Rusty Knob

by Erica Chilson

  It’s like an infection weaving its way through my family, already sinking its teeth into Willa and Warren, and it won’t be long before Hayley and Hayden and Penny’s unborn babe are infected too.

  There’s something about me that makes me immune.

  I might not have ever gotten hard looking at somebody, but that doesn’t mean I can’t get it up to use it. After watching the rest of our kind spit out kids they won’t raise, and watching my sister’s soul die because of sex she didn’t want to have, my dick is staying in my pants. I will not create children my family will destroy.

  I won’t hit another soul unless it’s for protection after sitting vigil at countless bedsides.

  My life is an expansive landscape of misery, where I work my ass off with no payoff. There is no warmth to be found. No soft, safe place to rest my head. There’s no pleasure or connection. I’m just a walking organ donor for when my parents and siblings’ bodies finally fail. I’m destined to watch them slowly kill themselves on my dime, and I’m powerless to stop it. I can’t walk away because blood comes first for a Gillette.

  I can’t stop the cycle, but I can stop my misery of growing older while allowing them to kill me slowly as I watch them die.

  Knowing years from now the scenery will never change, my eyes drink in the panoramic view of Gillette Holler. I stare at my father exercising his elbow by raising the beer can to his lips every minute and a half. To the side of Daddy is Momma, her arm getting the same workout with her smokes. I can almost hear the rasp of the lighter as she inhales to make the cherry grow bright. Somewhere in the filthy depths of our shack, six-year-old Hayley and Hayden sleep, with Warren and Willa roaming around these hills yonder.

  I reach behind me to the gun rack crossing the back window of my truck cab. After years of practice, I find my shotgun resting in my palms. Eyes never leaving my daddy and momma, I press the nose of the barrel beneath my chin and pull the trigger.

  Ammo Thief

  Click.

  Click.

  Click.

  No matter how many times I pull the trigger, my mind can’t wrap itself around the fact that nothing happens. Snarling, I toss the shotgun into the passenger side of the truck, and then I pound the ever-loving fuck out of my steering wheel.

  Screaming so loud my ears ring and my voice breaks, pure violence erupts from my throat. “MOTHERFUCKER! GODDAMNED MOTHERFUCKING THIEVES. YOU STOLE MY AMMO! YOU STOLE MY MOTHERFUCKING AMMO!”

  Vision shot to shit because I’m sure I blew a few blood vessels, I gasp uncontrollably while my mind spins over how low those worthless cocksuckers I call family are willing to go. So much for blood coming first. I really am just a tool they use.

  “You through yet?” Warren draws my attention to where he’s resting his forearms against my open window. I blink a few times to clear my vision. What is revealed is my brother’s wide mouth twisted up in a bright smile with tear tracks staining his cheeks.

  My brother releases an amazed laugh through the pain. “’Bout time. I knew it would be a payday that would finally break ya.”

  “What?” I roughly rasp out, voice gone from screaming.

  “You’re a brave asshole, I’ll give ya that much. Ya see…” Warren adjusts himself in my window until he’s comfortable. “When a man is as calm and good as you are, and he ain’t got nobody besides his own hand to drain his sac, and he refuses to release his primal nature with his fists, he’s bound to break sooner rather than later. It was only a matter of time.”

  Eyes held wide in horror, “Our life is a living nightmare,” I breathe.

  “Sure is,” Warren drawls out. “And I ain’t like Daddy, neither.” Reaching over, a dirty fingertip taps my temple. “I can see those thoughts spinning in your head. See, every night before payday, I take the ammo out of your gun and the spares from the glove box. Then I sit out here while you sit in your truck stewing over how life drew you the short straw. I’d wait for you to do what you finally did tonight. Next morning, I always put your ammo where I found it.”

  Bewildered yet awed, I try to mutter, “Why?”

  “’Cuz I only got one brother.” Warren leans forward and kisses my forehead. “And I love him like no other.” He tugs my heartstrings, and then pisses me off. “I respect him because he has principles, and he’ll take care of us because we’re incapable.”

  “You’re not incapable,” I mutter begrudgingly.

  “I didn’t mean me. Us, as in the Gillettes of Gillette Holler. Kennedy or not, I meant Hayley and Hayden, because they have Gillette blood flowing through their veins. I meant my baby when it’s born. I meant Penny and Willa. Not me. Not Momma and Daddy. Those assholes made this goddamned bed, and they can lie in the filth they created. So, see, I ain’t letting you go. I ain’t letting you end your life. I’m making sure you get the education you deserve.”

  “I don’t want to be here anymore,” I seethe, heart beating out of control from the ferocity and truth in my words. My eyes light on my shotgun sitting next to me. It’s calling to me to end it all. “When I pulled the trigger, I meant it. How could you take that away from me and force me to suffer?”

  Eyes as clear as a summer sky hold me captive. “Ain’t no take-backsies when it comes to death. There’s a lot of people wishing they weren’t dying, and you have no right to go before your time.” Warren chucks me on the chin. “You ain’t no coward, Wynn, and I ain’t gonna let you act like one. If I gotta stick this shit out and see it through, you’re gonna too.”

  “What? You called me brave, but now I’m a coward?” My voice cracks as I stare down at my worthless excuse for a shotgun. It’s of no use to me without its ammunition. What am I supposed to do, bash my skull in with the stock? I don’t have the nuts to do that, which is why Warren’s calling me a coward right now. My finger itches to prove him wrong.

  “Brave and coward are just different sides of the same coin of suicide. Don’t think I ain’t been where you are. Don’t think I ain’t been through this with Willa every fucking day for the past three years. Every. Single. Goddamned. Day.”

  “Willa?” Years of suffering and burdens and hard truths cause tears to sting my eyes so fiercely I have to bite my lip to contain them. The pain causes me to forget all about my own bullshit. I forget about my aborted attempt at blowing my chin out through the top of my skull. I finally remember I’m Wynn Gillette, and my blood comes first.

  “While Momma and Daddy are lost to their addictions, and you’re at school taking care of business and my Penny, I’m here medicating our sister. I’d rather have a zombie, knowing we can get help cleaning her up after you’ve made some good change at whatever high-class job you get coming out of college. It’s just my way of making sure Willa is still alive when the twins graduate, get married, and make her a mamaw. In the meantime, I know a standup guy like you will take care of the little ones as if they were his own.”

  “War–”

  “Listen,” Warren cuts me off by cramming his dirty palm over my lips. “They ain’t got no daddy. If that asshole shows his face in Rusty Knob, even the middle class douches will shoot him on sight. I ain’t in a position to raise my own kids, let alone someone else’s, while I try to keep my siblings alive and my parents off their asses.”

  I wrench my head to the side, forcing Warren’s hand to slip free from my mouth. I scrunch my face in distaste when the sickly sharp scent of drugs wafts up my nostrils. “What am I supposed to do?”

  Leaning in my window, “Get the fuck out of here, that’s what,” Warren snarls. “Get. Out. Of. Gillette. Holler. Forget where you came from and be who you are. Don’t leave Rusty Knob, but never come up this dirt road until you know you’ll never take a sawed-off to the chin again. I mean it.”

  “I don’t think I can do that,” denial is thick in my voice.

  “You will. You’re gonna call up that weekend boss of yours. Royce is gonna give you a place to lay your head ‘cuz he’s Hayley and Hayden’s uncle too. You and the twins deserve a
nicer place than this shithole. A real home befitting a man of your goodness and intelligence. And every cent you earn will go in your pocket for your future.”

  Words flow numbly from my tongue on autopilot. “Everyone needs me.”

  “Shut the fuck up, Wynn.” A rough slap connects with my cheek, and I don’t even blink from the contact. This is how it is with Warren and me. We love each other, and we have funny ways of showing it. If my brother is worried, he hits me out of reflex. If he’s angry, he gives me the cold shoulder after a thorough beating. But through it all, I know he loves me no matter what.

  “It’s true!” My voice pitches up high in a whine. “They do need me. They can’t survive on their own.”

  “Arrogant asshole! Don’t judge me in your head, and then cut off my balls when I try to be the head of the family. You’re the baby, goddamnit!” Warren’s palm smashes down on the hood of my truck, startling me. “Act like it for once. You need to get out of here. You need more.”

  I mumble rapidly, “I don’t think I can do it.”

  “You’re one brave motherfucking badass killer,” flows from my brother’s tongue without a hint of sarcasm. “You just pulled the trigger on yourself. Not once but three times. You can do anything. I need this from you. I need to get my own shit together, while keeping Willa in one piece, and I need you to take care of Penny and the twins for me while I do it. We good?”

  I mutter a lame promise. “I’m not sure how, but I’ll try.”

  “Good.” Warren pats the hood of my truck again– this time he does it with a grin on his face. “Get a goddamned blowjob while you’re at it. I don’t care if it’s from some townie skank or a dude’s piehole, but I want you to get off with another human being. You ain’t a machine, Wynn. Men only need a few things in life, and when they don’t get ‘em, they either turn up dead or an addict. Food. Sleep. Sex. Work. Play. Love. Family.”

  “It’s time to break the cycle,” I breathe out on autopilot.

  Warren reaches into my window, curving his arm down to pull the handle to open my door. With a big grin, he tugs me out of the truck. “Time to break the cycle. The next generation of Gillettes will not be drunks. They will be a smarty pants like their Uncle Wynn.”

  “I’m not that smart. I’m so fucked in the head that I’m not the best example.” Sputtering, my tone is laced with awe and horror, “I just tried to kill myself for shit’s sake.”

  My brother ignores me while he pulls me across our yard of weeds and debris. I nearly upend a few times before we get to the front door. A push mower almost puts me on my ass, but it’s a tar bucket that twists my ankle.

  “Watch where you’re going, bro!” Warren drags me to my feet when my sneaker gets caught on an old chainsaw chain. “Heads up, Momma was yelling about Hayden having a faggot haircut all afternoon, then she broke out the shears.”

  “What?” I gasp, subconsciously fingering my hair. “Faggot?”

  “I know.” Warren tries to placate me, thinking it’s me who’s offended, when I’m thinking about Jack and Francis. “I know. Momma and Daddy don’t know no better, but that’s no excuse.”

  “Hayden and I have the same haircut– so do you.” I shudder, thinking of being held down as a kid as my momma sat on my chest and hacked off my curls. “It’s a bit long, but we can’t help the curls. They gave ‘em to us!”

  Warren smirks, but it’s a mix of anger and sadness with no happiness to be found. “Remember how Momma’s so fucking ignorant that no matter how many times we try to tell her the twins aren’t identical ‘cuz they are a boy and a girl, she don’t get it? Well, Momma mistook Hayley for Hayden today, and butchered all of her pretty curls.”

  I hiss, “Jesus Christ,” with a wince.

  Warren rounds on me quick as shit, yanking my t-shirt in his fist. He pulls me down until we’re eye to eye. “Get them the fuck out of here, ya hear me? Tonight! And don’t come back!”

  My brother’s eyes are bloodshot from tears, not drugs. But it’s the terror flashing over his face that breaks me. “What about you? Come with us…” I’m not too proud to beg.

  “I got shit to do, brother,” Warren says lightly, taking a step back from me. His fist unclenches, and then he smooths my shirt until he pats the wrinkles out. “Instead of enabling Momma and Daddy while trying to provide for the kids, you take all that money and carve out a comfy life for yourself. I’ll be following you shortly. I’ve got to get me a job, now that I hear I’m gonna be a daddy, and I’ve got to find a safe place for Willa.”

  I reach forward, gripping the doorknob, not wanting to enter Hell. “What about Penny?”

  “You’re Penny’s brother, and you’re gonna keep her in line, make sure she educates herself proper and gets a job. You hear me? I’ll be with her around the time the babe is born.” Warren twists the knob, and then shoves me into the house. “Daddy and Momma can rot in hell,” flows to my ears as Warren runs across the lawn like a coward, managing to miss all the trash that kept tripping me up.

  A scowl pulls my lips as I watch my brother sink into his dilapidated car with a passed out Willa in the passenger seat. The backseat is stuffed to the roof with garbage bags– no doubt everything of any value they have to their name. Peeling out, rocks spit in all directions from beneath the tires.

  I stand, feeling more than lost, as my brother and sister flee into the night. When the cloud of dust settles, I step inside our shack for what I hope is the last time.

  Didja Eat yet?

  Daddy’s pale blue, bloodshot eyes are the first thing I see, not the dilapidated surroundings. The main room only has a recliner and a rocking chair to one side, with a small table surrounded by mismatched chairs. The plywood kitchen has empty cupboards, a forty-year-old fridge, and a wood stove used to cook and heat the shack. We have a single bathroom that has Daddy saying we are spoiled rotten assholes because he had to use an outhouse his entire life. There are three bedrooms haphazardly attached to the main room: Momma and Daddy’s, mine and the twins’, and Willa’s. Warren sleeps in the main room on a cot shoved up against the front wall.

  Compared to how Daddy was raised, he thinks we are ungrateful shits because this is a palace. “Gillettes don’t need no better,” he says on a daily basis. “Who the fuck do you think you are, The President of The United States?”

  The smell is the first thing that assaults me besides Daddy’s crazy glare. It’s a combination of cigarette and wood smoke that dries out your nose until it bleeds, the dank, sweet scent of stale beer, the rot of garbage juice, and the tang of piss because Daddy can’t hold his bladder no more.

  I’ve learned to never look away from Daddy’s gaze or turn my back until we’ve established contact. His tall body may be emaciated, but when he blows a gasket, he could take down a charging bear.

  Daddy’s not drunk enough to make sense yet.

  “Where’s yer worfless brover off ta dis time a night?” He glares at me as if I’m the sole reason our lives are a living nightmare. Only wearing a pair of shit-stained, grungy white undershorts, Daddy’s ass is fused to his recliner, which is the source of the nose-wrinkling ammonia stench.

  “War had shit ta do.” My words easily slip into Daddy’s diction. If I try to speak a coherent sentence, I get the piss pounded out of me for insulting him.

  Daddy lost interest in me the second I didn’t have anything interesting to say. The man ought to have a bulging forearm from all the twelve ounce curls he does. Elbow bending, a can is pressed to his lips again.

  Everything about beer leaves me feeling bitter hatred. Like a hillbilly version of Pavlov’s Dog, the popping sound of a can opening fills me with dread, waiting for a biting tongue or a flashing fist. The fuzzy zing to the nose of a fresh beer makes my stomach roil, especially combined with the satisfied moan Daddy gives when it hits the back of his tongue. The sickly sweet scent of beer cans lying around in the sun smells like broken promises and abandoned dreams.

  If you were hit in the face with a hammer
every single day, would you be able to look at a hammer without feeling pain? Would you flinch? Or would you remove every hammer from your environment to protect yourself? Only problem, the hammer isn’t hitting you in the face; it’s the fist wielding it. Even without a hammer, the asshole would find a way to torture you.

  I’ve never understood, how after everything, Warren is able to touch the vile poison without reliving every horrific detail of our lives that has been at the hands of an alcoholic. I wish I could blame my daddy’s mistress for all of our troubles, but it’s not the beer’s fault Daddy is a worthless waste of space.

  Even if we removed the beer, we’d still be stuck with Daddy.

  Self-preservation. Acting on instinct, I sweep in fast, grabbing a can of warm skunk piss from the thirty pack resting at Daddy’s feet. He bares his yellowed teeth in a snarl, like I’m the one stealing the beer I bought in the first place. I remove the bent can from his fist, and place a fresh soldier in his grip. “Thank ya kindly, son,” Daddy says with a nod.

  Peace offering accepted, I’m able to turn my back now that I’m no longer in danger. “Didja eat yet, Momma?” I don’t bother asking the alcoholic in the room. He sees no need for food since it dilutes the effects of his beer. But the truth of it is, is that even a small morsel passing Daddy’s lips tears his guts up something fierce. He’s on a liquid diet that is slowly murdering him. His body is cannibalizing itself, organs eating themselves from the inside out, leaving an empty husk of bitterness for us to handle.

  “I had a dab of deer meat and brown gravy on toast,” Momma replies, tapping the edge of her smokes on the side of the rickety end table to drop her next cig out the hole in the soft pack. She brings the pack to her mouth, grips a filter with her lips, and then pulls the pack away while keeping her prize in her mouth. The red lighter that is a permanent fixture in her right hand rises.

  My eyes flick away as Momma lights up, unable to watch but I can’t turn off my hearing. The rasp of a lighter does bad things to me, same as popping the tab on a beer can. I clench all my muscles to keep the visceral reaction from quaking my entire body.