Rant: The Oral History of Buster Casey

Echo Lawrence: For that hour alone, looking straight up at the ceiling, his eyes not focused, Rant's finger, it explored the warm, deep world inside his head. Every two o'clock, Rant would lay there and pick his nose. Fishing out gummy strands of goo, he'd roll these between two fingers until the goo turned black. The black goo ball sticking to one finger, then his thumb, never falling, no matter how hard he shook his hand. Every gummy black little ball he'd reach up and paste on the wall above his pillow, the white paint peppered with black lumps. Stuccoed with black goo balls mashed flat, printed with loops and whirls, a thousand copies of Rant's little fingerprint. Souvenirs from the travels inside his head. Always the same portrait of the index finger of Rant's right hand. This spotted rainbow, this arching mural of black dots spreading wider as his little-kid arm grew longer The dried goo up close to his pillow, it was just black specks, dusty keepsakes from when he was really small. A hundred naps later, the dots were big as raisins, spread as high and wide as Rant could reach, flopped on his back, his head propped on the pillow.

The ceiling of his childhood bedroom Irene Casey had pasted with bright star shapes that glowed green when you turned out the light.

The head of Rant's bed was a negative night sky. There, sticky black dots outlined other constellations. Until that day, Rant didn't see the difference.

Edna Perry: If you can keep a secret, the first life that maniac Rant Casey wrecked was Irene's. The first bright future he ever ended was his mama's.

Echo Lawrence: That two o'clock when Rant stopped being an angel, his mother was tucking him in for his nap. Leaning over his pillow, she kissed her little Buddy sweet dreams. His round face sunk into his pillow. Rant's long eyelashes fanned down against his pink cheeks.

If you look at old pictures, Irene Casey is so pretty. Not just young, but pretty the way you look when your face goes smooth, the skin around your eyes and lips relaxed, the pretty you only look when you love the person taking the picture.

Rant's mother is the pretty young mom, the nudge of soft lips on his face beside his ear. She's the breath, the whisper of "Sleep tight" with the smell of cigarettes. The candy smell of her shampoo. The flower smell of her skin cream.

Her breath saying, "You're Mommy's little treasure."

Saying, "You're our little angel."

Most mothers talk the same way, in the moment they're still one person with their child.

"You're Mommy's perfect little man…"

That moment, before the cow eyeballs and the rattlesnake bites and high-school erections, here's the last moment Rant and his mom will ever be that close. That much in love.

That moment—the end of what we wish would last forever.

Dr. David Schmidt (Middleton Physician): In my opinion, both the Caseys made unlikely parents. It's been my experience that plenty of young people look at their newborns as a practical joke. Maybe a punishment. A baby just is; it ain't made of chrome for you to tool around in. A baby ain't going to land you a job behind a desk with air-conditioning.

Chet Casey, he looked at that baby like his worst enemy and best friend, combined.

Echo Lawrence: That naptime, Rant's mother leans over the bed. With one hand, she finger-combs the hair off his little forehead, his bright-green eyes looking up at her, his eyes too big for his face. His eyes counting her stars.

She stands to go back to the kitchen or the garden or the television, and Rant's pretty young mother, she stops. Still half leaned over his bed, she looks at the wall above his pillow, her eyes squinting and twitching to see something on the plaster. Her lips peel open a little. Her gray eyes blinking and blinking, looking hard at the wall, her pretty, pointed chin sags against her neck. And with one hand she reaches forward, one finger poked out a little, the fingermail ready to pick at something on the white paint. The smooth skin puckered into a ditch between her eyebrows.

Rant twists on his bed, arching his back to look.

His mother says, "What's this…?"

And her fingernail taps something, a black lump, a wad, a bump of something almost soft, a mashed raisin that flakes off and falls next to Rant's head on the pillow. A little black fingerprint next to his face.

Rant's mother, her eyes roll to follow the sweep of black dots across the wall, the swarm of gummy smudges that spiral down to her angel's head on the pillow.

As Rant used to say: "Some folks are just born human. The rest of us…"

In one way, we're all the same. After a heartbeat of looking, we all see dried snot. We know the sticky feel of it underneath chairs and tables.