Take Me There

by Carolee Dean

  “That money was supposed to be my ticket out of here. So the next time you’re over in Livingston, you can just tell Dozer Dawson he got what he deserved for double-crossin’ Travis Seagraves.”

  I find the doorknob and I’m out the door, running out of that place as fast as I can. I get into the pickup and gun it down the brick-covered street, passing Red and Dakota, who are out in front of the Chevy dealership, painting big white letters on the windows of the cars. Big white letters that say DIE DAWSON.

  It is hard to believe that a place this small can hold so much hate, and I have the terrible feeling I’ve only just seen the surface. Oh Jess, why couldn’t I have stayed with you? I’m in too deep now to ever go back.

  When I turn off onto the dirt road to Levida’s farmhouse, two things catch my eye, or rather the absence of two things.

  First off, my blue Mustang is no longer in the ditch; in fact, it’s nowhere in sight. Second, the entire roof of the barn is gone, along with most of the south wall. I pull up beside the barn, where boards and rusted nails lay in piles like bones waiting for the vultures. Wade greets me as he swings a sledgehammer against the wood. “What do ya think?” he asks, sunburned, covered in sweat, and beaming with pride as he points to the barn.

  This is his one talent, tearing things apart. He is quick, efficient, and total when it comes to destruction. “Beautiful,” I tell him. “You might have a future in demolition. By the way, where’s my car?”

  “Me and your grandma towed it up to the shop,” he says, nodding to a metal building behind the house. Wade takes a long drink from a thermos filled with water and then pours the remainder of the contents over his head, shaking his wet hair.

  “Did you find anything interesting?” I ask.

  “Yeah, sure. Lots of stuff.”

  “Really?”

  “C’mon. I’ll show you.”

  I follow Wade to an old pigsty filled with rusted farm tools, old Sears catalogs, and a sheet of plastic that catches my eye because of its bright colors. I pick up the plastic and discover a bull’s-eye filled with bullet holes.

  I am instantly six years old again, bumping down the dirt road in the white pickup with my father. In the back is the bull’s-eye, covering a bale of hay. We stop out in the middle of the field, and my father drops the bale. Then we get back in the truck and drive about fifty yards away. Share a piece of chocolate cake and sandwiches, in that order, that my mother packed us for a picnic lunch.

  Then we get out of the truck, and my father puts a gun in my hand.

  “What’s this for?” I ask him.

  “Birthday present for your mother, little man, but she didn’t like it much. Says she won’t have it in the house, but you gotta know how to handle firearms when you live in the country, so me and you are gonna have a little tutorial.”

  He takes another, larger gun out of the truck and uses it to show me how to clean mine, load it, and lock and unlock the safety. Then we shoot up the bull’s-eye. Or rather, he shoots up the bull’s-eye. I mostly scare a lot of rabbits. The gun is heavy, but it’s small and fits my hand, making me feel big and important and powerful.

  “You okay?” Wade asks, bringing me out of my daydream.

  “Yeah. You find anything else?” I say, looking around the dilapidated barn.

  “Nope.”

  “If you do, let me see it first, before you show my grandmother. Okay?”

  “Sure, but what am I looking for?”

  “I don’t know, but it’s important.”

  While we eat a dinner of chicken-fried steak, potatoes, gravy, green beans, and peach cobbler, Levida insists on reading to us from the Bible. “‘In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’”

  Her Bible reading seems a strange substitute for conversation, but then I figure, she probably doesn’t talk to people much and maybe has forgotten how. She reminds me of the bag ladies in downtown L.A., and I wonder what would happen to her if she didn’t have this old farm.

  Wade and I clean the kitchen from top to bottom while Levida gives Charlotte a shower. It’s nearly ten o’clock when we settle down in front of the television. Baby Face curls up at my feet, seeking protection from the pig, who plops down in the middle of a braided rug, arching her pink neck in delight as Levida squirts her with a water bottle she keeps next to her recliner. “Thatta girl,” she says, scratching Charlotte’s ears, and the pig lets out a squeal of pleasure that nearly bursts my ear drums. “Pigs don’t got no sweat glands,” Levida explains to me and Wade. “Most people think they’re dirty animals, but they ain’t. They prefer to be clean, don’t you baby.” She kisses the pig’s nose. Charlotte grunts in reply. “But they gotta find a way to cool themselves down. They don’t like to wallow in the mud. They only do it when they have to.”

  I can’t believe she’s telling us all about this pig’s glandular problems when she doesn’t ask once about my father. Doesn’t even inquire whether or not I was able to get in to see him.

  “Pigs are much smarter animals than dogs,” she says, giving Baby Face a look of scorn as my dog peeks out from between my legs. “Pigs are anatomically closer to humans too. Insulin comes from pigs. Why, the valves from a pig’s heart can even be transplanted into humans.”

  I’m sure my grandmother could have her entire heart cut out and replaced with a pig’s and no one would know the difference.

  On the television, the news comes on, and protesters holding up signs saying SAVE THE DOZER fill the screen. Levida’s eyes go wide, and she turns up the volume.

  A reporter, a brunette in a skirt and high heels, approaches a tall blond man walking out the doors of the state capital. He starts shaking hands with the media gathered on the steps, but stops as the pretty brunette reaches him.

  “Governor Banks,” she says to him, “a lot of your constituents are pushing for you and the prison board to grant clemency to Dozer Dawson. He’s become a hero to a lot of young people for what he’s been able to accomplish in prison. Not to mention the fact that his upcoming execution is fueling the already heated death penalty debate. Can you tell us what direction you’re leaning on this issue?”

  The governor steps in front of the camera, like some kind of TV celebrity; he almost smiles, but not quite. Looks straight at the reporter, who seems to blush, though she tries to hide it. “So what is your position, Governor?” She thrusts her microphone toward him.

  “As you know, Marianne, there are a lot of things to consider in this case. I’m giving it a lot of deliberation. I will say that mercy is a cornerstone of all civilized societies. That and man’s ability to redeem himself.”

  The other reporters press in, pushing microphones in his direction, trying to get his attention. I would think he’d be running for his car, but he keeps his eyes focused on Marianne. They look good together on the television, and I figure that the governor knows this, that he’s a smart man, that he will do just what Cartwright said and milk my father’s case for all the publicity he can get.

  Marianne says, “What about the fact that America is one of the only industrialized countries in the world that hasn’t abolished capital punishment? What about the fact that Texas leads our country in executions? Twenty-four people were killed by lethal injection in Huntsville last year alone. That’s an average of one every other week.” Marianne is on a roll now, unaffected by the piercing green eyes of the governor. “How do you feel about people accusing you of sanctioning government-endorsed murder?”

  If her words fluster the governor, he doesn’t show it. He steps right up to the camera and fills the TV screen, blocking out Marianne and the other reporters. “I am a humble servant of the citizens of Texas, and I’m called upon every day to make difficult decisions,” he says, as if he’s been waiting all day for the opportunity to give this speech. “I don’t make the laws, but I did take an oath and give my promise to the people of this fine state that I would enforce them. It wasn’t me who sentenced D.J. Dawson to death. It was
you … a jury of his peers.” He says this last line looking straight at the camera, as if placing the blame squarely on anyone who might be watching. And then he is gone, with a crowd of reporters clamoring after him.

  The screen goes black, and Levida sets the remote down with a shaking hand, stands, and says, “It’s bedtime. Y’all better get on out to the barn.” Then she makes a clicking sound to the pig, and they both wander off down the hall.

  I thought she might invite us to stay in the house, what with an entire roof and most of one wall of the barn gone, but I was wrong. Wade and I go outside, and as soon as he lies on top of his sleeping bag, he’s asleep. The night is hot and thick and the sounds of crickets, hoot owls, and vermin in the nearby bushes keep me awake. I know there are wolves that occasionally make it down from the hills into Los Angeles. I don’t want to even think about what kind of creatures could be lurking out here in the dark in the middle of the sticks. Probably the same ones lurking around during the day, but I’ve learned that dangerous things like to wait till night to surface, when you can’t see them coming.

  I turn on the flashlight, filled with new batteries, and look through the pages of The Road to Huntsville , trying to make out the story of my father’s life by the photographs, but all they show is his small prison cell, the narrow place in the prison yard surrounded by chain-link fence where he is allowed to stretch his legs, and the visitation room I’ve already seen.

  I look back through the newspaper articles in the scrapbook, find the picture of my dad with Travis Seagraves and the third kid holding the championship trophy. Back when he was my age and had no idea where he was going to end up. I finally put all the pages away, open my leather binder, and start to write—slowly, haltingly—hoping maybe my own words will help me find the answers to the ones I cannot understand.

  I met a stranjer just this morning.

  He wuz not who I xpected.

  Thay sed he wuz a murderer,

  But thay wer misdirected.

  He had a smial a mile wide.

  In prizen wite wuz clad.

  The momint that he lukked at me,

  I new he wuz my dad.

  28

  I SPEND THE NIGHT DREAMING OF WHEELS THAT TURN INTO clocks that turn into screams. By the time I wake up, I’m covered in sweat and feeling like I haven’t slept at all. I check my watch. It’s early, only six o’clock. Wade is curled up asleep next to Baby Face. I pull on a pair of pants from the box of clothes my grandmother gave me, rummage around, find a Grateful Dead T-shirt, decide it might not be appropriate, given the circumstances, and then choose a plain blue cotton shirt.

  I figure I might as well be on my way to Livingston, since I have nearly two hours of drive time ahead of me. I fire up the farm truck Levida has let me borrow and am heading toward the highway when I spot a sign for Farm Road 66. I remember what Travis Seagraves told me about Jack Golden’s widow and the missing money, and I make a quick turn. I drive about a mile before I see a huge three-story rock house. The sort of place you might find in Beverly Hills or Malibu, not out in the middle of the Texas Hill Country. I think about my father rotting away in prison because of a cop who double-crossed him for drug money, and it makes me want to blow out all the windows in that big fancy house and set the whole stupid thing on fire.

  I turn the truck around, hitting the gas as hard as I can. The truck is an eight cylinder and can really move when you push it. I pass the drugstore on Main Street, and through the plate-glass window I see the same old men drinking coffee. Men who have been around. Men who would know the history of the town.

  I stop, back up, and park out front, not sure what will happen, not sure what I will say or do, knowing only that my father might be dead soon.

  I walk inside. In addition to the old men at the table, there are a host of younger men, farmhands by the looks of them, buying sodas and doughnuts for breakfast.

  I order a Pepsi from Dorie. “How’s Wade?” she asks, but I ignore the question. I have more important things on my mind than Wade’s love life.

  “I just drove past a mansion out on Farm Road 66,” I say to her, but loud enough so everyone in the place can hear. “I didn’t know you had rich people living here in Quincy.”

  “That place belongs to the Golden widow,” Dorie whispers, looking around at the faces of the men, who have all stopped to stare at us.

  “The Golden widow!” I say. “She must be made of gold to afford that place.”

  “Jack Golden’s widow,” Dorie corrects me. “The dead cop.”

  “Now where on earth would a dead cop’s widow get all that money?”

  “An anonymous donation,” a man says, stepping out of the crowd. He puts his hands on his waist like he’s trying to intimidate me, but it has no effect.

  “Who are you?” I ask him.

  “Arnie Golden. Jack was my brother. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m Dylan Dawson,” I say with pride. “Dozer Dawson is my father.”

  Arnie’s face turns bright red, and everyone in the drugstore moves back against the walls like they’re getting ready to watch a shoot-out. Arnie looks around at the people lining the store, and I get the feeling he wouldn’t hesitate to kill me if there weren’t so many witnesses. “Then I offer you my condolences,” he tells me. “Seein’ as how he’ll be dead in a few days.” He turns and starts walking out the front door, like I’m not even there, like I’m nothing, and this action enrages me more than his bitter words.

  “Your brother was a dirty cop. You know it. I know it. This whole town knows it.”

  Arnie Golden stops. I can see the muscles of his back flinching through his white cotton shirt. “Boy!” he says without turning around. “If you value your life, you might consider another occupation besides slander.” Then he is out the door.

  “Are you crazy?” Dorie whispers. “Do you have any idea who Arnie Golden is?”

  “The brother of a dirty cop.”

  “He’s a Texas Ranger.”

  Out the window I see him walk across the street and get into a patrol car. He puts on a pair of sunglasses and looks back at me through the window of the drugstore. I can’t see his eyes, but I can tell he’s glaring at me. So is everyone in the room.

  “What possessed you to say a thing like that?” my father yells, after I tell him about my encounter with Arnie Golden. I thought he’d appreciate me standing up for him, but I was dead wrong. He looks like he wishes I wasn’t here. “Are you out of your mind?” His anger cuts straight through the glass between us.

  “The prisoner will please keep his voice down,” the guard says over the intercom.

  “Everybody knows Jack Golden was dirty,” I say.

  “Jack Golden was a decorated hero of the Gulf War. He was a respected police officer and a loving husband and father. He didn’t deserve to die, and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve to have his name dragged through the mud. Who put such nonsense into your head?”

  “Travis Seagraves.” I feel like I’m five years old, ratting out the class bully to save my own skin.

  “I should have known.” He curses under his breath.

  “I just wanted to help.”

  “Do you really think it will help to drag a murdered cop’s reputation through the gutter?”

  “The prisoner will either lower his voice or return to his cell,” warns the guard.

  “But you didn’t do it,” I say. “Did you?”

  “Mr. Cartwright is trying to focus public attention on all the good I’ve accomplished since I’ve been in prison. We’re not going to dredge up an old murder, do you understand me?” There is a look of warning in his eyes. “Tell me that you understand!”

  “I understand,” I say, well aware that he hasn’t answered my question. Afraid to ask it again.

  “Good. Now you go home and think about that. Think real hard, and then you decide whether or not you can come back here on those conditions, because if you can’t, I got nothin’ more to say to you.” He stands
to leave, and I feel a thud in my chest as my heart drops into my gut. “I’m ready to go back,” he tells the guard with a coldness that chills me to my very core.

  “Wait!” I plead. “Our time isn’t up.”

  “You think about what I told you,” my father says, and then he disappears through a metal door, leaving me staring at an empty chair.

  When I was eight years old, my mother enrolled me in a summer school program for underprivileged kids called Youth Solutions, and every Friday we went on a field trip, no place exciting or that cost any money, always places that were cheap or free and “educational.” One day they took us to a meatpacking plant, and we toured the freezers where the sides of beef were hanging. The girls were freaked out by the headless cows hanging on meat hooks, but I soaked up all that cold air. When the rest of the class left, I stayed behind, and being the troublemaker I was, I shut the door so they wouldn’t find me. Only then did I remember my mother’s warnings never to crawl into refrigerators left behind in the town dump, because once you got in, you couldn’t get out and would suffocate to death. I started yelling and screaming, “Don’t leave me, don’t leave me!” I was pounding on the door, too scared to realize there was a round lever I could have pushed to get out. They couldn’t hear me, but they found me when the teacher was doing the head count for the trip back to school and realized I was missing. I was only in the freezer about ten minutes, but I would have sworn it was ten hours.

  As I watch the metal door close behind my father, I find myself standing up and pounding on the glass. “Don’t leave me!” I yell, even though I know he can’t hear me.

  “Young man, step away from the glass,” says the guard. I stop banging, pressing my hand against the place where just yesterday my father’s hand had been. I close my eyes and try to imagine that my father is still there across from me, and to my horror, I cannot picture his face at all, even though I was just looking at him.