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Chapter 1
Lavada rose to the iron dark and stepped barefoot across the cabin floor, pausing and placing her hand to the door to test the wind's new ache. To know it as her own. Touch told her she would need Mason’s coat. It hung on a nail next to the mantle. She took it in her hands and slipped her thin arms through the sleeves, wearing the weight of her man for a moment before she drew on his blistered boots and stepped into another day lacking him.
A rill of daylight cracked the ridge. She came around the side of the cabin to check the car for frost. Drew back her fist and smacked the door seam, overnight rime freeing. She climbed in and cranked the engine, revving it to open the thermostat. Went back to the cabin to get the old man up and ready for being left alone.
She tapped at his bedroom door and spoke his name. She could hear him stir, but he said nothing. She knocked again, harder, and heard the underlying hiss of his slippers. He would be out.
She snapped three eggs into a china bowl and whisked them together, dicing in onions and thawed peppers. Anything else would have been too hard on the old man’s teeth. The range ticked three times before the pilot light caught and the ring spat crenellated flame. The skillet talked as the eggs hit the surface. By the time she scraped them onto two small plates, Sam entered, dressed and cleanly shaven.
“Good morning, daughter,” he took his place at the kitchen table.
She set his plate before him and sat. How long had it been now since the convention of calling her as his kin had been confused with his actual belief in their blood relation?
“Good morning, Sam. Sleep well?”
“Ah,” he nodded.
His words failed him more these days. What was said and what he intended seemed to live in two different corners of the same room, never completely at odds and yet mislaid somewhere between thought and the saying.
“Do we have time to garden today, Daughter?”
She crossed the fork and knife on her plate.
“It’s winter, Sam. There’s nothing we can plant this time of year. Everything’s frozen. I’ve told you that.”
He released a sigh, shook his head, blue eyes seeking.
After scraping off the remains of windshield ice with a kitchen blade, Lavada climbed into the Honda and gunned it for the ridge line road. She liked the feeling of the hollow sinking behind her, the road opening up to the overlooks. Slip all tethers and give herself to momentum. The morning drive was a pleasure, a tight controlled movement along the shoulders of the mountains, the right-of-way ceding to her memory of so many drives in and out like this one. She did not consciously anticipate dips and curves, as much as feel herself forward, lean intelligently into the next bend and brake.
At Stubbs’s roadside stop above the county line, she pulled into the empty parking lot for her cigarettes. When she swung the door open, the cowbell banged against the glass and Mrs. Stubbs glared at her over the top of a Better Homes and Gardens.
“Help you?” she said in a tone bereft of sincerity. Her magazine a solid screen of overbold font, porticoes, English topiary.
“Yessum,” Lavada answered, awkward. “Can I get a pack of Kools?”
“What’s a Kools?”
“They’re cigarettes. Menthol cigarettes.”
“Never heard of them,” she said, sighting her down one ill eye.
“They’re in a green box. With stripes.”
The old woman found them, shoved the pack across, rang her up.
“How’s your husband? I’m used to seeing him in here.”
“Coughing up a lung,” the old woman said. “Come down with something, I guess. He’ll recover.”
“That’s good.”
Lavada turned to leave.
“Your man still up at the pen?”
The familiar disfavor, the judgment of a life reduced to what they wanted to see of her, what they wanted to make of her. She knew she would always remember the simple gift of their hate.
“Thanks for the cigarettes,” she clinked open the door.
“You’re still a young thing,” the old woman called. “There’s better out there than holing up with a father-in-law fit for the old folks’ home, you know.”
She had lit the first cigarette before the engine turned and finished it by the time she crossed the South Carolina state line. With the window cracked, the winter air danced in, making confusion of the hair loose at her temples. It stung.
Once she was coming down through the foothills, the road widened as it plunged through red banks and thickening pines. Roadhouses stood empty this time of morning. Fireworks stands were bright and antic with signs. Broad ply board proclaimed: BLACK CAT. NO DUDS GUARANTEED.
On to the town limits of Dry Gulch, a long stretch of green flats with a few small farms on either side, tractors asleep under tin roofs. Further on, the town proper began to assemble itself, newish brick ranches with big yards and cyclone fences surrendered to hundred year old stately colonials with scrolled balconies. Finally, the old downtown, a true main street, divided by occasional islands of rotary club flower beds, stubbled for the winter. Small poplar trees braced with metal poles to ensure perfect vertical growth. On each side broad sidewalks gave way to independent store fronts: a pair of barber shops, Lonney’s Hardware, a Purina feed store, Army/Navy surplus. Going out of business.
Lavada parked at the end of the sidewalk and stepped into Gillenwater’s. Inside, the grill sizzled with sausage patties and hash browns. She stepped behind the counter and poured a white mug full of coffee for herself. Gillenwater flipped the sausage and potatoes onto a plate and leaned back over the counter with a mostly clean fork. She poured him out a cup and set it down at his right hand. He fell to his breakfast.
“You’re in early,” he shaped out his words between bites.
She scanned the few tables and booths to make sure the morning prep work was done. The duty, automatic.
“Afraid of the weather. Thought it would be worse than it is.”
“You know I can always come out to get you in case it gets rough.”
“That’s too far, Dennis.”
“It’s just a drive, is all.”
He looked down at her boots, laced tight to her calves, the ends tucked in.
“Don’t those get hard on your feet? You look more sawmill pulper than waitress.”
Through the glass façade, she watched the empty street come into its regular midweek stride. As soon as the door swung open, she greeted her first customers, order pad tucked under her arm, pen notched above her ear.
“Now, Dennis,” she cocked her head and answered in her best Nancy Sinatra. “You know as well as I do these boot were made for working, And that’s just what I’ll do…”
She whistled off, leaving him grinning.
Chapter 2
Mason lifted his arm, thumb rigid in the air, hearing big tires and a quick engine coming on. He had not bothered with the thin sounds of passenger cars, knowing they were a waste of effort, but the big trucks were driven by men long on the road, empty of good caution. They would welcome him, a curiosity to entertain the lonesome hours ahead. When he heard the grinding downshift and the engine catching high, he dropped his hand, eased one shoulder strap of the ruck from his shoulder and turned toward the asphalt, waiting to be let on and taken the rest of the way home.
He climbed up into the cab and stowed the back pack on the floor in front of him, all his ready possessions riding against his shins, bouncing softly as the truck gathered speed.
The driver grunted his name and Mason gave his as well and then they were on to the ritual exchange, the swapping of stories that ate up so much of the common life of the highway. As the hours drew on, his own voice became an easy song in the throat, a steadiness that passed between both men while his mind could slip away to watch the long green of the free world roll out on either side of the road, the borderless ground like some kind of materially realized echo, a cracking sound wave of all that limitless choice.
As they came into the foothills and later the mountains, the trees nudged in closer, attending him, constricting the passage into some form he could reasonably suffer. So different than the unfamiliar world of the piedmont, a place that was crushed, dimensionless. Here there was grip and hold, a country with legacies not easily slipped. This place held no guesses, no deceptions of promise, only the fate of knowing what others who had ridden these same roads and byways knew, that the world of bluff, creek and gorge was without parallel, that the grim and the beautiful were locked together and that the men and women were owned by it in equal measure, released by nothing so simple as God given will.
He got out at the head of the Narrow Spoke crossroads, footing it back toward the glum windings of the gravel road leading in to the family property, singlewides up on naked blocks with clapboard additions tipping against the prefab, rude ideas of improvement realized by increments. Shepherds and terriers barked. Security lights popped on in the twilight.
Ray Ray met him on the deck of his trailer, automatic pistol palmed but loose, a simple piece of iron, no threat between peaceable kin.
“You look like shit, Cousin,” Ray Ray smiled.
“The way of the world.”
Ray Ray laughed his easy laugh.
“Bring your sorry ass up here.”
Mason slipped the ruck and met an embrace. Ray Ray shoved him back a second later and stared hard into his face.
“Same old Buddy,” Ray Ray said finally, falling to Mason’s childhood nickname. “Sit down. I’ll get us a little cold beer.”
Mason pulled up one of the metal folding chairs and trained it around so he could see the length of the valley he’d trudged up. On the other side of the far ridgeline the tourists had moved in and bought up all the scenic views, sticking pasteboard mansions to it so they could feel good about themselves for looking across at all the stubborn trailer trash who refused their bribes. The homes’ huge glass fronts were ablaze with electric light. Big yellow light pouring out so they could be seen watching those who watched them back, maybe wondering if it was enough to stir envy and hate in those poor misbegottens. Hoping it did. The sight of it all made Mason itch for a few satchels of dynamite.
Ray Ray came back with two popped tall boys, tears of condensation running. Mason laid one to his temple for a moment, then drank deep.
“I guess you figured out Lavada didn’t come and see me,” he said. “Two years, and not once.”
An old diesel train engine hauled a short freight out towards the river bed. The sound of its progress clacked on, a spike of useless noise in the useless distance.
“Buddy, she’s been looking after your Daddy real good. That has to count for something.”
They emptied their cans.
“She’s my woman, and she abandoned me. That sure as hell counts for something all right.”
There was little easy room to be had when it was time to settle in for the night. The couch and an old boy scout sleeping bag were all Ray Ray could apportion. The beer had taken its toll on Mason, and he suffered a tiredness that threatened to carry him into a scaling and dreamless oblivion. But before he would let himself be broken and dragged down, he ground his fists into his eyes and turned his head toward the long window and the valley beyond. Darkness and mountains reared in an enormous force over everything his eye could take in. A frozen breakwater, a great avalanche of stone poised to descend.
He swung his feet to the floor and steadied himself, listening to Ray Ray snoring in the back bedroom. The night made things somehow strange, derelict. The shape of old lamps, chairs and end tables released their accustomed lines, and objects inert managed to live, to feel. The sadness of this place suddenly broke over him, tumbled in a mute chaos of things remembered and imagined. Confused grief beaded in his eye. He did not know what sorrow he was weeping for. He feared, above all, that it was not his own.
One more beer. A rickety shuffle to the humming fridge and an Ice House torn from the plastic ring. Drinking like there was an undiscovered world in the next swallow. Knowing it all was about her, always had been. Even his hatred was a kind of love. He knew she made him suffer a brand of madness, an epilepsy of need, and regret too. One element seemed to sharpen the others, grinding down whatever remained of him in the process.
He eased out to the porch where his ruck was leaned against the far railing and carefully drew the weight of it onto his back. Staggering, he braced his free hand to the corner post and stepped out into the starlit yard, moving under the constellations, feeling as ancient and marooned as those splinters of galactic time. Overhead sketchings of cardinal direction and decision. He sucked back the rest of the beer, pitched the aluminum husk beside the road and walked straight out of the old family place, pursuing the stranger course of what lay before him.
Charles Dodd White was born in Atlanta, Georgia in 1976. He currently lives in Asheville, North Carolina where he teaches writing and Literature at South College. He has been a Marine, a flyfishing guide and a newspaper journalist. His fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in The Collagist, Night Train, North Carolina Literary Review, PANK, Word Riot and several others. His novel Lambs of Men, a story of a Marine Corps veteran of World War I in Western North Carolina, was published by Casperian Books, and his story collections Sinners of Sanction County by Bottom Dog Press He is currently at work on another novel.
The forecast is calling for rain on Opening Day—not showers, but a holy-shit-the-sky-is-pissing April downpour. He packs his books into the boxes he picked up at the liquor store while his wife stands in the doorway to their bedroom, her arms crossed. “Will you be out of the house by Thursday?” she says.
“It’s Opening Day for the Red Sox,” he says and reaches onto the shelf for another handful of books, the McCarthy novels he read in a college course. “I’ll be out by the weekend.”
“Why doesn’t your girlfriend help you move?” She says “girlfriend” like she’s spitting poison from her mouth.
He rolls his eyes. “I don’t have a girlfriend,” he says. “She’s a friend, and we were talking at a bar. She grabbed my cock, and I told her to quit it.”
“I hate you.”
“I know.” Calm and deliberate, he takes a box cutter from the pocket of his jeans. He’d like to slice a handful of her hair from her head, maybe scalp her a bit—nothing life threatening. Instead he slices the duct-tape and tosses another box of books into the corner of the room.
With her back again now turned to him, his wife says, “Why can’t you be out by Thursday? I can’t stand seeing your lying ass around this house anymore.”
“It’s Opening Day.”
“I just remembered that our son has baseball practice on Thursday,” she says. “You said you’d bring him.” Though he can’t see it, his wife grins.
“It’s supposed to rain,” he says and imagines the crack of a bat, the slap of ball hitting a glove, the rustling of the stadium crowd, everyone waiting for nothing and everything. He imagines his son catching a pop fly and dying to tell him. He imagines the skinny kid staring into the stands and seeing only his mother’s scowl, her bitter lips and slightly-scalped head. “I’ll take him to practice,” he says and starts packing another box of books.
Sure, the girl grabbed his cock, but he wasn’t surprised and she wasn’t his girlfriend. She’s just some girl he invited to a ballgame, if it doesn’t rain.
Nathan Graziano lives in Manchester, New Hampshire. He is the author of three collections of poetry—Not So Profound (Green Bean Press, 2003), Teaching Metaphors (Sunnyoutside Press, 2007) and After the Honeymoon (Sunnyoutside Press, 2009)—a collection of short stories, Frostbite (GBP, 2002), and several chapbooks of fiction and poetry. He has an MFA in fiction writing from The University of New Hampshire and teaches high school. A memoir Hangover Breakfasts will be published by Bottle of Smoke Press this summer. For more information, visit his website at www.nathangraziano.com.
She was a year younger than me and semifamous. I’d seen her all through high school, and then on the hood of a white Corvette as Miss Lonoke in the Soy Parade, a distinction that sent her to the Miss Arkansas pageant where she’d been first runner up to a raven- haired Miss Texarkana. She’d won a scholarship to some kind of modeling school, but by that summer she was back with her parents, clerking for old man Jolley at Lonoke Pharmacy and Drug.
This was Arkansas summertime, the heat was brutal, and my delivery truck was unairconditioned. Kimberly inhabited the cool inside the pharmacy’s double doors, a fluorescent-lit delight to the flesh and blood. I’d already hit Lowman’s, Mr. Templeton’s IGA and Knight’s Grocery, with its ten-foot tall suit of armor. It was Friday afternoon, payday, my labor was almost done. I had tickets to the All-Star game that night where Elvin Floyd Taylor was slated to suit up in Jackrabbit purple. It was a good, good time to be alive.
I carried a forty-pound bundle in past the soda bar. The air was fresh with the sprays of display perfume and medicine. She stood behind the counter in a white sundress, the spaghetti straps of which lay over tanned shoulders where spilled honey-blonde hair all lit up by the most extraordinary hazel eyes.
“Hi Joey,” she said. “You set those over there.” The sweat between my shoulders was cold.
For lack of anything better, I said, “Hey. Look here,” and pointed at my byline under a front-page story about a pig farm converting to ethanol. “That’s me.”
She laughed, a single note ringing. “What’s funny?”
“Puercos Gordos,” she said, and tapped my article three times with a fingertip. “Las Higas des puntas.”
The picture above my name was of three spotted hogs, snouts stuck in a trough. Snorkey’s corn will be turned into a new kind of gasoline… the caption said.
“I’m the author.”
She said, “Oh,” and nodded her head at me, narrowing beauty queen eyes. “I see.” “Want to get together?”
“Together?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“Why?”
She’d had a boyfriend, I remembered. A B‑team lineman named Joel or something, though the dirt of their story escaped me. Her father was a famous drunk, an amputee who’d once been a football star.
“Maybe I’ll write a story about you. Take a picture of your trophies.”
She said, “Okay.”
###
The next afternoon I drove out Mt. Carmel Road, past the Confederate Cemetery into the countryside with its lush green hills rolling off into pastures where farmers had just mown and raked hay into long rows that shone acre after acre, and I remembered working for a man named Guess, hauling up a bale with a sliced in half king snake dangling from a wedge of green. This country was in my blood, where every house had a vegetable garden growing up to its back door, and dead animals littered the roadside, opossum and raccoon, squirrel and car chasing dogs.
Every few miles was a schoolbus stop, where communities had constructed tin-roofed shelters over rickety benches, like the one Kim Burgin sat on that second, her hair yellow like a fire, waving me into that ripe Saturday evening in June, when the air we breathed seemed blessed and golden.
“Looking for somebody?”
“You.” When I opened the door she slid in beside me, and we drove real slow up the gravel drive to where her Daddy, a double amputee, sat fiddling with a ham radio hooked to an orange extension cord that was duct taped across the front porch.
Mr. Burgin looked up and nodded, then went back to his radio.
“Daddy. This is Joey.”
“Hey Joe,” Mr. Burgin said, and the radio let out a staticky cackle.
“He’s coming to supper.”
Mr. Burgin regarded me. His tee shirt was sweat stained and there was tobacco juice on his left shoulder. His pants were tied in knots below his knees. This close, he reminded me of Mama’s people, colorful, nobody’s fool. He wheeled my way and I shook his hand, trying not to look. Kim was radiant at his side–I have to tell you. There was nothing fake about her in the least–she was real to the bone. And I could see she had his face, the fine bone and shining eyes. “Well,” he said, “we could do worse. Tell me when.”
Inside, food was cooking, purple hull peas, it turned out, cornbread and ham. A blackberry cobbler steamed on the stove where a mess of okra drained on paper sacks. I was fed a fine country meal with sliced tomatoes and crookneck squash, lemon squeezed in the tea. Kim’s mother said the prayer, then set a hot plateful in front of me.
Buttered biscuits got sent around the table, along with a jar filled with syrup and mashed butter–poor man’s jelly. Across the room, a woodstove sat below a mantel where pictures showed Mrs. Burgin with a baby in arms, daddy Emile standing beside them with a big wide smile.
“You was a running back, no?”
Kim looked at me, and Faye got up for more tea. “Yessir.”
“Number 45,” he said.
“That was me.”
“I was back oncet too,” he said. “But I ain’t never fumbled on no one yard line in a playoff game. Ha,” he said. “Ha, ha.”
“Daddy.” Kim grinned and I could see that she loved this man. This all happened thirty years ago when I had no notion whatsoever how daughters loved their fathers.
“It was wet,” I said. My senior year, I’d lost the ball, and in turn the game, one rainy night against Bauxite Pirates. You’d think football was God or Jesus or something.
Mr. Burgin passed the cobbler, said “S’Okay, and looked me straight. “You be nice to my girl.”
I said, “I will. Promise.”
The Burgins sent me home full, with a paper sack of tomatoes and crooknecks, a jar of muscadine jelly and some chow-chow. Country people will give you the soles off their shoes if you let them. I drove away with the gifts in the front seat, and the taste of Kim Burgin’s lips on mine.
###
Next day I looked up the history of how Emile Burgin lost his legs. He’d been an athlete, all-District the year the Jackrabbits went 10–0. He’d been offered a full ride at Arkansas Tech in Russellville and accepted the Wonderboy’s offer. The week before he was to report for summer two-a-days, he took a job with Alfred Tipton manufacturing as a night shift supervisor, where they turned out mobile homes for poor whites who set them up in cow pastures from Butlerville to Vilonia. Report-in day came and went at Tech. That’s where he lost both legs, at Tipton’s, when a prefab truss machine grabbed him into its works. Only Mr. Tipton’s lawyers twisted it so it was Emile’s fault, a pint whiskey bottle that materialized in his locker was followed by negligence charges.
The case between Alfred Tipton and Emile Burgin was settled out of court when the former agreed to allow the latter to take ownership of a newly manufactured home. Kim was just a girl, a toddler, when Faye took over. There were the monthly disability checks and a holiday ham every Christmas from Tipton’s. A series of DWI’s almost got Emile jail time, and it’s fishy how he skated clean. He built a front porch on the house trailer on a piece of land he’d inherited from his people. He took up the ham radio, long distance conversations that blurred his nights into mornings, when Kim would crawl out of her bed and turn the radio off, cover her father where he lay, and put the bottle back in its place. That’s the story, the best I could make of it.
By Mid-Summer’s Eve, Kim and I had taken to meeting in an old barn two pastures over. I’d drive out after dark, park on the roadside in blackberry briar, and sneak through the barbed wire and out to the barn, where the door hinges would squeal and there’d be Kim on a bed of straw, little white streaks of moonlight pouring through the board cracks onto her bare skin.
Once on a full moon, she brought a drugstore- scented candle in and lit it. Then, thrown up large on the barn wall, our shadow. She was pregnant. We talked about eloping to Memphis, Kimberly and me, putting the Mississippi between us and Lonoke County.
And you think that would be enough.
There came a night when I was supposed to tap on her bedroom window, load a suitcase and drive off to our new life. But the truth is, I chickened out and went on back to college. What did I know? I was afraid, and that fear dogged me for a while, and then it went away.
So it was with mild surprise, not so long ago, that I found the stamped letter in my mailbox, careful writing on a scented envelope. Joey, it said.
###
This is a story about quiet and what breaks it, the hour after Mama’s lain down for the evening and the light bulbs from Daddy’s radio throw a blue sheen on his face, and if you don’t get here this second I’m going to kill you. A liquory voice speaks time to time and Daddy’s eyes flutter. He has an ongoing fight with this Mexican–Daddy thinks he’s a Mexican. They call each other fat pig and son of a whore in Spanish and I believe the Mexican’s drunk as Daddy–these nights. The other quiet is the waiting for the far-off crunch of gravel, cicadas thrumming and a whipporwhil’s lonely call and the starlight on the white bedspread Mama crocheted, new-washed for tonight and smelling of June sunshine. You’ll be past the mailbox now, the moon throwing your shadow past the tomatoes and bush beans Mama’s hoed, up past the well-house where Daddy peed my name in last spring’s snow. Are you deciding whether to walk away from me, to forget what we’ve promised each other, that I’m not worth it. Even though our rings are bought, bright shining this second in Mama’s old suitcase under my bed, even though our course is plotted and new life aches for us to join it out there round the bend. Our baby? You walk away from me now? Get in your car and drive across the river bridge and leave me and him stuck in Lonoke County for the rest of our lives? Hell with you.
“Hey, higo de punta? Are you listening, my brother?” The Mexican slurs everything. The words reach and touch Daddy in that place he goes to these nights when we’re all in bed and he takes it straight. “Puerco gordo?”
Joey’s saved four hundred dollars from his newspaper job, and he’s been working up a portfolio to show around Memphis, once we get there and find a place to hang our hats. I’ve got just as much down there in the suitcase, plus the crisp $50 Mr. Jolley handed me from the register when I told him I was quitting. He cried, the old silly, “We’ll miss you around here.”
He waved a hand so dust twirled round a shaft of light. “I’ll send a letter of good standing with you. You’ll need that,” he said and lowered his brow. Then he went off sniffling.
“Snorka, snorka. Fat piggy?” the Mexican says. “I have nice slop for you. Here pig, pig.” Through the half-open door, conked out in the recliner, Daddy’s not fazed. But I know that if I walked in there and turned the thing off he’d yell. Besides, when Joey Harvell taps on mywindow and I crawl out of this house for good, maybe that radio will mask us.
Daddy’d played football, too. I’ve seen the pictures of him running on the green field, throwing stiff arms and forearm shivers, diving over the line for the endzone. Then he went to the Tiptons. “They’ll get you from me too one of these days,” Daddy says. He’s got this car with knobs so he doesn’t need legs and he’s got this riding mower rigged up too, though he uses it mostly to drive out to the mailbox by the highway, to see if the check’s come so he can make the trip over to the county line and restock.
What I’ll carry from my life here? Soon I’ll feel it kicking to get out, just like me. I haven’t thought of names, they just won’t come, but I’ve read in the Health and Wellness section at work that babies never forget the air their mothers breathed while they were in the womb, that it above all will be sweetest to them and they can never ever be happy until they fill their lungs with it for good and ever. So you-know-who can never have him.
“Son of a whore–you answer me.”
For a while I walk the back pasture after dark, sneak through the barbed wire and out to the barn, where the door hinges would squeal to where he used to be. I knew nothing about life or money or how things get accomplished in this world, I didn’t know that I’d get stabbed in the back, or that I’d stab back.
I kissed and he kissed back. We’d marry, find some old farmhouse and make a houseful of good-looking babies. The fall chill’d come and we’d dance altogether in the front yard when a good rain came. We dreamed ourselves grown old in love, and swore to one-another that no matter what, there’d always be this, what the candle flickered on the cedar wall–and it didn’t take a stretch of the imagination, then, to feel the life we’d made find heartbeat.
“Si Bueno?”
The Mexican, where does he get off? Daylight’s coming, I can see it out the corners of my eyes, like the monster you see slinking under your bed when you’re eleven and the quiet comes on and you don’t dare dangle a hand off the side of the bed to the floor that’s cold to the touch, even though it’s June, and you’re eighteen now, and a new life is out there round the bend, fattening on the quiet.
“Señor? It is good with us then?”
This is a story about quiet and what breaks it, Joey. I waited. Goddamn you. For a long time. This matters. I’m serious. How could I tell him about you, how his eyes are the same blue and why he was faster than the rest? Why I loved him like I’d die? Here’s his football picture, number 45, just like you. The wreck wasn’t his fault–it was some drunk, we never found out. There’s a plaque outside the stadium with his picture on it, and two other boys from the State Championship team. We were there for the memorial. Eddie Stutt’s daddy broke down. I said some words. Well, that’s all from here. Still love, k.
###
The letter sits now in a box on my chest with a newspaper page from the Star Herald that announced the engagement and coming marriage of Miss Kimberly Lynn Burgin, daughter of the late Emile and Faye Burgin to DeWayne Tipton of Lonoke, son of Alfred A. Tipton of Lonoke. The bride and groom are softlit, and old Lamar’s given them the premier place on the page, what youth and beauty will get you when love turns chickenshit. Tipton adopted the boy. He comforted Kim on the sunlit day of the funeral last June, that’s all I know.
But all this is neither here nor there.
I don’t know why it’s all come back to me now, given the turn of events, Renee’s mother’s passing and the grief and sorrow that’s come down on us all over that. Only something happened during Renee’s visit to Florida, just before the hospice, when the bed scenes with her mother got the most intense–the very end of it for them. I was home with Lara in Utah. There was a night about half-way through it all when I’d cooked Lamb Curry, measuring out the happy-hour bourbons that took the edge off. And this one night, the one I’m thinking of, my daughter and I watched a movie together on the couch, some silly-ass love story or another, doesn’t matter, and it got me thinking about Kim and her now dead father, Emile, the person that I’d been once, and how things could have turned out different. So I mistakenly nursed this reminiscence with another whiskey until, well, until I woke up with Lara crying on the telephone, her mother distraught, long-distance–on the other end.
“It’s okay,” I had said. “I just fell asleep.”
“On the fucking living room floor? Joe? We put mother in hospice today. They’ve removed food and water.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’ll do better. I love you.”
When the phone went dead, Lara took the receiver from me and placed it in its cradle. “Time for bed, Dad,” she said.
###
In June, I delivered the eulogy for the Rockerson family at the Episcopalian service. We’d rented a place right on the ocean and, afterward, in the ungodly heat, Renee, Lara and I burned sage near the surf at a spot where sea turtles landed nightly to lay eggs. We took Lara to Disneyworld, and that made her happy–she loved the faux New Orleans haunted house best, the spectral images that laughed and drank wine in the old house splendor. So all the other business, that’s over with now, we’re moving on to a new chapter of our lives. Lara’s nearly twelve, she’ll come of age soon. It’s happening already. Renee’s finally through the worst of her change, and, after the operation, the endless bleeding and night sweats have let her be. We move forward. The Cap is coming for Thanksgiving, and I’m planning to fix up a room for him in the basement, though, after two-hip replacements, he barely gets around. I’ll lay in that handrail we’ve needed for so long, rip up the old stained carpet for new. We’ll track down a bird as big as a barn and light the holiday candles. I’ll lay in whiskey and a good stash of wine and we’ll watch the bowl games on a wide screen. The first holiday after is always the worst. We’ll take out the old photographs and laugh and cry and console, play the old songs and pretend we’re not crooked to the goddamn core, every one of us.
In honor of the newly dead, so help me.
Michael Gills was McKean Poetry Fellow at the University of Arkansas and Randall Jarrell Fellow in Fiction in the MFA Program at the University of North Carolina-Greensboro. He earned the Ph.D. in Creative Writing/Fiction at the University of Utah. His work has appeared in McSweeney's, Oxford American,Verb 4, Shenandoah, Boulevard, The Gettysburg Review, The Greensboro Review, Quarterly West, New Stories From The South and elsewhere. Why I Lie: Stories (University of Nevada Press, September, 2002) was selected by The Southern Review as a top literary debut of 2002. A 2005-06 Utah Established Artist Fellowship recipient, Gills is a contributing writer for Oxford American and a board member for Writers @ Work. He is currently a professor of writing for the Honors College at the University of Utah, and is promoting a second collection of stories, THE DEATH OF BONNIE AND CLYDE, and a novel GO LOVE..
Financial help, that is. My printer is sucking up print cartridges like meth. Because of various reasons, all unavoidable, I don't have enough money to buy printer cartridges to finish Dennis's chapbook. I need just a few bucks, maybe $25. This is not a 501 c3 corporation, so I can't promise tax deductions. It's a matter of love. if you like what we do and you'd like to see Dennis and Tim and Rosemary's and Ben's chapbooks sooner than later, send me a couple bucks via Paypal at XXXXXXXXXXXX. I never did this well while Night Train existed, which is part of the reason I chose to shut it down. I hate asking for money, but I don't have any right now. I'll even promise a return of your cash when I get flush again if you'd rather loan me money. Thanks.
Wow. Thank you all so so much.
Every night, at two a.m., I kneel
at the altar of her rust-brown recliner.
After the credits roll on past The Big Valley,
and Miss Barbara Stanwyck
has her last, hearty laugh,
I fill a plastic pan
packed home from the hospital
with lukewarm city water
and Epsom salts.
As I sink her tired feet to soak,
I wonder how many miles…
It’s hard to think
through the camphor stink
of Dr. J. R. Watkins’ white liniment.
But I manage to imagine
where rough heels
used to be,
ghosts of calluses that come
with hard work
and thin-soled shoes.
The medicine burns
my gnawed-up nails.
The effort of her smile is the part
that tingles.
“You’ve got Pap’s hands,”
a blessing,
“All palm and no fingers.”
Misty Marie Rae Skaggs, 30, is a two-time college drop-out who currently resides on her Mamaw's couch in a trailer at the end of a gravel road in Eastern Kentucky. Her work has been published here on friedchickenandcoffee.com as well as in print journals such as New Madrid, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Limestone and Inscape. On June 9th, she will be reading her poems on the radio as part of the Seedtime on the Cumberland Festival. When she isn't baking strawberry pies and tending the backyard tomato garden, she spends her time reading and writing damned near obsessively in the back porch "office" space she is currently sharing with ten kittens.
Joey had been successfully dodging Tommy, who’d had been tweaked out on homemade meth for nearly a week, until Tommy decided he’d had enough of the stray cat nosing around the house. So he told Joey to leave some tuna out for it and, when the scrawny thing got full, catch it and bring it to him. Joey thought maybe Tommy was going to drown it or wring its neck.
He took several bites from the tuna, left a little in the can out by the front door, and hunched down inside the screened-in porch a few feet away, slapping at mosquitoes, and thought about school starting back up in a couple days. He missed the cafeteria. As long as you didn’t attract attention, some of the kids were okay. He had a couple buddies.
He heard a rustling and sat still. A mosquito landed on his arm. He could feel the sharp itch as it drew blood. It was dark outside, but he could see a shape and hear the tuna can scrape against the broken stones that used to be a kind of walkway up to the house. He listened to the thing eat and jerked to his feet when he realized it might not even be the cat—it could be a coon or a possum. He moved to the door and suddenly heard the sound of the thing purring. He was pretty sure coons didn’t purr.
Joey knelt and put his hand through a hole in the screen. His fingers smelled like tuna—he was a little afraid the cat might mistake his hand for dessert—so he kept them balled into a fist. At first, the cat went quiet, but in a moment, it brushed tentatively against his hand.
Joey could feel the cat’s bones through its thin skin. He brought it into the living room and sat on the floor with it so Tommy wouldn’t yell at him about having it on the tattered, broken couch.
“What’s that?” his sister Chyna asked. She came down the stairs and stood in front of Joey.
“Cat,” he said.
“Better get it out of here before Tommy sees it.” She put a hand on its head and smoothed its fur. It purred.
“Tommy wants it.”
“Oh,” she looked worried. “What for?”
“Don’t know.” He shrugged.
“Don’t let him have it.”
“Okay,” he said.
“I’m serious. Joey.” She stared in his eyes.
“Okay.” He looked away.
She put her hand on his arm. “Really. Just let it go. He’ll never know.”
Joey scoffed. “Sure.”
Chyna was quiet. She petted it some more. Joey set the cat down on its back and rubbed its stomach. It purred loudly.
Both brother and sister jumped as the bedroom door slammed open. Chyna stepped in front of the cat and tried to block Tommy’s view of it as he stalked into the living room.
“What’s that behind you?” he asked.
Tommy took the cat by the scruff of its neck outside to the shed. He told Joey to go get the gas can from the back of Tommy’s truck. Chyna came out to watch. Tommy doused the cat with gas. It shrieked loud and twisted to plant a claw in Tommy’s arm. He cursed and held it out. He pulled his lighter out and lit it. Chyna clapped her hands over her mouth as the cat screamed. Tommy let it go, and it ran—a fiery dart—back into the house and planted itself under the couch. Tommy cursed again and ran in after it. Smoke was already pouring out the front door. Joey went in to see the couch in flames, the flames spreading up the walls.
“Get that TV out of here,” Tommy yelled as he ran out with an armful of valuables. Joey and Chyna ran into the open door of the master bedroom and found their mother, still asleep, and dragged her out into the grass.
“Quit wasting time with that old skank,” Tommy yelled. He ran back in and came out with clothes and his records.
Joey and Chyna roused their mom and explained what was happening.
“You damned idiot,” she said as he ran out with another load of records. He backhanded her and turned back to the house, which was blazing, now.
“Tommy,” Joey said. Tommy turned on him with his hand raised. Joey pointed. The eave above the door—already sagging for as long as Joey could remember was ablaze and falling.
“God damned cat,” Tommy said.
***
They went to a motel for the night—Tommy and Joey’s mother in the bed, Joey and Chyna in the backseat of Tommy’s car. The next morning, when Joey knocked on the door to ask to use the bathroom, he overheard Tommy on the phone with Joey’s grandmother, who owned the house.
“I couldn’t call the damn fire department because the damn phone was on fire,” he was saying. “I don’t know how it started. Probably the wiring. That thing was a death-trap for years. If you weren’t so stingy…” He put the phone away from his ear and noticed Joey. He made a fist at the boy. Joey went back outside and walked out into a field near the motel to pee.
***
Joey’s grandmother showed up later from Parkin. She pulled up to the room and waved Joey and Cyna over to her car, a steel whale painted an institutional green.
“Are you children hungry?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” Chyna said.
She waved them into the front seat and took them to McDonald’s. As they were ordering, Joey asked if they could get something for Tommy.
“He can get his own,” Grandmother said.
Joey started to say that Tommy would get mad, but Chyna squeezed his hand to shoosh him.
Back at the motel, Grandmother left the kids in her car while she went in.
“What do you think they’re talking about?” Joey asked.
“She’s tearing them a new one.” Chyna stared at the door with a sullen look.
After a half-hour or so, their grandmother came back out. The kids’ mother stood in the doorway watching as she got back in the car.
“How would you children like to come stay with me for a little while?”
“Thank you,” they both said.
She stopped at Wal Mart and bought them new clothes. While she was looking for shoes for Joey, she noticed his were duct-taped.
“What happened to your shoes?”
He shrugged. “The bottom was coming off so I fixed them.”
She got them five outfits each and shoes. She bought them backpacks, paper, and pencils. They put their bags in the car, and Grandmother showed the kids the receipt. “I just spent nearly two hundred dollars on you kids,” she said.
“Thank you,” they both said.
“’Thank-you’ don’t pay the bills.”
***
When they got to her house, she put them to work mowing and raking leaves. They gathered up fallen branches and weeded her plants in the front of the house. Joey had to climb up on a rickety ladder and clean out the gutters. By the time they finished all the chores she’d listed for them in her close handwriting, it was late afternoon. Joey knocked on the door, and Grandmother sent him around back. She made them both undress and rinsed the mud and detritus off with the garden hose and gave them towels. They dried off and stood in their towels in the entryway, shivering. She gave them each a set of clothes, and they dressed.
“Minimum wage is three-twenty-five per hour,” she said. “You two worked for four hours. Can either of you tell me how much you earned?”
Joey raised his hand.
“Minus room and board expenses,” she added.
Joey lowered his hand.
They ate early, and when they finished, the kids cleaned up. “May we watch television?” Joey asked.
“I don’t like television,” Grandmother said.
She sent them to bed early.
“May we read?” Joey asked.
“All right.”
They searched through the house. Chyna found a Readers Digest Condensed book called Dark Desires. Joey found a paperback Tom Clancy novel behind a bookcase. They sat in their beds on top of the covers, afraid to wrinkle the sheets. Joey woke from Chyna shaking him.
“You were crying in your sleep.”
“Dreaming about that cat,” he said.
They sat up reading their books for the rest of the night.
***
The next morning, when they came down to breakfast, Grandmother had another list of chores. They spent the day cleaning and repairing things around the house. For lunch, they had soup from a can that she mixed with two cans’ worth of water and had them share. For supper, they ate pasta with a thin sauce that hardly stained the noodles. They were in bed by dark and Grandmother came and knocked on their door. They quickly turned their lights out. She opened the door and said, “Happy New Year!”
“Thank you,” they both said.
When she closed the door, Chyna spoke: “I miss mom,” she said.
“I don’t,” Joey said.
“We could run away.”
“Where would we go?”
“Back to Crowley’s Ridge.”
“Hell, why bother?” They were both quiet.
***
The next day, they went into town to watch a parade. She gave them the rest of the afternoon off, and they searched the house again for more books. The following day, they begged a ride to the library.
“I’m going to have to deduct the gas money from your chores,” Grandmother said.
They started school the next day. Grandmother drove them into Crowley’s Ridge and dropped them off. Joey collected his first black eye, and Chyna got into a shoving match with another girl. At lunch time, they were called to the office. Their mom was standing by the principal’s office. Chyna gave her a silent hug. Their mother stepped back and looked at them.
“You guys look good. What happened to your hands?” She fingered the blisters on Chyna’s palms.
“Grandmother made us do chores.”
“Nothing’s free with your grandmother.”
“Where’s Tommy?” Joey asked.
“At the house,” his mom said.
They drove out to the house at Hunter’s Rest, a one-time resort community that sat, now, on a stagnant pond. Drunken fishermen threw lines in the green water and pulled out a gar now and then. They passed the gate and turned in to the dirt track that led to the remains of the house, which sat, surprisingly to Joey, just like it had before—sagging and weatherworn, except now, it had a blackened hole burnt in the roof. She pulled up to the house, got out, and went to the workshop off to the side and slid the aluminum door up. Tommy was inside, sleeping on a mattress on the cement floor. As soon as they slid the door up, he started cursing.
“The old bat give you any money?” He asked.
“She’s making us pay off our debt for room and board,” Chyna said.
“And she bought—“ Joey began, but Chyna nudged him silent.
“What’d she buy?” Tommy said.
“Gas. She made us pay back the gas money she spent taking us to school,” Chyna said quickly.
Tommy laughed. “Find anything valuable in her house?”
“No sir,” Joey said. “She doesn’t even have a TV.’
Tommy laughed again. “Stingy old bat.”
Tommy had a TV hooked up to rabbit ears on a chair. The kids sat on the hard concrete and watched it while he and their mother talked outside. When they came back in, the kids’ mom asked if they were hungry. They went and got in the car and she took them back to school.
After they’d cleaned her entire house and fixed everything that needed fixing, and by their reckoning paid her back with interest, Grandmother lost patience with the children. She snapped at them constantly, for their looks, for their smells, for every reason she could think of, and whenever she ran out of reasons, she would simply pinch them whenever they strayed too close.
“My freezer’s empty,” she complained. It was true, the day before, she’d thawed a cake she’d frozen three years prior, according to the date. She refused to let them leave the table until they each finished a slice and then complained about their gluttony.
They decided to sneak away during school and return to their own home. When Grandmother dropped them off, they went inside, waited a few minutes, and left. They walked over to Wal-Mart, just catty-corner from the junior high school, and then made their way through neighborhoods and back streets east, generally following highway 64, until they made it the few miles out to Hunter’s Rest. The gate was open, and they found the house as it had been. Their mom’s car wasn’t there, though, and when they knocked on the shed door, no one answered. It was chained closed, so they couldn’t investigate. They went inside the burnt house and waited, making themselves as comfortable as they could.
Other than the living room, which was soot-stained with a hole in the ceiling, the house was much the same. They dragged the charred furniture out and went upstairs to their old room. Their things were still there, though they reeked of smoke.
They waited out the rest of the day and that night. It got chilly inside because of the hole in the roof, but they huddled under blankets and toughed it out; neither of them could sleep anyway because of the dreams about the cat and Tommy. When no one came the next day, they hiked back into town and spent all the money they scavenged from their combined savings on food. The kids carried their bags back out to the house, joking and laughing for the first time since they could remember.
After they ate, Chyna went next door to a neighbor’s to borrow the phone. She called Grandmother and told her they were staying with their mom again and that she’d kicked Tommy out. They broke into the shed and found an extension cord and ran it to the house to power the TV.
They lived like that for six months. Joey got a job in town at Pizza House and Chyna got a job delivering papers. They spread a tarp over the roof and fixed as much as they could. When they plugged the phone back in, they discovered that it worked, but it only ever rang when the school called about them being absent, so they unplugged it again.
Then, one day, they heard noise outside. Tommy and their mother pulled up in an 18-wheeler. They’d been driving cross country all this time.
“Piss-poor job on the roof,” was all Tommy said. He and the kids’ mom reclaimed their old bedroom.
“Maybe we should go back to Grandmother’s,” Joey said.
“Let me think about it,” Chyna said. Joey sat beside her, quiet, while she stared straight ahead.
The next day, Chyna and Joey rode their bikes into town to the nearest payphone.
“School’s good,” Chyna said in answer to her grandmother’s first question. “Mom’s seeing Tommy again. He moved back into the house.” She spent the rest of the call talking about her job and how she hoped to move up to shift manager by summer. They stayed in town for a while and rode back out to the house in time to see the end of the battle. Grandmother stood by the doorway while Tommy loaded his car. The kids’ mother sat by the shed, smoking a cigarette. Chyna went up to her.
“Mom, if you ever cared about being a good mother to us, don’t go with him right now. Go and meet him later when Grandmother’s gone. Do it for us.”
Her mother sat, stunned, as Chyna turned and walked away.
***
Grandmother watched Tommy leave. She went to the kids’ mother and lectured her at length while the kids watched. Finally, her daughter in tears, Grandmother left. The kids went over to their mother. She looked up at them and smiled through her tears.
“You can go, now,” Chyna said.
Their mother’s face dropped, and the kids went inside the remains of the house.
CL Bledsoe is the author of the young adult novel Sunlight; three poetry collections, _____(Want/Need), Anthem, and Leap Year; and a short story collection called Naming the Animals. A poetry chapbook, Goodbye to Noise, is available online at www.righthandpointing.com/bledsoe. Another, The Man Who Killed Himself in My Bathroom, is available at http://tenpagespress.wordpress.com/2011/08/01/the-man-who-killed-himself-in-my-bathroom-by-cl-bledsoe/. His story, "Leaving the Garden," was selected as a Notable Story of 2008 for Story South's Million Writer's Award. He’s been nominated for the Pushcart Prize 5 times. He blogs at Murder Your Darlings, http://clbledsoe.blogspot.com Bledsoe has written reviews for The Hollins Critic, The Arkansas Review, American Book Review, Prick of the Spindle, The Pedestal Magazine, and elsewhere. Bledsoe lives with his wife and daughter in Maryland.
FIRST HUNT
The first night I had my driver’s license
I drank a 6 pack and borrowed my mother’s car.
I turned the headlights on, backed out
and was about a half mile down the road
when I had a collision with a big deer.
He slid onto the hood as I hit the brakes
and when I skidded to a halt
he scrambled down and ran off,
leaving me with a broken light,
some blood on the paint, fur in the grill,
staring into the woods on a dark country road,
not a scrap of meat for my troubled mother.
MY GOTH GIRLFRIEND
In the cemetery shadows
she pushed me against somebody’s grandpa’s
grave stone,
knelt in the excelsior
of the pine mulch
and showed me
that god walked the earth.
Death’s rock etched my back
as I fought but
lost myself
into the wet velvet corridor
of her throat.
My balls howled and a dark angel
clung to my leg.
Slowly the moon pulled
itself back together.
Not fifty feet away
beyond the flimsy border
of bougainvillea
rushed the insane traffic
of lost souls.
I was born in Peoria, Illinois in 1970 and have lived in Tucson, Arizona for the past 14 years. I love it here, love the desert, love the Mexican culture (most of it), and I love the heat. I have one full-length book of poetry out called DROUGHT RESISTANT STRAIN by Interior Noise Press and another called HE TOOK A CAB from New York Quarterly Press. I have had over 500 poems and stories published since 1993 and I am currently working on a book of prose.
http://www.nyqbooks.org/author/matherschneider
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