Free Crimes in Southern Indiana by Frank Bill Page B

you’d helped me.”
    Melinda shrieked, “Seen what? What’d you see, Fenton?”
    â€œSeen his father bust his ass is what, damn catfish jerked my ass off balance. Near busted my head open. I tole you why I’s piss-and-pour wet when I come home. ’Course our boy here was too busy nippin’ the bottle to come help his old man.”
    Bishop inhaled the air from Fenton’s busted lip, smirked, and said, “I can smellit on you strong as fresh-spread manure on a field.”
    And he could. Fenton had tossed down a few skunk beers he’d hidden beneath his seat, trying to calm his nerves after what he’d witnessed his father do. And quick as a copperhead’s fangs delivering venom to its prey, Bishop balled his left hand into Fenton’s T-shirt. Swung him around in a broken circle and into the kitchen table, which scootedacross the linoleum along with steaming food and plates. Melinda screamed, “No! Stop!” Fenton came quickly from the table. Met Bishop’s backhand. Fear pushed him out the screen door. Blood warm like bacon grease dripped from his nose. He stepped to the gravel-mortared surface of the sidewalk. Barefooted, Bishop followed behind, cursing, “Run, you spineless son of a bitch, run.”
    How much had hislazy useless drunk of a son seen, heard?
    Bishop twisted the lid from the bottle of bourbon. With a Walker hound’s bite he clamped down on Fenton’s shoulder, spun him around.
    â€œYou wanna drink, then have at it.”
    Bishop flung bourbon into Fenton’s bloodied face, stinging his nose and lips.
    From the kitchen, Melinda yelled, “Stop!” Bishop raised his voice, told her, “Stay out of it.”
    The madnessfrom the Blue River ripped through Bishop’s body. He punched Fenton off the sidewalk. In his mind Fenton was no longer his kin, he was like Christi, a threat to his everyday existence. He’d remove his tongue or even kill him if that’s what it took.
    Bishop clamped his left hand onto Fenton’s throat. Slammed him against an elm tree within the yard. Fenton’s face boiled red. Air punched up fromhis lungs, rushed from his broken lips.
    Bishop turned the bottle upside down with his right, parted Fenton’s lips with his left, emptied the bourbon down Fenton’s blinking eyes and spitting mouth.
    â€œLike that, boy? Wanna drink, come home disrespecting me, get your mother all upset. I’ll teach you.”
    â€œStop, you bastard.”
    Bishop dropped the bottle. Pulled his Case XX knife from his pocket. Thumbedthe single blade, which had skinned and gutted many a coon, squirrel, and rabbit.
    â€œSay ahhh, boy!”
    Fenton’s hands channel-locked around Bishop’s soup-bone wrist while he glanced down at the ground. He saw Bishop’s bare feet and he stomped.
    Bishop cursed, “Bastard.” Dropped the knife. Stepped backwards, lifting his feet as if standing on molten lead. Fenton followed him like a pig wallowingin shit. Stomping his feet. Drove a fist underneath Bishop’s jaw. Teeth gritted and chipped down onto tongue. Bishop spat blood thicker than brown gravy. Fenton grabbed the empty bottle of Early Times. Exploded it across Bishop’s face. Dropped him to the ground. Where he hunched on all fours, shaking his head and spitting blood.
    Confusion and anger pumped Fenton’s heart. He raised his boot intoBishop’s ribs. Watched the red spit from his mouth. Fenton thought of the truck he’d parked down from the Blue River at the old barn used by Rudy Sawheaver for sheltering his hay. Then he’d walked down to surprise his father but instead he got the surprise. Seeing Bishop knee-deep in the green river, the surfaced body between his father’s legs.
    Hidden by the dying weeds, Fenton watched Bishopdrag the body to the riverbank. Taking in glimpses of the pale female’s flesh, the flower-print dress, drenched locks the color of soot