The Ancestor

by Lee Matthew Goldberg

  The Hand chews on his lip, mangling it good. “No jail.”

  “Bobby Barlow. He…” Stu thinks of how to describe his son to make him familiar, but nothing rushes out. He feels this missed opportunity like a pang in his stomach, a cancer building. The hisses and pops of the boiling water prick at his ears.

  “Yes,” The Hand says, resting his bowling ball head against his little chicken foot, the fingernails tapping against his chin. “He worked for me.”

  Stu’s face turns cranberry red. “Doing what?”

  “Odd jobs. Whatever I needed him for. One of many workers. This was some time ago.”

  “I need you to be more specific. What jobs?”

  Stu wants this man to tell him more about his son. Any anecdote a gift, even the most brutal.

  “Drugs mostly,” The Hand says. “I’d send him to other towns.”

  “He was murdered two years ago.”

  The Hand shrugs.

  “Was he working for you then?”

  “I’ve farmed out my business to others. See, I was shot.” His chicken foot reaches for his hair and rips off a toupee. Underneath, a hodgepodge of a skull clearly stitched back together like Frankenstein’s monster. The Hand knocks against his skull, sound of metal pinging. “Got a plate in my head. Brain working slower. Hard to do everything I used to.”

  “Did Bobby make you angry. Did you turn on him?”

  “Who?”

  “Bobby Barlow, my goddamn son!”

  The Hand shrugs again. Stu jumps to his feet, pressing the gun into The Hand’s right temple.

  “I will blow your fucking brains out all over this dirty cabin. No one will find you. No one will care.”

  “That is probably true.”

  “Please,” Stu says, his voice hitting an octave that mimics The Hand’s. “Please, is there anything you know about Bobby’s death?”

  “He’d talk back. A lot.”

  “Would he challenge you? Did you not appreciate that?”

  “You are putting words in my mouth.”

  “Stop talking in riddles, you goddamn monstrosity. This was my baby boy, don’t you see? And we have no idea why he was taken away from us.”

  “Did a lot of drugs too.”

  “Bobby?”

  “Yessir. Took the drugs he was supposed to sell.”

  “Did you have him killed because of that?”

  The Hand shrugs again.

  “If you do that one more time.” He thwacks The Hand across the face with the butt of the gun. The Hand licks blood from his cut lip, replies with red teeth.

  “I have a plate in my head. It makes me forget what I am talking about sometimes.

  What were we discussing?”

  “You son of a bitch. You’re goddamn fucking with me.”

  “The water.”

  “What?”

  “The water!” The Hand roars, his tiny chicken’s foot indicating the pot that reaches maximum capacity and falls from the hot plate, crashing to the ground.

  Stu takes his gaze off The Hand for a millisecond too long. The Hand charges, belly-flopping on top of Stu, banging the sheriff’s head into the floor. Stu pokes the gun around The Hand’s midsection and fires. The Hand’s eyes bug and blood seeps from his mouth.

  Stu rolls the heavy body off him and gets to his feet. He aims the gun between The Hand’s eyes.

  “Did you kill my fucking kid?”

  A bloody smile as a response. Stu fires the bullet, creating a third eye. No firm answers, possibly never a chance. But what did he really think he’d get from this beast of a man? Cold cases can exist for decades, eat at loved one’s hearts like worms on the dead.

  That will be the tragedy of his life.

  50

  With Callie and Eli gone, Travis takes Grayson up on an offer to camp in the wilderness with Chinook tagging along. It’s been a long time since they’ve been there and even hung out. Travis keeping his distance; Grayson doing the same. Friendships mutate as life becomes more complicated and childhood ones are usually the most fragile. They pack their gear along with a cooler of hot dogs and beers. Some hunting rifles too in case they get the itch. Marshmallows for s’mores.

  In the summer, the wilderness has a different pull. Not threatening, no longer encapsu-lated in ice. Trees with leaves, the landscape shades of green. The animals out to play.

  Birds in from the winter, the sky a chorus. Travis and Grayson park near where they shot the caribous in the spring, set up their tents, and get to cracking beers.

  “We got Molson Ice, Bud, and Natty,” Grayson says, making a face at the last one.

  “You trying to kill us with battery acid?”

  “Natty gets a bad a rep. And I’m trying to save some dough.”

  Grayson opens a Molson and flicks the foam to the dirt. “Don’t I remember you finding a shit ton of gold recently?”

  “The Goldmine’s eating it up. Nearly all gone.”

  “A hundred grand!”

  “More like eighty. And the bank’s not giving a loan cause my credit history sucks.”

  “What’re ya gonna do?”

  “Torch the place. Collect some arson insurance. Hell if I know.”

  “Buddy, we can forget about it for the weekend.”

  “Cheers to that.” Travis cracks a Natty Light and they clink cans. He lets Chinook lick his beer-laced finger.

  “Last time we camped was with the wives, I think. I mean, you and Callie and me and Lorinda.”

  “You over her yet?”

  “I’m trying out this new philosophy. If something wasn’t meant to be, then it wasn’t meant for me.”

  “Poetry, Gray.”

  “There once was a girl from Nantucket…”

  “Oh jeez, there’s the Gray I know.”

  “I missed you, buddy. Don’t mean to sound like a pussy or nothing. But I did. So there.”

  Grayson squeezes Travis’s shoulder. The fire cooking between them. Night soon arrives and they break out the hot dogs, spearing them with a stick over the flames.

  “So what’s your boyfriend doing?” Grayson asks.

  “My what? Dude, I don’t wanna go into it about Wyatt.”

  Grayson puts his hands on his cheeks. “Oooh, do tell. What happened between you two?”

  “He’s not in a good state of mind.”

  “Dude, what did I tell you?”

  “Save it, Gray. He’s good, deep down. He’s been through a lot. He lost his wife and kid. I don’t know what happened exactly, he never fully went into it. But like, they’re gone from his life. I can’t imagine.”

  “Callie and Eli are gone right now. You’re more alike than you think.”

  “Just gone for a few days. She’ll come back. She gets pissed and it wears off.”

  “So what did the hobo do to get your knickers twisted?”

  Travis tells Grayson everything, not to make Wyatt look bad but as an outlet. He hasn’t really been able to express what he’s feeling about Wyatt to anyone. Callie knew a little, but she liked to see the good in people, at least she used to, and would tell Travis to be patient with Wyatt and to remember they wouldn’t have found the gold if not for him.

  “He’s a fucking nut,” Grayson says, well adept at the art of being a dick. “Your great-great grandfather? Frozen in— what? His screws are loose.”

  “Sometimes we want to believe a thing so bad it becomes real.”

  “I didn’t want to tell you this, man. Well, I did, but I was gonna save it. Anyway, I looked him up in the database. No record of a Wyatt Killian.”

  “That’s not his last name.”

  “He told me—”

  “He said it’s Langford, but maybe it is Barlow.”

  “Do you actually believe that?”

  “No. I dunno. He knew where the gold was, right?”

  “Doesn’t mean he’s from the Gold Rush days.”

  “Well, why don’t you look up Wyatt Barlow and see what that brings?”

  “
Even if that person exists, it don’t mean it’s him.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Listen, Travis, I’ve been deputy for a good chunk of my life and you get these senses about people. Who are just not right. Who could snap. He gives off that vibe.”

  “He’s never shown he could be dangerous.”

  “Really?” Grayson kills the Molson and pops open another. “Even Stu thinks so. That time at the hospital?”

  “Emotions were running high and Stu was in the wrong.”

  “Stu’s also said for you to watch out for him. Problem is, you don’t listen to advice.”

  “Nope.” Travis belches and opens another Natty. He stares at the sway of stars, a light show as their ceiling. “Callie’s coming back, right?”

  “What makes you even question?”

  “She’s never taken off like this before. But when it’s good between us, it’s real good.

  Right now, it’s just not.”

  “I used to say the same about Lorinda.”

  “You two fought all the time.”

  “Yeah, we got off on that.” Grayson shifts on the log he’s sitting on and slips off. He rubs his ass with a laugh. “That smarts.”

  “At least one part of you is smart.”

  Grayson swings to hit Travis in the shoulder but misses. “She’ll be back, man.”

  “What makes you so sure?”

  “Because if you guys fail, then all relationships are doomed.”

  Travis clutches the cold can, takes a nervous sip. “I miss her. Eli too. What’s the saying, ‘Don’t know what you got ’til it’s gone’?”

  “Yep, amen to that, brother. No one except Lorinda could stroke my balls just right.”

  Travis whaps Grayson on the head with his half-cooked hot dog on a stick. “You’re a fucking nightmare.”

  “I’m your brother.”

  Travis bites his cheek. “Yeah, you’re my brother, Gray.”

  “Love ya, knucklehead.”

  “Let’s get some food in us before we throw up and leave a Goldilocks trail for bears.”

  They eat like animals, allowing their stomachs to stretch. The fullness comforting when Travis isn’t feeling fully comforted. What it’s like to be in a type of limbo. Travis hates this insecurity, the absence of a wife to spoon, a child to wake you up at the crack of morning.

  “Don’t fuck things up like I did,” Grayson says, six beers in, rocking back and forth on the log.

  “What was— hic—what was that?”

  “With Callie. Don’t treat her like I treated Lorinda. Treat her better than you’d treat yerself.”

  Travis gives an A-OK sign.

  “I’m serious. You have a good thing goin’, an enviable thing. Most would kill for what you have.”

  The word kill cutting through the midsummer night, echoed by the mighty birdsong.

  51

  To duplicate someone takes skill, and above all, dedication. Most importantly a need must exist, a reason to turn. In his new house, with his new clothes bought from gold riches, Wyatt stands before a tall mirror asking all the questions required for such a dramatic metamorphosis. But he’s been shedding skin since he woke in the wilderness. This should be no different. From egg, breaking through the burden of amnesia, to hatching with a fully realized past. He clenches his fists, calloused and scarred, knuckles like knobs, these hands who chose to kill twice. All for the shine that’s been his obsession.

  “Have I descended so far that nothing else I do matters?”

  He asks this to the floor, but really Hell remains the target. Not that he’s ever believed its existence. But still, he fears. People are often frightened by the imaginary, the un-known.

  And somewhere tucked in another pocket of his brain, another question lingers. The mystery of his eternal stay on this planet. The reason he was able to freeze for so long.

  Upon opening his one eye months ago, the answer was paramount above all else. Now that seems naïve. Enigmas are often unsolved. They give us focus, keep us questioning, even youthful. Answers are closure and that’s not always what is best. For once we have no questions left, we might as well be dead.

  Wyatt finds himself on 201 Elk Road lingering at the door. It’s the weekend and only Callie’s car is in the driveway, the pickup truck gone. If Trav had been home, Wyatt has no clue how the afternoon would shape. Better for Trav to have vanished for all their sakes. He spent the morning practicing Trav’s gait. The way Trav’s shoulders hunch forward when he walks, his voice that tends to mash words together like he’s too lazy to separate them. That sometimes Trav lightly hums in the absence of speaking. All the quirks that come together to form a human.

  He knocks on the door before he loses his nerve. Callie appears in a sweater too large for her frame. Her red hair in a clip. No makeup on, an appearance he prefers.

  “Wyatt,” she says, and gives a long yawn. “Travis isn’t here.”

  “Oh yes,” he replies. “I…I wanted to see how you were doing.”

  She scrunches her nose, holding onto the door, not yet welcoming him inside.

  “I know you went to California, and I was curious how your trip went.”

  She rests her cheek against the doorframe. “Fine. Super jet lagged even though there’s only an hour difference.”

  She laughs, but he has no idea what jet lagged means.

  “I know Trav is running into difficulty with the restaurant. I was hoping we could speak about it?”

  Callie glances at her watch, scrunches her nose again. “Eli’s down for a nap. I was planning on taking my own.”

  “Won’t be too much of your time.”

  “All right,” she says, swinging the door open. “You plead a good case.”

  Upon entering, Chinook growls in the corner, fangs bared. Wyatt has never seen the dog behave this way, usually being so taciturn.

  “I’m sorry,” Callie says, corralling the dog by the collar. “’Nook, I’m gonna take you outside if you don’t stop.”

  Chinook snaps at Wyatt, saliva dripping.

  “Stop it!” Callie says, and leads the dog out the screen door before closing it. She returns, reenergized. “I have a pot of coffee brewing.”

  “That would be lovely.”

  She pours two mugs and they sit at the coffee table in the living room. Wyatt lets the steam tickle his nostrils, alerting his brain to what exactly he needs to say.

  “I haven’t seen much of Trav lately,” he begins, hanging his head.

  “I wouldn’t take it personally. The Goldmine has eaten up all his time.”

  “No, not personally. Well, somewhat. See I believe I can help his woes.”

  Callie takes a deep sip from her mug. “How so?”

  “I could invest in the place.”

  Her eyes widen. “Oh. Didn’t expect that.” Her tone shifts to a more singsongy lilt akin to Adalaide’s.

  “What did you expect?”

  She smiles. “I can’t say I know what to expect with you. You’re an enigma.” She lets her hair out of the clip, shakes it until it falls into place along her shoulders. Rubbing a sore in her neck appears to change her demeanor. “You know Travis and I aren’t too much alike, but in some aspects we are. I won’t be fine waiting tables my whole life. I had dreams too. I thought I was gonna be an actress. That it would be so easy. But it was horrible. Lecherous men in casting couches. Directors poking and prodding like I was cattle. There were so many girls like me. But I never really had drive. I did when I was acting in Our Town in high school. I left myself up on that stage, acted the shit out of Emily Webb. But when things weren’t working out, I had zilch motivation. And I’ve accepted that. I never would have made it, just become a basket case. And Travis is the same. Because Travis has drive when things are working in his favor, not otherwise. And that’s dangerous for a business. But did I say anything? No. Because it was found money, right? What would we do with it otherwise? A college fund for Eli? By the time he’s old enough, eighty g
rand won’t even cover dorm dues. Money appears out of nowhere, so you take a chance with it, right? But I’m losing my husband. The Goldmine has become an obsession. And you want to donate to this?”

  “I want what is best for your family.”

  “See that’s what puzzles me, Wyatt. Why?”

  “Because you all have been so kind.”

  “Have we? You’re the one that led him to the gold, what have we really done?”

  “I assume he hasn’t spoken to you about who I am.”

  “And who are you, Wyatt Langford?”

  “For one, that’s not my last name.”

  “It’s not? So what is it?”

  “Well—”

  “Daddy?” asks a small voice. Eli pajama-footed and rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

  He flops over to them, hugging Wyatt’s meaty leg.

  “No, that’s not Daddy,” Callie says, coaxing Eli toward her.

  Eli blinks a few times, the netherworld of sleep further and further away. His eyes brim with tears, sobbing into his mother’s sleeve.

  “We’ve been gone a few days and he hasn’t seen Travis yet. Flew home this morning and the pickup was gone along with camping gear. Guessing he and Grayson are having a boys’ weekend.”

  “Eli,” Wyatt says, mimicking Trav’s voice. The boy perks up his head and observes this strange man with a mix of curiosity and disdain. “Come sit on my lap.”

  “Wyatt, that’s okay—” Callie begins to say, but Eli wobbles over and climbs onto Wyatt’s knee. He begins bouncing the boy as the tears dry and a giggle erupts.

  “No need for crying, Little Joe. Hush, hush now.”

  He sings the song, “Too-ra-loo-ra-loo-ral, ” the same one Adalaide sung to calm Little Joe. Eli pops his thumb in his mouth and relaxes against Wyatt’s chest.

  “You’re very good with children,” Callie says. She seems eager to pull Eli away, uncomfortable with the situation, but also, mystified with how peaceful Eli’s demeanor has shifted. Eli’s tiny eyes shut. He’s asleep again.

  “Let me put him down,” she whispers, taking back her child and carrying him into his bedroom.

  Wyatt observes the room while she’s gone. The kingdom he craves. They could be so happy, or at least a version of what he remembers as happiness, a slice of it, enough to soothe. When Callie returns, she tucks her hair behind her ears and sits across from him.