Motorcycle Roadkill

by S. P. Shane

  “Really?”

  “Hands down the most awesome thing I've ever seen! You nailed it!”

  “I just kind of fell into character... and yeah... it felt awesome.”

  He quickly unzips the back of his costume, slides it off, and throws it on the ground like a dirty pair of socks. “I wasn't even sure you'd go through with it, but... Did you see their faces?”

  “I saw Grant.”

  “I know. Really tough, right?”

  He unzips the back of my costume and I kick it off. “We're just gonna leave these here?”

  “Ah, we'll get 'em later. Let's get something to drink.”

  “That's cool.”

  The garage door closes behind us as Josh goes into the house. “Hey, Dad. It's me. Josh.” There is no answer. Josh grabs two glasses and goes to the ice-maker.

  “He doesn't answer you?”

  “He doesn't answer anyone... Creepy, right?”

  “Well, sort of.”

  He hands me a glass of ice water, which I take in gulps.

  “Don't worry. We'll break into the liquor cabinet later.”

  “Nice place.” My eyes dart about the kitchen.

  “Mi casa es su casa. I'd show ya around, but there's no tellin' what we might find.”

  “I'll buy that.”

  “Let's see what Harlan's into.” He crosses the kitchen and cuts through a living room where the carpet's so thick my shoes feel like they'll get stuck. He slips around a baby grand piano and a flight of white steps.

  My guess is that it's mostly bedrooms upstairs, but I keep my head down, afraid of what I might find. The door to Harlan's study stands open and the soft light of an oil lamp leaks into the hallway. Inside, sits Harlan, leaning back in an oak wood chair. He is a thin-set man with dark circles beneath his eyes, long frizzy hair the reminds me of Bob Dylan. Aged beyond his years, he puffs on a Pall Mall that dangles from his lips. He just sits there, staring at the wall.

  My eyes are drawn to his desktop, where a machine gun and a handgun sit out in the open. Boxes of ammunition and cartridges are spread across the table. It's clear that guns are a bit more than just a hobby for him.

  “Hey, Pops.” As Josh meanders into Harlan's study, white light falls upon his cheek from a bank of security monitors that take up an entire wall. There are four rows of monitors, four monitors per row. Afraid of what my eyes may fall upon, I avoid looking directly at the monitor.

  Harlan shifts his gaze to Josh, a look of recognition comes over him. He waves a peace sign at us.

  “Thought we stop by to see ya. This is Caleb.”

  Harlan looks me over carefully, like he's trying to solve a riddle. He nods. “Caleb? Like the apostle?” His voice croaks, barely audible.

  “Yes, sir. Like the apostle.”

  I extend a handshake to him, but he ignores it. He turns his attention back to the security monitors and after a while, he begins to mutter something beneath his breath. At first, I think he's talking, but then I notice more of a tone. He's singing a little song to himself. “And the whirlwind is in the thorn trees... The virgins are all trimming their wicks... And the whirlwind is in the thorn trees.... It's hard for thee to kick against the pricks...”

  “We'll be downstairs, Dad.” Josh starts toward the door, but Harlan stops singing, sits up in his chair.

  “You brought me problems.”

  A monitor in the top row shows headlights at the front gate. Blue lights flicker, as an officer steps out of his cruiser.

  Josh turns to the monitor. “Hey, don't worry about it. It's just Hayes and we've been here all day.”

  Harlan isn't even looking at us. He hits a button behind his desk and the front gate opens. “Josh, be careful next time. It's just Hayes this time, but we don't need to attract the wrong kind of attention.”

  A moment later, there's a short knock at the front door before Hayes lets himself in. “Mister Carrie,” Hayes calls up the stairs. “It's me.”

  “Be right down.”

  “Deputy Hayes?” Josh goes down the stairs acting like he's surprised to see him. “What brings you out here?”

  Hayes tilts his Smokey Bear hat, takes an accusing posture.

  “You boys been up to any tomfoolery in the woods?”

  “No, sir. No tomfoolery whatsoever...”

  “The boys have been here all evening,” Harlan's dead-pan voice calls. He comes to the top of the stairs, leans against the banister, clearly annoyed. “What do ya want?”

  “Someone jumped out and scared the local school kids. Scared one of the girls pretty bad. Had to take 'er to the hospital.”

  “Why are you here?” Harlan asks shortly.

  “Someone saw a couple of boys speeding away on a motorcycle. Matched Josh's description.”

  “I said... the boys... have been here... all evening.” Harlan's tone says, “Don't make me say it a third time.”

  Hayes stands still—his face blank. The wheels appear to spin behind his eyes, but he hesitates. He doesn't seem to entirely believe Harlan, but he's not about to challenge him. He nods slowly. “Good enough, Mr. Carrie.” He adjusts his hat and heads toward the door. “Sorry to disturb you.”

  He stops at the door, takes one last look around, and steps outside. Josh closes the door behind him, leans against it, and turns his eyes to Harlan. “Sorry, Dad.”

  “Well, did they shit in their pants?” Harlan snickers to himself and shoots him a coy grin.

  Chapter 33

  Sunday, October 3

  The aroma of corn on the cob and freshly-baked cod drifts through the kitchen. Dad prays over our Sunday lunch, while I sit still, my head bowed, but my eyes open. All morning long, I've been the quiet ghost, lingering about on the outskirts of passing conversations, while trying to figure out the exact speed of gossip in this town.

  Dad's prayer goes on forever, while I sit contemplating my eventual reaction to the Big Foot Talk. Sooner or later, someone's bound to mention it. Does it call for theatrics, complete with false concern and worried eyes. “They saw what?” Perhaps, this requires a subtler approach, a calm and disinterested “oh yeah? Well, that's weird.”

  What worries me is the Hayes patch and how well it holds. It's hard to say how much pull Harlan actually has with him. And just how deep is Hayes willing to dig to solve a prank like this? It's not really a crime, at the most a misdemeanor, disturbing the peace or something like that.

  Worse case scenario, Dad finds out and it's another good long talk. It could lead to the loss of some sort of so-called privilege, but there isn't really anything to take away.

  There's a part of me that wants to get caught. Whatever trouble may come, it will show everyone once and for all that I'm a bit more than meets the eye.

  Dad develops a rhythm—a certain manner of speaking that suggests that he's about to work his way down to “Amen”. All the while, dog-barking bleeds in from the neighborhood. Further in the distance, another dog howls as if it hears a siren. From the church lot comes the stutter of a car's engine, brakes squeak, and a CB radio squelches.

  “In Jesus name we pray. Amen.” Dad finishes saying grace. A car door closes.

  Mom places a blue ceramic bowl at the center of the table and drops a serving spoon into it. Her eyes drift toward Dad. “Did you invite anyone to lunch?” It's actually the first Sunday lunch we've had alone since our arrival in Crenshaw's Creek.

  “Not that I recall.”

  Mom digs into the potatoes and splatters a large helping on my plate, as a loud, steady knock comes from the back door. “Well, they knew to come 'round back,” she says.

  “I'll see who it is.” Dad scoots his chair back and goes to the door. The squelch of a radio spills into the kitchen. My eyes dart to the opened door. I'm busted! There stands Deputy Hayes, looking at my father through his mirrored sunglasses.

  “Didn't take 'em long,” I mutter while Mom throws me a questioning glance. The truth is that it doesn't really take great detective skills to figure it o
ut. I'm sure the tracks we left through the woods were not exactly subtle. It's not like they need to bring in special blood hounds to aid them in their search. It all leads to Harlan's house, where Hayes saw us with his own two eyes. The only question now is how big of a deal are they really gonna make about it.

  “Good afternoon, Deputy.” Dad nods and holds the door open for him to come inside. Hayes takes his hat off and steps into the kitchen. His gaze drifts toward Mom and me. His face remains blank and unreadable. His hands fidget.

  “Have you eaten yet?” Dad asks.

  Hayes sighs. His voice is hesitant and wary. “No, Pastor. I couldn't eat now anyways.”

  Dad places a hand on his shoulder. “Everything alright?”

  Hayes turns toward the living room, as if an angel may be waiting in there to relieve him of his duties. “Pastor, would you mind if I speak with you privately?”

  Dad motions toward the living room. “Of course.”

  Going into the living room is merely a symbolic gesture, as the parsonage is hardly soundproof. Besides, they're gonna be talking about me and the infamous Big Foot Affair. Of course, I'm gonna eavesdrop.

  “Pastor, I was wondering if you’d accompany me over to the Hickman residence,” says Hayes.

  “Of course, but may I ask why?”

  He sighs. He's silent for a minute. I'm still, not touching my plate, as dread fills the room. Hayes clears his throat. Coughs. “It’s.... Uh... It's their boy, Pastor. It's Jimmy. I'm afraid he's dead.”

  Jimmy? Jimmy Coke Bottles? Jimmy from journalism? Jimmy with the stutter? Jimmy from the Cougar cage? Dead?

  My fork rings like a bell as it falls against my plate; it's high-pitched tone carries on for moments. They say that when a fighter takes a good jab on his chin, he sometimes staggers around stupid for a while, unable to make sense of anything, unable to see the oncoming blows. He's asleep on his feet, numb to the world around him, waiting to fall down.

  “Uh...” I hear Dad's voice, struggling for something to say. “Dead? Uh… How?”

  “It looks like he's gone 'n' hung himself.”

  I catch a sup of breath, only to hear a thin sob escape my lips. Keeping my eyes fixed on my plate, it's too difficult to make eye contact with Mom. I don't want her to see me cry. I don't know why I'm crying. Didn't know him that well. But I knew him. And I'm a part of this.

  Dad stammers. He's not the fluid speaker he usually is. “Uh, the body? Where is he?”

  “In a lot behind the school. We cut...” Hayes breaks down. “I'm sorry, Pastor” Something in his voice tells me that Hayes is the one who cut him down. As my mind skips ahead of me into a dark place, an image of Hayes plays. He's standing on the hood of his cruiser, slashing frantically at thick rope, as he utters a dozen incoherent prayers at once. I suck in a quick breath, forcing the thoughts away.

  “Shhh... Say no more,” Dad says. “Has anyone spoke to Misses Hickman?” Mother Hickman—poor, pitiful Mother Hickman—I can't push the thought of her from my mind. Mother Hickman—tired and tattered. Mother Hickman—going to pieces. And Jimmy—who never had a friend in this world.

  “Uh, no. No, Pastor. We're still putting it altogether. I'm on my way to see her now.”

  “Understood. I'll come with you.”

  Dad steps back into the kitchen and grabs his Bible off the nook. He glances at me, then at Mom. “I’ll be late.”

  Chapter 34

  Tuesday, October 5

  "Hey, Caleb". Josh calls through my bedroom door, waits a second, turns the knob and lets himself inside."You ready?"

  "Don't think I'm going."

  "You have to, Caleb... He was one of us."

  “Was he?”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  I'm not sure what he means by 'one of us,' but I wanna pay my respects to Jimmy. “Well, alright. But I don't wanna be down front, where all the crying's going on.”

  He plods down the stairs ahead of me and the sound of organ music carries from the church. It's a piece by Bach if I'm not mistaken, perhaps one of the Cello Suites but played on the organ.

  Josh strolls out into the morning sun, joining the slow procession of funeral-goers. Already tears are running down my cheeks. I swipe them away, trying my best to hide my eyes. I'm not even sure why I'm crying—if it's nothing more than what Josh had said: Jimmy's one of us.

  The pew hogs wear false sympathy on their faces, like 3-D glasses at a movie—something that's done to be part of the moment. The pews are packed shoulder to shoulder, with small kids sitting in their parent's lap to make room for adults to sit down. There are chairs in the aisles, chairs along the back, and people standing in the vestibule. Practically everyone in the county is here—teachers, students, everyone.

  Already, sweat drips from my head—trickles from my arm pits. But I'm not the only one. Across the sanctuary, handkerchiefs and shirt sleeves dab at most foreheads and paper programs become makeshift fans. The air conditioning isn't strong enough to keep up with all these people. I try to keep focus—keeping my thoughts on Jimmy, but the whole sanctuary smells of butt crack.

  Down front, a golden retriever catches the attention of children. They see cute and fluffy. They're too young to realize that he's a dog waiting for his owner to come home. They don't see that the dog will go on looking—go on waiting—for Jimmy.

  Mother Hickman wears a charcoal dress—her red-brown hair in a tight bun. Her face stone cold. Her eyes empty. Bringing the dog was most likely her idea and no one's gonna tell her that the dog doesn't belong here. That puttering little animal was probably the only creature who truly gave a crap about her son—that didn't look down on him for his stuttering, his bad hair, his bad eyes, his bad skin, his bad life.

  Josh finds a place near the back—a couple of folding metal chairs, where we hunker down. The organ hums Mozart's “Air,” causing the floor to vibrate beneath my feet. The metal chairs ring with each note and even the backs of the wooden pews shake.

  With my head bowed, my eyes closed, I think of Jimmy. He's never going home again. All I can think about is that stupid little cage and how it wasn't his fault. He didn't deserve this.

  The organ fades and my eyes open to the dimming sanctuary lights. Gladys Pierce hobbles down the aisle in her black dress, her black hat, and her black gloves. A thousand people settle in their seats at once, making a ruckus that echoes off the walls. All eyes are on Gladys. She climbs carefully up the steps, stops at the piano, places a hand on it to steady herself, and then turns her gaze up the aisle. Her crystalline soprano breaks into an a Capella rendition of "Abide With Me". She's a few lines into the hymn when the funeral director, a silver-haired gentleman in a gray suit, opens the front doors.

  A sound like a dozen galloping horses rumbles through the sanctuary, as the congregation rises and a brown metal casket emerges from the vestibule. A few sobs echo off the wall—gasps. My stomach feels like I just sped over a steep hill and there's a heaviness in my chest. Apart from incredible sadness, there's a fogginess in my head—incredible confusion. My mind seems unwilling to accept what my eyes see.

  Pure wickedness carries the casket of a fallen friend. Four of the pall-bearers are strangers to me, but the two in front—with their matching blue ties and their gelled hair—I know too well. David Grant. Troy Schaffer. Whose frail sense of justice—whose poor oversight—allowed this to happen? The two of them may as well have tied the rope around Jimmy's neck. I can't blame them for showing up—for making an appearance—for trying to display a bit of remorse, but pall-bearers? It's all wrong.

  Josh wraps an arm around me. His face is blank, unreadable. “It'll be okay,” he whispers.

  “I think I'm gonna be sick.”

  A deep breath. I close my eyes. None of these other idiots matter. Jimmy was a classmate—one of us.

  Josh leans over and whispers, “it'll be okay. Keep calm.”

  “I think I'm gonna be sick.”

  As the casket passes, the pall bearers keep their eyes forwa
rd. The funeral director places a wreath of blue and orange flowers at the altar. The pall bearers pause in front of Misses Hickman and she comes undone—her stone face goes to pieces. A white-haired woman in a blue dress wraps her arms around her.

  Jimmy's casket's lowered onto a wooden bier, as Gladys Pierces holds the last note of “Abide With Me”. Dad approaches the pulpit.

  “Be seated,” he says softly into the microphone. As the congregation settles into their pews, Misses Hickman remains standing, staring at her son's casket.

  “Dear beloved, we are gathered her today to pay tribute to the life of James Allen Hickman, who has departed from us too early.”

  As Dad continues with his remarks, a strange feeling comes over me, like Jimmy's spirit is all around us. He's hovering over us like a ghost, ready to disappear into the sunlight at any moment.

  “Before we commence with our message, I'd like to open up the pulpit for family and friends to share with us their memory of James,” Dad says.

  The sanctuary's quiet. For a moment I worry that no one will bother to speak. Then, a short man with salt and pepper hair hobbles toward the front, hunched over a cane. He appears to only be in his fifties, but there's a stiffness in his gait, dragging his left leg behind him. Dad stands to help him up the stairs, but the gentleman waves him away. “I'm alright.”

  It takes the gentleman a full minute to fight his way up the steps. When he gets to the pulpit, he leans his cane against it. He holds onto the pulpit with one hand, with his other he fishes a sheet of paper from his pocket. The crackle of the paper echoes across the sanctuary. He coughs. He clears phlegm from his throat. “I'm Paul Hickman, Jimmy's uncle,” he says. “His dad was my little brother and he passed on when Jimmy was just a baby. And now, if there's any solace, it's that Jimmy and his dad get to be together again. For a while—a far too short while—I had the privilege of being Jimmy's uncle and sort of a father to him.”