public, like some dog rescued from a fighting ring—maladjusted and still nursing my wounds. Besides, in this economy, a felon seeking gainful and legal employment is beyond laughable.

Tammy has been my bread and butter since I quit working at the clinic. My boss always had a weakness for her—constantly winking and smiling. Once he learned of our relationship, he figured he would stick it to me the best way he could. Tammy and I had shared the same lunch break since my first day on the job. While I washed bedsheets soiled with piss and sweat, my boss sat behind a desk reading health magazines and drinking herbal tea. He couldn’t stand that I was with her—Paul, the ex-con, the lush. So he changed my lunch schedule so it didn’t coincide with hers. Then I caught him touching her in a way I didn’t like. He was showing her some type of chart when he ran his fingers down the side of her arm. It was subtle, and I could tell Tammy was willing to let it pass, but I wasn’t.

I don’t remember much, except the sound of the tendons in his arm giving way and then snapping like a handful of Popsicle sticks. His eyes bucked, his skin flushed, his mouth salivated. Later, Tammy told me that he developed a twitch in his right eye and that his pupils stayed glued to the floor whenever she passed. He was like the victim of a school bully, hugging the hallway walls, avoiding eye contact, and flinching when startled or approached from behind. I never understood why he didn’t press charges, but he did take a restraining order out against me. I didn’t wait for the clinic to investigate. I resigned and spared Tammy more embarrassment. She felt guilty about the hurt I put on him. So she tried to make it all right by prompting idle chitchat about the weather and late-night talk shows in the employees lounge. But nothing seemed to spark the old affinity he once had for her—the twinkle in his eye. I know now that Tammy resented me for taking that away, because it’s what I couldn’t give her. I’ve never been much of a romantic; for me a relationship has to be handled pragmatically—it just needs to function.

The hum of the engine and the heat are putting me to sleep. I rest my head back and close my eyes, but it does no good. With every bump and wheel jerk, my head knocks forward and to the side—sometimes knocking against the window so hard that Tammy pesters me making sure I’m all right. Why can’t she keep it smooth? She’s so goddamn jumpy. It takes about an hour before Tammy finally settles the Caddy into a steady driving rhythm. I’m reluctant to nap, believing at any moment the jerkiness will return.

A brief nap during the drive is the closest I’ve gotten to sleep in the past few months. At night, I stare up at Tammy’s bedroom ceiling while she sleeps soundly next to me. I strained my eyes so bad that one night I thought I saw a face. No particular face, but I could make out the eyes, ears, nose, and a crooked smile. Tammy doesn’t know I see things in the shadows. She claims I keep things from her and if I do it’s for her own good. The first night we made love she told me that I had a gentle spirit and that I’d make a good father. I wonder how much of that she still believes.

Tammy pumps the brakes hard, and I jolt. The traffic seems to have come out of nowhere and I can see billows of smoke up ahead.

“Must be some kind of wreck,” Tammy says.

I pull down the sun visor, shielding the glare so I can get a better look, as we creep closer to the mess ahead of us. A state trooper is laying flares and directing cars to the left of the wreck. A tractor-trailer is on its side. Under it is the front of a crumpled station wagon. The cabin of the wagon is partially intact, but the windows have all been blown out.

“Looky Lou’s, people breaking their necks to see this,” she says with disgust.

Tammy keeps her eyes on the road, not even stealing a glance at the carnage ahead and to the right of her. The sedan in front of us is creeping along slowly. The state trooper is blowing his whistle incessantly and waving his arm forward in frustration, but the driver keeps straining for a look.

“My God, what’s so exciting about this?” Tammy asks.

“He could be making sure he doesn’t know the car,” I say.

“Please, they’re nosy like everybody else.”

“Maybe people slow down to pray.”

“That’s a nice thought,” she says.

Tammy flashes me a smile. She likes it when I talk about God and prayer. I don’t believe most of what I hear in church. I’ve always thought being a preacher was just another con I never had the courage to attempt, but Tammy accredits church for keeping us together.

We’re closer now, and I can see smoke coming from the bottom of the station wagon. There are specs of red all over the tan interior. I can smell the blood in the air—the taint like rusted metal. It’s splattered on the windshield, the pavement, the white wall of the tire and rim. Strands of hair and pieces of fabric are snagged on shards of glass. There are personal articles littered on the highway: reading glasses, a paperback book, an aluminum coffee mug, a yellow beret, and a small muscled action figure.

“Baby, don’t look,” she says.

There are three bodies covered with white sheets. Blood has seeped through and looks like the first strokes in an abstract painting. A man’s leather loafer sticks out from under the sheet. His foot is twisted and the loafer is saturated with blood. It’s a deep burgundy, like it’s been soaked in a cheap red wine. Around the body are small pools of blood. The saturated shoe is creating a stream that trickles into a tiny pool, probably formed by a severed artery or severe laceration.

“Paul, did you hear me?”

I can’t seem to turn away—the bodies are fresh, two small children and a man, perhaps their father.

“Paul, please don’t look.”

Tammy tries to cover my eyes with the palm of her hand, but I bat it away. I take her by the wrist tightly, my fingernails dig deep into her skin and I force her hand back on the wheel.

“Keep your hands on the wheel before we end up like them,” I say.

There is sharpness in my voice and Tammy’s face can’t hide her hurt. She bites her lower lip and runs her fingers over her wrist, feeling the indention my fingernails left behind. Her wrist swells a little and I know it’ll leave a mark. If it weren’t for this wreck, none of this would have happened. Why couldn’t we have kept driving? No stops, no traffic, and no bodies. I wish I could take back moments in time—an exchange that would allow me to retrieve minutes from my past for the minutes of my future. So the word mistake would never exist. I never wanted to hurt Tammy, but I’ve been fighting this day and welcoming it at the same time. Now she can see what I really am. Tammy suffers from blind faith, but I know our relationship has slipped into a coma. We are dying and when that final hour falls there will be no resuscitation.

We sit idle for about thirty minutes. There’s only the sound of Tammy grinding her teeth and clearing the back of her throat, something she does when she’s angry. I wait for the opportune moment to speak, when her face calms and her frown loosens. Tammy told me once that I was robbing her of her sweetness. I asked her why she bothered with me. She just shut the bedroom door and locked it. That night I slept in my La-Z-Boy.

“I’m sorry,” I say.

Tammy ignores me. She looks forward, keeping her hands tight on the wheel. The paramedics are loading the bodies into the coroner’s van, and the trooper has successfully diverted traffic to the farthest lane. Tammy needs a guy like the trooper, a man who is good at his role—a server, a protector. A man she can count on.

“I didn’t mean it to come out that way,” I say. “It just did.”

She stays silent and taps her thumb against the wheel.

“Well, just know I’m sorry,” I say.

“What?”

“I’m sorry, I said.”

“You know what, Paul . . .”

I wait for her to put her Christianity on the shelf and curse me with a few choice words. But she doesn’t. Instead, she looks at me fixed. In her eyes: anger and sadness. It makes me so uncomfortable that I’m forced to look away. I’ve never hurt Tammy. I’ve never laid a hand on her until now, but in the past few months it’s become increasingly easy to enter a forbidden territory. I’m no abuser. I don’t take shots at women. I don’t use them as punching bags. But I’ve got an ailment. Some kind of rage deep in the murkiness of my gut and I’m afraid if I don’t part from Tammy, she may get the brunt of it. Every time I get angry, pieces of me seem to peel away like layers of paint on a weathered fence and when the paint is gone, when the bare is shown, what will I be?