Buddy Sour

One doesn’t expect it when a man falls through the rafters. Scared-looking. Skittish. Missing his hat. I was expecting a horse got loose, or even a coyote got in from the awful racket I’d heard from the house. I could’ve brought my gun, shot at whatever the noise was, but these days I’m just so damn bored that it seemed more exciting to leave it inside.

And wouldn’t you know it? I was right.

The man lands in a pile of hay so he’s okay, nothin’ broken, and he shoots straight up with his hands in the air even though all I’m holding is a lantern.

“Whoa,” I say, and put my own hands up. Shush him like I’ve done a spooked horse. “Ain’t nobody gonna hurt you. Now, why don’t you settle down and tell me why I came out here to find you falling from my barn.”

He settles, and I watch him do it. He’s all cow-eyed and pretty in the lantern light, his whole front dark with the dust of the rafters, palms lowering sheepish to his sides.

“Hidin’ out,” the Rafter Man says. Blinks at me with eyes like black velvet. Tucks his dirt-stained hands inside his jeans.

“Figured as much.”

And ‘cause it’s late and he’s on his lonesome, I take him inside.

“You can sleep there,” I tell him, pointing at the couch. “There’s leftovers in the icebox and the bathroom’s just that way.”

The Rafter Man nods. It’s only then that I realize he’s bleeding.

“Your hands,” I say, though it ain’t just those, it’s his mouth and shirt front, too. Everything I thought was rafter dust is really just dried, sticky blood. I reach a finger out, drag it red across his cheekbone. 

Rafter Man jerks back. Leans forward again when I suck that rubied finger into my mouth.

“Come on now, let’s get you cleaned up.”

He’s twitchy, but willing. Holds still for the water and dirt-cheap booze poured over his lacerations. Hisses when I wrap the gauze too tight but allows me to fix it. I don’t comment on how shallow the cuts look for how bloodied his palms are. And he doesn’t comment, neither.

The silence is killing me, though. I gotta ask him something. He can answer me any way he goddamn wants.

“How’d you get all banged up, anyway?”

“Climbin’ your barn.” says the Rafter Man.

Morning comes and with it, the front door ajar, a mess of sheets on the couch, and bloodied footprints leading toward the bathroom. I find the Rafter Man sitting on the toilet seat, head in his hands.

And if he doesn’t give any explanation for how the blood’s everywhere, seeped deep into his clothing and made tacky his chest hair, then that’s between him and lord almighty God, far as I’m concerned.

“You start bleeding again?” I ask.

“Sure did.”

“Well. Let’s change your bandages, then.” 

I put my hands behind me on the edge of the sink, and with one good push, I’m seated on the counter with the Rafter Man looking up at me between the spread of my knees. 

“Hi there.”

“Howdy,” says the Rafter Man. His grin’s a little crooked. His gaze keeps flicking down. He holds still a lot better than yesterday. His bandages hang in soaked, shredded ribbons. Red’s a nice color on him. He strips his shirt so I can clean the new marks on his chest—long crimson lines in groups of five like something fought back. He lets me patch those up, lets me change the hand wrappings. Lets me wipe a rag all over his bloody face.

“Messy eater, are you?” I ask.

We eat a real breakfast after that, coffee with fresh milk and marmalade toast.

Rafter Man snorts.

Rafter Man lingers on the porch as we say our goodbyes, belly full and hands wrapped in fresh bandages.

“Well, sir. I feel I oughta thank you,” he says. “Helpin’ me out, and all.”

“Ain’t no need.”

“No, really,” says the Rafter Man. Steps closer. His face is clean-shaven. I’d given him my razor. Breath smelling like fresh milk and oranges, pleading with his black cow eyes, “I’m trying to look chivalrous.”

“I ain’t that kind’a cowboy,” I tell him.

“Bullshit,” Rafter Man calls, and both of us know he’s right.

“So why were you hiding?” I ask him later, bodies sweaty, blankets askew.

He’s an easy kisser. Sweet. Cups my jaw like somethin’ precious, leans so far forward we both go stumbling into the house. Down the hall, up the stairs, clinging hard to each other’s lapels. Been a while since I kissed another boy. I reckon I’m very lucky to have met the Rafter Man.

“Didn’t wanna get caught.”

“Yeah, but,” I roll forward, ask again into his mouth, “caught for what?”

Rafter Man grunts. Kisses back a little harder. “Don’t you have chores needin’ done?”

“Yeah, yeah. You wanna help with ‘em?”

“Sure I do.”

We dress and get started on the horses, filling troughs and moving hay. Rafter Man fixes a hole in the fence for me and I get my knees bruised and jeans dusty on the barn floor thanking him for it.

And after, belts buckled and hats replaced, I offer him a ride into town which he refuses. Doesn’t really surprise me, so I direct him toward the chickens which need feedin’ and waterin’ and drive down by myself.

“Nother two bodies found last night,” says the girl at the market, bagging my purchase of gauze wraps, whiskey, and canned beans. “Ma says their throats got ripped out.”

“Shame,” I say. “They know who?”

She tells me. It’s a pair of brothers. Never liked them much; too nosy for my tastes. I hide my smile in my shirt collar, ask all concerned-like if she knows anything else.

“Sheriff says they almost caught the killer this time. And one woman saw his face. He was running, real fast, but she saw ‘im,” the girl pauses, looking curiously. “He was headed toward your place, actually.”

“Really?” I say. “Well, I’ll be sure to lock my doors tonight.”

“You’d better.”

“The woman,” I start, “who was she? She talk to the sheriff?”

“It was Maryanne,” says the girl. “And she sure did. They’re bringing in a police sketcher tomorrow morning.”

“Wow.”

Rafter Man’s sitting waiting for me on the porch when I get back. For once, he’s clean.

“Mhm.”

“Help me make dinner,” I tell him. He’s quick to agree.

I boil the water, he chops the meat. His hands are careful, practiced. I make him fetch the margarine from the ice box, put a little in the pan and a lot on my fingers. My shirt gets stained with steak blood where he grabs me and both of us get little corner-shaped bruises from smacking into the countertop.

Our dinner burns.

We chew on overboiled potatoes and gently charred chuck roast and play a violent game of footsie beneath the table. I tell him about my venture into town, that word has it there’s a killer near these parts, but not to worry because the cops are on the case, that a woman even saw the man’s face.

He tells me the chickens are doing alright. Then he asks to use the truck after we’ve finished cleaning up.

I toss him the keys. “She lives out on Greenwood street,” I say. “Maryanne.”

I’m a light sleeper, so I hear him when he returns again. I know how my truck sounds pulling in.

“That her name, is it?” says the Rafter Man, and he’s gone.

“You wanna help me?” says the Rafter Man when I step onto the porch. He’s carrying a bucket and a sponge. 

“What did you do to my truck?” I ask. Her hood’s all bloody. Front tires, too. The headlights glow red with it.

Rafter Man slips out of bed in the very morning. He returns a while later, showered and clothes clean. He tastes like copper and spit and bitter coffee.

“Hit a deer,” says Rafter Man. I make him kiss me long and hard before I take the sponge.

“Aw,” I say. “Did you make me breakfast?”

“S just coffee,” Rafter Man grumbles. But his kisses are sweet.

We drink his coffee and scramble eggs after a lazy turn in the sheets. The mail man comes by so Rafter Man hurries toward the bedroom and I open the door.

“Maryanne went missing last night,” the mailman says, handing me my letters. “Her husband, too.”

“People disappear here, y’know,” I tell the Rafter Man. Wash the blood from his face. “You oughta stay here. Where it’s safe.”

“That’s a mighty shame,” I say. “You take care, now.”

“You’d let me?”

“Sure would.”

“I’d keep you safe,” he says. Eager as anything. “Make sure you don’t go disappearin’.”

“I know you would.” I say, kissing his bloodied teeth. “You ever gonna tell me why I found you that night?

He says, “Town thinks I’m a monster,” and I know from how soft he kisses that he ain’t.

Of the cliches, the most eye-rolling was Rita Hepplewhite: the curvy, buxom, 1940s-styled femme fatale...in 1931. This seductress character is a literal whore, professionally speaking. And they way she's described makes her a dead-ringer for Jessica Rabbit. You'd think this was a parody, but nothing funny ever happens.

Besides Rita's 1940s hair and curves in a time when "sexy" women were still tubular with bobbed hair, other distracting inaccuracies include the "businessmen jumping out of skyscrapers" myth as part of the heroine's backstory, and no less than three uses of the word "gunsel" to mean a gunslinger, in 1931.

It was enough of a page-turner to keep me reading, but I wasn't ever too invested.

Oh, and if you're wondering what the catchy title refers to? Absolutely nothing, bar the vague "it was all over a woman" cliche.