The Debt

by Tyler King

  I had learned to play “Chopsticks” on the piano in three days. The usual melodies and nursery rhymes were within my repertoire in three months. I could reproduce nearly any song I heard by ear in the first year under Carmen’s instruction. It escalated and grew until I won state competitions against students twice my age. Juilliard invited me. Harvard, Carnegie Hall, Lincoln Center. And it all went by so fast.

  The first song I’d ever composed was a birthday present for Hadley. My mom had suggested that I write her a song—something thoughtful, personal, and unique. Give her a gift that only I could. Carmen was great like that.

  I played the song at Hadley’s tenth birthday party after we’d finished eating cake and her other friends had left with their parents. Hadley cried when I finished the song. I was terrified as I searched her eyes and those of my parents. I thought I’d upset her. I thought she hated it. For a few seconds, I seriously considered running. But Hadley insisted they were happy tears. That concept made not a damn lick of sense. She laughed, hugged me, and said she loved it. She used to make me play it for her constantly while she hung around during my rehearsals. Well, she didn’t make me. I’d have played her anything so long as she looked at me like I was hot shit.

  At some point in my reminiscing, I’d stopped strumming. My fingers had the neck of my acoustic guitar in a death grip. The imprint of the strings was red in my palm as I pried my hand free and set the instrument down.

  Three hours later, Asha’s words still plagued me—not that I had a reason to put an ounce of faith in the tiny devil.

  To prove that I wasn’t completely uncivilized, I spent a few hours whittling down my laundry pile. That task didn’t require any actual work past starting the machine and switching out loads, so I kept up the cleaning mode as I went over the rest of the house. It was too damn big.

  Sometime between trying to figure out how to empty the vacuum bin and throwing the fucking thing across the room when I finally pried it loose, I realized that I was agitated, cranky. I had a temper tantrum over a fucking vacuum. Everything was out of sorts, and it made me antsy.

  Fuck this shit.

  * * *

  I met up with Corey and Trey at a pub downtown, where they were finishing a game of pool. I got a beer and a round for the guys, taking a stool at the table in the corner.

  On a Sunday afternoon, only a few old guys occupied the bar, chain-smoking while watching soccer on the tiny TV on the wall. The pleather cushions on the stools were all ripped and held together with duct tape. The felt on the tables was scuffed, and there wasn’t a straight cue stick in the building.

  Trey scratched and sent his stripe in the pocket. “You’re bad luck,” he told me as he grabbed his beer from the table. “I was up three shots on Corey before you showed up.”

  “That’s a matter of perspective. Corey’s not complaining.”

  “Yeah. Come over here and rub my ball for luck,” Corey said as he picked the cue ball out of the pocket and held it up. “Trey owes me a new drum head if I win.”

  I winked at Corey over the rim of my beer bottle. “Bring ’em over here, handsome.”

  He laughed, then missed his wide-open shot entirely. “Fuck.”

  “My bad. I didn’t mean to get you all hot and bothered.”

  “Don’t tease me.”

  Corey plopped down on the stool across from me and chugged almost half the beer in one huge gulp. It was like his thick neck was just one big drain straight to his stomach.

  Trey got up to take his turn. “Have you heard from Scott lately?”

  “Texted me demanding a cut from his last gig. I told him to fuck off. Why?”

  Trey made his shot easily and proceeded to sink one after another while Corey hung his head.

  “Came asking me about it. I told him it was up to you.”

  “Thanks.”

  “That’s the deal: You handle the money, Corey does promotion, and I take care of the gear.” He chalked his cue, circling the table to line up his next shot.

  “And what was Scott’s role?”

  “Nothing. He missed that day of rehearsal.”

  The cue ball cracked off a stripe to knock it into the corner pocket.

  “You guys are so tough on him.” Corey swigged his beer. “He just needs a little help.”

  “Hey, how’d it go with the blonde? Grace, right?” I asked him. “The one Asha pushed on you.”

  Trey sank the eight ball with a decisive thunk, winning the game. “She hates him.”

  “Already? Doesn’t it usually take at least four hours for a chick to decide you’re a pervert?”

  “Nah,” Corey said, huge grin on his face. “Not that long. I think I’m in love,” he barked through a laugh.

  “You lost me.”

  Corey was the best kind of friend, but he had the emotional maturity of a dachshund.

  “She’s the future ex-Mrs. Clark. Legs for days. Round ass. Great tits. Fuck, I got a stiffy just looking at her lips. Really fuckable lips.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “She’ll come around. And it would be the perfect relationship. Since everything I say pisses her off, we just won’t talk.”

  “Great plan. Let me know how that goes.”

  “She asked Asha about coming to the show next week.” Trey took a seat at the table. “Either Grace is a closeted rock groupie or a glutton for punishment.”

  Corey spun his bottle cap on the sticky wood tabletop. “I’ll spank her if that’s what she’s into.”

  “Speaking of Asha. I woke up naked with her this morning. You need to do a better job of putting your toys away at night.”

  Trey flipped me off and then chucked his empty beer bottle in the trash can behind the pool table. “That girl does what she wants. I’m just along for the ride.”

  I respected that about him. Trey wasn’t the jealous type. I couldn’t remember him ever getting into it over a girlfriend before, or ever having a bad breakup. He’d tell the girl that it was over, and by the end of the talk, she’d thank him for his honesty and all that shit.

  “At any rate, I’d consider it a favor if my personal life was not a topic of conversation with you two,” I told him. “She busted into my room, smacked me around with a magazine, and crossed too far over my not-your-damn-business line.”

  “You know,” Corey said, “some guys pay for that kind of kink.”

  “Neat.”

  Her diatribe had been running laps around my head all day. I couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything without her irritating voice talking over my thoughts. I also couldn’t get over the fact that Hadley had talked to her about the girls I hooked up with.

  “Trust me,” Trey said, “I know what to do with a beautiful woman, and it doesn’t include talking about you.”

  “So...” I eyed my beer. Nothing left but the bubbles of backwash around the beveled bottom. “She swept Hadley out of the house first thing this morning.”

  “Fuck yeah,” Corey barked as he slammed his fist on the table, shaking our bottles. “Pay up!”

  Trey narrowed his eyes at me as he dug a ten-dollar bill out of his pocket and slapped it down in front of Corey. “Just so you know, Josh, I was on your side. You let me down.”

  “The fuck is that about?” I caught the bill before Corey could pull it away. “You’re betting on me?”

  “Betting against you.” He tugged the bill out from under my hand.

  “Start talking.”

  Why was I suddenly so fucking interesting?

  “I bet Trey that you couldn’t go twenty minutes without asking about Hadley.”

  Corey looked so proud of himself. I wanted to knock that stupid smirk off his face.

  “You didn’t make it ten.”

  “We have plans on Sundays. We have, you know, shit to do. We have a routine.”

  “You have a routine,” Trey said. Semantics. “And Hadley just goes along with it. Didn’t you ever stop to think that maybe Hadley misses having other friend
s? I like you, but sometimes you’re shitty company.”

  Of course I’d thought about it. I knew it wasn’t Punky’s preference that her entire social calendar included school, hanging around the house with my sorry ass, and going to gigs with the band. But everything changed after the night I left her alone.

  Chapter 10

  Four years ago…

  Our first day back in school after my mom’s funeral, I felt the eyes on me all morning. Thinly concealed whispers behind my back. Sideways glances. Sitting at my desk in English, I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists. Hadley sat beside me, an unfortunate result of our assigned seats. Eyes planted in the book in front of me, I toyed with a pencil between my fingers, afraid to glance in her direction.

  “Herot is not just a setting, right?” At the front of the room, Mrs. Barnett tried to ply intelligent responses from the class on the major symbols in Beowulf. “It represents what?” She looked at the vacant stares of the class and then turned to write in tall blue letters across the whiteboard. “Civilization. And...”

  She got no response. Behind me, girls snickered. From the corner of my eye, I saw Christina looking toward Hadley. Whispers turned to murmurs behind Mrs. Barnett’s back.

  “The achievements of Hrothgar,” the teacher said, continuing to write on the board. “How is the hall described? Someone?”

  Christina tapped me on the arm and nodded at Hadley. Reluctant, I looked over. Everyone looked. Hadley was shaking, trembling, her arms folded over the back of her bowed head to hide her face. Her knee bounced to an erratic rhythm.

  “Hadley?” Mrs. Barnett approached her, walking through the row of desks. “Are you okay?”

  “Back up, she’s gonna puke!” someone shouted.

  I jumped out of my seat and knelt beside Hadley, trying to pry her arm free so I could see her face. “Hey, Punky. What’s wrong?”

  Her skin was freezing. She tensed at my touch, recoiling from me.

  Shit.

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  Ignoring the teacher and room full of gawkers, I slung both of our backpacks over my shoulder. She fought me as I tried to pull her from her seat. She made her body rigid, face covered. I wrapped one arm under her knees, the other behind her back. Cradling Hadley in my arms, I ran out of the class and away from the laughter.

  After I took her home to Tom, I drove around for hours before walking into Bear’s shop for my first tattoo: the raven Hadley had drawn for me that always sat in my back pocket. I wanted to feel the pain, if only to have something to concentrate on, so I sat under Bear’s gun and bled.

  Every ounce of ink carved into my skin had a meaning. Only posers and dipshits got tattoos for the fuck of it or picked a doodle out of a book. The raven with two broken wings nailed to my shoulders represented the only thing I’d ever been afraid of.

  He had a raven tattooed on his back.

  Chapter 11

  After I got home from the bar, I checked my phone to see if Hadley might have left a message. At least to tell me if she would be home for dinner. Instead, I had a text from Tom asking if I wanted to meet up at the range this week.

  When the decision had been made that Hadley and I would live here while we went to college, Tom had asked me to come by the house one morning. I was informed, not asked, that I would take a gun safety course, apply for my permit, and keep a pistol locked in my nightstand. Last year, Tom conveniently left a hunting rifle in the hall closet behind a stack of boxes.

  Hadley hated guns. She didn’t trust them. I sort of understood that. Nothing good ever happened when you needed to use one. But it made Tom feel better to know I could handle myself.

  Downstairs, the front door shut. I still smelled like stale beer and smoke from the bar, so I stripped out of my shirt. As I came out of my room, Hadley passed by with two shopping bags in her hands.

  “Hey. Have fun?”

  “Yeah.” Her eyes paused on the new image on my rib cage. “It healed well. Looks good.”

  “You’re a good artist.”

  Hadley had drawn the sketch for everything inked into my skin.

  She kept walking to her room where she dropped the bags on the floor next to her bed. I followed her in and leaned against the dresser. Hadley tossed a look over her shoulder but didn’t kick me out while she slipped her shoes off and emptied her pockets on her nightstand.

  “What did you do today?” I asked.

  “You smell like the bar.” Hadley turned around. Her sassy eyebrow was up.

  “Just shot some pool with the guys for a couple hours. After I cleaned the house.”

  “You cleaned?”

  She picked up her bags and dumped them out. A couple of vintage band shirts fell out, along with more art supplies—she had some kind of fetish that wouldn’t be sated no matter how many times she fed it—and a couple of vinyl records. Those caught my attention.

  “I had a productive morning,” I told her, sitting on the other side of the bed to look over one of the records. Some band I’d never heard of, which was impressive. I wondered if this was Asha’s influence. “So I rewarded myself.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “You’re mocking me.”

  “I am.”

  “Fine. So what kind of trouble did you girls get into all day?”

  “Pretty scandalous stuff.” Punky yanked the tags off the shirts and folded each to place them in her dresser. “We checked out the new work at the gallery, got lunch, looked around at few shops, bought some music...”

  She trailed off as she turned around to find me lying on my side while scanning the album jacket. I looked up, thinking that I’d given her the impression that I wasn’t listening. My brain could multitask.

  “Bought some music…”

  “And that’s it.” She came to sit on the edge of the bed and yanked the record from my fingers. “Nothing exciting, but it was fun. Asha’s cool.”

  Again her eyes raked over my bare abdomen. I didn’t mind her looking. If I had the sort of artistic talent that Hadley possessed, I’d probably stare at my work all day, too. One day, when her canvas was old and flabby, she’d be on my case for fucking up her designs.

  “Tell me about them.” I nodded at the album in her hand. It looked folksy.

  Punky ducked her eyes as she flipped the album over. “Never heard of them. I...uh...kinda picked these out because I liked the sleeves.”

  I sat up, snatching the record from her fingers. “Come on. Let’s see if they’re half as good as their cover art.”

  The only record player was in my room.

  “Now?”

  “You got better plans?”

  * * *

  I owed Asha a present, something loud, shiny, and expensive. I’d have that fucker wrapped with a big black bow and a marching band to deliver it at her front door.

  Despite how irritating and nosy that chick could be, Asha was my lucky charm. Whatever voodoo magic she’d worked on Hadley, it had definitely played in my favor. Punky came home in a good mood, which continued while we lay on my bed and listened to what had to be the world’s worst Kentucky bluegrass band to ever press vinyl. It was bad—really fucking painfully bad—but Hadley laughed all the way through the lyrics and even did imitations with a pretty poor country accent.

  “No!” She shot across the bed and grabbed my arm as I got up to change the record. “I want to listen to it again. I liked that last song.”

  I gave her a look, at which she collapsed back on the bed and laughed.

  “Okay, like is a strong word. But it was sort of catchy.”

  “Not a chance.” I pulled the record off the turntable and shoved it back in the sleeve. “This shit sucks. And you’re not allowed to do accents anymore. Stick to drawing pretty pictures.”

  Punky launched a pillow at me.

  “So violent. Give me the other one. We’ll try that.”

  It had gotten dark outside. Thick gray clouds moved in over the tree line in the backyard. I’d alwa
ys liked thunderstorms at night—the colors, the sounds, the electricity that made my hair stand up straight on my arms, and the smell of the rain getting closer. I’d been in Clearwater once when a hurricane changed course and pounded us for two days. I’d watched from the balcony of our hotel room as it moved closer to shore. That was by far my favorite kind of weather, right before all hell broke loose.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  “Nothing. Storm’s coming.”

  “Then start it already, Mr. Music Snob.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her, setting the needle to the record before climbing back on the bed. I sprawled out on my back and closed my eyes to just listen. We lay sideways across the mattress, Hadley on her stomach while she flipped through the booklet that went with the record.

  For five tracks, we listened to the tragic tones of the blues album. This one was good—heartbreaking and enviably great, actually. The guitars made me feel like a complete hack. I let my mind wander inside the melodies, all but ignoring the lyrics. It was so elegant and simple to the ear but complicated to produce. Like good classical piano, the result of so much intricacy was to make it sound effortless. These guys were fucking geniuses. Well, Hadley was never getting this record back.

  A flash of white light filled my room. A deafening crack shook the house. We both flinched; my breath stuck as a lump in my throat for the second it took to recognize the storm had arrived. Hadley let out a fit of relieved laughter.

  “Storm’s here,” she said.

  To punctuate her statement, another and impossibly closer burst of white lit up my room, followed by the shattering thunder. The music stopped. Hadley and I were left in complete darkness.

  “Maybe it will come back on,” she said.

  Not likely. We lived in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. The power lines were old and fickle. The slightest tremble in the weather and we’d be without power for hours—days if heavy winds downed trees across the two-lane road or too much rain caused flooding that made repairs more time-consuming.

  “I’ve got a flashlight.” I sat up and reached into my nightstand, grabbing the torch that sat next to the lockbox for the Beretta.