Take Me There

by Carolee Dean

“Please move away from the glass,” the voice says again, more insistent this time.

  I hurry outside to the pickup truck, open the door, and grab my father’s book, turning it over to look at his photo on the dust jacket, and I see his face, but it’s not him. I cannot see the man who is my father. He is a phantom. A vapor. And all of a sudden I cannot feel my legs, as if I’m a vapor too. As if I don’t exist.

  I put the truck in gear and drive to the nearest pay phone, desperate to hear a voice that makes me feel solid and real.

  “Hello.”

  “Jess!”

  “Dylan? My God, Dylan. Where are you?”

  “Texas,” I say, so relieved to hear her voice that I don’t think of the danger of confessing where I’ve gone.

  “What happened to you? It’s been five days! I waited for you all night. Then I went to the garage looking for you, and while I was there the police came around asking questions.”

  “The police?” So much for wishful thinking.

  “They’ve started showing your picture on the news, along with Wade’s. Mr. Gomez says that if you’re in some kind of trouble he can help you, but you have to turn yourself in.”

  “I can’t do that,” I say. “I’ll be turning eighteen in less than a week. When they send me away next time, it won’t be to juvie.”

  “Dylan, whatever happened, we’ll get through it. You are one of the best people I know.”

  “You should get out more.” The bitterness rolls off my tongue before I can stop it.

  “Don’t be like that. I want to be with you. I need to be with you. You look at me and I feel like for the first time in my life, somebody sees me. Please come back. We can find a way through this. We have to find a way through this.”

  “I love you, Jess,” I tell her, the words fighting their way up through the tears choking me. “But sometimes that’s not enough. You have to forget me.”

  “No!” she yells, but I’m already hanging up the phone.

  About ten miles before I reach the town limits of Quincy, I look in my rearview mirror and notice a blue Escalade coming up fast behind me. It signals like it’s going to pass, so I edge the old Ford over to the shoulder. The Escalade pulls up alongside me, into the oncoming lane, and just hangs there. I can’t figure out why, but then I look up to see Red at the wheel. Dakota, who is in the passenger seat, smiles at me, and at the same moment, the Escalade pulls into my lane, edging against the Ford, trying to push me off the road.

  I fight to keep the tires on the pavement. Try accelerating to get past the SUV. It pulls back behind me and I breathe a sigh of relief as I approach a hairpin curve, but then Red guns the engine and the Escalade rams me from behind, and the Ford goes flying into the grass on the shoulder of the highway.

  My head hits the steering wheel, and I guess I pass out for a minute because the next time I open my eyes, I’m outside of the truck being held by Red and Dakota while Tornado Tim pummels me with his fists.

  “You are nuthin’ but trash,” Tornado says, punctuating each comment with a blow from his fists. “Your pig grandma is trash.” WHAM! “Your slut mother is trash.” WHAM! “Your drug addict daddy is trash.” WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! “He shot down my father like a dog, with a damn pussy gun.” WHAM! WHAM! WHAM! WHAM!

  My knees give way and I start to collapse to the ground, but Red and Dakota lift me back up.

  “You about done, Tornado?” Red asks, looking up at the highway. I look up too, wondering why there doesn’t seem to be any traffic, wondering why someone doesn’t stop to help me. Maybe no one sees me. Maybe I really am nothing.

  “You don’t want to kill him or nothin’. Not out here in broad daylight,” says Dakota.

  “What if I do?” Tornado says, reaching into his pocket, pulling out a snub-nose .22 and holding it against my forehead.

  It’s all over now.

  “Where did you get that?” Red looks nervous.

  “From my mama’s purse,” Tornado replies. Then he moves the gun down my face until it is in my mouth. God no! Please don’t let me go like this.

  “You want to know what it feels like to be shot in the face with a pussy gun, feelin’ your brains scramblin’ around in your head while you try to call for help, only you can’t scream, ’cause your tongue is gone? That’s how my father died. That’s what your father did to him.”

  A mixture of tears and sweat pours over my face, stinging my eyes, mixing in my mouth with the taste of metal.

  I struggle against the two boys holding my arms. Why won’t they let me go? Tornado is going to pull the trigger, and my brains will be gone before I even hear the crack of the pistol.

  Through my tears I see something shiny approaching, and at first I think it’s another gun, but then I realize it’s the noonday sun glinting off a Texas Ranger badge pinned to a white cotton shirt.

  “What in tarnation do you think you’re doin’?” Arnie Golden screams at his nephew, grabbing the gun out of his hand.

  Tornado Tim seems to crumble and dissolve right there in front of me. Arnie Golden puts his arms around him, and Tornado weeps like I’ve never seen anyone weep before. “His father killed my daddy,” he cries.

  “I know he did,” Arnie says, holding Tornado tight in his arms, glaring at me as if my presence has not only reopened old wounds, but rubbed gallons of salt in them as well.

  “I just want somebody to pay,” says Tornado.

  “They will,” says Arnie. “But right now you need to head on home.”

  “Yes, sir,” Tornado says, wiping his eyes.

  “And the two of you.” Arnie looks at Red and Dakota, who let go of me to stare at their shoes. “Make sure he stays there. You want Tornado to end up in jail over the likes of him?” He points at me like I’m not even human, and his words hit me harder than any of Tornado’s blows. I am worse than nothing. I am a black stain.

  “No, sir,” they reply.

  “Then get out of here.”

  They nod, and the three boys walk up the hill to the Escalade and drive away.

  “Thank you,” I say weakly.

  Arnie turns on me, grabs my throat, and pushes me up against the Ford. “I have done you one favor, boy. Don’t expect another. Now our families are square.”

  “Yes, sir,” I say, as if I understand, though I have no idea what he is talking about.

  “Do you think my friends at the justice department would ask any questions if you ended up with one of my bullets in your head?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You’re damn right they wouldn’t.” His hand is shaking against my throat, and I half expect him to kill me right there on the highway, but he doesn’t. He lets me go and steps back. “My brother was a damn fine man. Those people at the state house in Austin act like they’ve forgotten how he died, but I haven’t forgotten and that boy sure hasn’t forgotten. Blood never forgets. Do you hear me? Blood … never … forgets!”

  He turns and walks away, gets to his patrol car, turns back to me, and says, “If you want to know where that money came from, ask your grandma. She’s the one who left it on my brother’s doorstep. I saw her do it, sneaking up to the house in the dark, thinkin’ she could use drug money to pay for her son killing Jack. My sister-in-law would have never taken it if she knew where it came from, and if you breathe a word of this to anyone, I will kill you with my bare hands. Do you understand? Does that answer your questions?”

  “Yes, sir,” I tell him.

  “Good,” he says. “So don’t be asking any more of them.” He gets in his patrol car and drives away, leaving me with even more questions that I’m not supposed to ask.

  I get into the truck and just sit there. I’m shaking so badly, I can’t even get the key in the ignition. I think of that .22 in my mouth and remember a gun just like it.

  My father and I had just gotten home from shooting at hay bales in the field, and my mother was outside working in the garden. We were standing in the kitchen, next to the pantry. My father opened the door and
pulled out a burlap sack filled with peanuts. He was the only one who ate them, because my mom couldn’t stand them. He took the gun out of my hand and nestled it into the bag among the hulls and shells. Looked out the window at my mother, still digging in the dirt. “Your mama doesn’t like the idea of having a gun in the house, so this is gonna be our secret, okay, little man?”

  I smiled and nodded, proud to be called a “little man.” Proud to share a secret.

  “She’s a city girl,” he explained. “She doesn’t understand. But me and you understand, don’t we? The country can be dangerous. Things can happen. You gotta be prepared.”

  THE ROAD TO HUNTSVILLE

  By D.J. Dawson

  I spent three months sitting in an Austin courtroom, studying the faces of the twelve men and women chosen to determine my destiny. I didn’t know their names or occupations or histories, but as I sat there day after day, I tried to figure out who they were, just as they were sitting there trying to figure out who I was. I thought if I could see them as real people and not just numbers on a chair, maybe they could do the same for me.

  There was Bill the insurance salesman, Tony the potter, and Jimmy the tattooed guitar player, who all nodded their heads in agreement when the court-appointed psychiatrist quoted studies showing that drug rehabilitation programs are a greater deterrent to crime than capital punishment.

  Laura the librarian and Randall the construction worker smiled wistfully as Coach Rogers described how proud the whole town was when we won the state cup.

  Julie the housewife, Jojo the hairdresser, Cotton the dairy farmer, Daniel the soccer coach, Bryan the nurse addicted to painkillers, Janie the realtor who dreamed of owning a house in the country, Michael the unemployed janitor.

  I made up entire histories for these people. Imagined I’d see them on the street one day after I got out and we’d strike up a conversation. Until the day the DA showed the pictures of the homicide scene, and Laura the librarian wept as she looked across the room at Jack Golden’s widow.

  That was the day I knew I was never getting out.

  29

  I PULL MYSELF TOGETHER AND DRIVE TO THE FARM, PARKING down by the barn so I can wash the blood off my face before my grandmother asks me what happened.

  I can’t really call the place a barn anymore, because Wade has demolished another wall. With only two opposing walls left standing, the structure looks like some kind of oversize goalpost.

  “What happened to you?” Wade asks as I turn on the water hose.

  “Ran into a rough patch of bad road.”

  “Looks like the road ran into you.”

  “Dylan Junior!” Levida yells, and I look up to see her standing by the shop, holding a wrench and wearing coveralls soiled with grease.

  “Coming!” I yell back, quickly finishing my cleanup. “What in the world is she up to?” I ask Wade.

  “Fixin’ your car.”

  “What?”

  “Guess she felt bad for shootin’ it up.”

  “I doubt it.” It’s hard to imagine Levida feeling bad about anything.

  I hurry up to the shop and find Levida inside, looking under the hood of the Mustang. “I need you to tighten down the wheels,” she says, handing me a lug wrench.

  I take the lug wrench, not noticing it’s covered in grease until my hands are stained. Levida has exchanged my two rear tires with replacements that look like they came off one of her farm vehicles. They are huge, in contrast to the tires in front, and make my car look like a giant blue beetle with its butt in the air. “What have you done to my car?”

  “I’m fixin’ it,” she tells me, tinkering with something under the hood. “Your radiator’s busted.”

  “I know, but I can’t afford a new one.” I tighten down the lug nuts. Arnie Golden’s parting words still echo in my ears, and I wonder how I can casually bring up the subject of her delivering drug money to Jack Golden’s widow without getting hit upside the head.

  “Young people today,” she says, shaking her head. “Want to just throw everything away as soon as it isn’t new and shiny anymore. Lucky for you I have a solder gun.”

  “Don’t tell me you tried to patch a busted radiator with a solder gun.”

  “Oh, you think it’s better to have to fill it up with water every time the thing goes dry? You’re lucky you didn’t burn up the engine.”

  I’m in no mood to argue with her, so I finish the wheels in silence. When I’m done, I walk over to where my grandmother is hunched under the hood. “Hand me a seven-sixteenths socket,” she demands.

  I look through the toolbox sitting out on a wooden work table, examining the numbers on all the handles, and hand her what she asked for. “Thanks,” she says. “My tired old eyes ain’t what they used to be. Can’t hardly read those tiny numbers no more.” She looks at me long and hard. I know she knows I lied about needing glasses, but I’m not about to admit it. What business is it of hers? Besides, after the day I’ve had, I don’t care what she thinks of me.

  She finally returns to her work and starts tightening the valve cover gasket. “I heard about you causin’ trouble in town,” she says.

  “I was just asking questions.”

  “Humph!”

  I wonder how a person who seems to be almost completely ostracized gets the town gossip so fast. I take a deep breath and say, “Arnie Golden told me you were the one who gave Jack Golden’s widow all that money.”

  Levida throws the socket against the shop wall, and it echoes off the metal siding. Then she wipes her hands on a rag and puts them on her hips, puffing out her angry chest. “What are you doin’ here, boy?”

  “Helpin’ you fix my car.”

  “Not here in the workshop, here in Quincy. Why did you come back after all these years?”

  “It was drug money, wasn’t it? Did he give it to you? Did you take it from him?” Maybe that’s why my father couldn’t split it with Travis and his “border connection.” Maybe there’s more money hidden in the barn, and that’s why Levida has us tearing it apart.

  She studies me. Wrinkles her nose in thought. Seems to thaw ever so slightly, like an iceberg when the temperature rises to thirty-five. Rubs her forehead with her fist and leaves a trail of grease. “Jack Golden was your daddy’s best friend. His mama and me went to school together,” she finally says. “Jack and D.J. played football together at Quincy High School, but then you would have known that if you had read the newspaper articles I gave you.”

  I think of the third boy in the photo with my father and Travis Seagraves, and I realize it’s Jack.

  “Why was Jack Golden with my father that night?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t there,” she says, slamming down the hood of my car.

  “But you do know something ,” I say, wondering why she has to evade every single question I ask.

  “Oh, I know a lot of things,” she says, pointing a black-stained finger in my face. “I know that your daddy couldn’t do enough to make your highfalutin mama happy. Her always talkin’ about goin’ to New York City. Always wantin’ fancy clothes. Never liftin’ a finger to help around this place. He worked like a dog to afford all the fine things she thought she needed, but it was never enough. Then her brother started comin’ round in his fancy blue Cadillac with all his talk of get-rich-quick schemes.”

  “You mean my uncle Mitch?”

  “You got any idea what it’s been like for me livin’ in this town after your grandpa died and your daddy went to prison? Havin’ to sell my land off piece by piece ’cause I didn’t have any help workin’ it? Havin’ to live with the cold stares of the townspeople who used to be my friends?”

  She grabs the edge of the work table to steady herself as she tries to catch her breath. “This town used to be a decent place to live, but it’s been losin’ itself, piece by piece, just like me and this farm.”

  “Why didn’t you just leave?” I ask, thinking about how often my mother picked up and moved us. Wondering what it would be l
ike to live in a place where everybody hated you because of something your kid had done.

  She points out the window. “My daddy, my mama, and your granddaddy are all buried out on that hill. I ain’t goin’ nowhere till they put me in the dirt with ’em, so I don’t need you stirrin’ up trouble. Understand?”

  “Yeah, I understand,” I say, thinking how old she looks in the light coming through the shop window, with her greasy coveralls and her frizzled gray hair going in a million directions.

  Levida grabs a rag from the workbench and tries to wipe the dried grease from her hands, but it doesn’t help. They stay black and stained like mine.

  I spend the rest of the afternoon helping Wade tear down a third wall in the barn, working like a crazy man. Sweat pours down my body like a river, and the glass cover on my watch actually steams in the heat, dragging on the hands until they finally stop.

  That night Levida fixes us another huge meal. Pork chops, green beans, red potatoes, and something called red-eye gravy that she makes out of coffee and pork fat. I wonder if she puts on a spread like this when it’s just her and Charlotte. From the way she treats the pig, giving her extra gravy on her potatoes, I wouldn’t doubt it. Surely she’s not just cooking like this for our benefit.

  Dorie, who came by to visit Wade after her shift at the drugstore, stays to eat with us.

  “There are only three animals more intelligent than the pig,” Levida informs us. “The chimpanzee, the dolphin, and the elephant, none of which are worth a darn on a farm.”

  All through dinner Levida continues to barrage us with pig facts. Dorie keeps one hand under the table, and Wade keeps a smile on his face so big he can hardly chew his food. I’ve never seen him this happy, and I’m glad he’s finally found love or lust or whatever this is.

  “Pigs can run seven miles an hour. They can live up to twenty-seven years. Some of them can weigh as much as twenty-five hundred pounds, though Charlotte is a slim four-eighty-five.”

  Wade giggles, and even Levida isn’t stupid enough to think it’s because of her recitation of pig trivia. “What have you got to be so cheerful about?” she asks him, as a piece of cherry pie falls out of his mouth.