by Peter Giglio
I skim Dad’s books while he stares at the ceiling. Nora went down fast, which wasn’t a surprise; today, after all, was long for her.
“I have more copies out in the garage,” he says, “if you want your own.”
I hold up the book, his second, published in 2009, The Waking Hole. “I thought you said these were special?”
“They are,” he says. “Those are the ARCs, the first print copies of my books. I have boxes and boxes of mass-markets, which are actually of better construction.”
I put the book down on the end table and say, “I’m impressed. I really am.”
He shrugs, goes back to looking at the ceiling. After a long moment of doing this, he looks at me and says, “We create our environment.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve been trying to think of the right thing to say, and that’s all I could come up with. Not very good, is it?”
“And here you are, the writer.”
He doesn’t laugh; instead, his serious expression deepens. “Here’s what I mean. Running away solves nothing. Is that a little more…clear?”
“It makes more sense,” I say, “but I don’t know I’d—”
“Son,” he says. “There’s a cloud hanging over you. I don’t know what it is, but I know it’s there. You can fool a lot of people, even your niece, but I learned your body language pretty well in your first thirteen years. So what is it?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“You don’t get to do this. Not like this. I’m back in your life for one day and you’re trying to psychoanalyze me already. No.”
“I’m sorry, I—”
“I’ve got problems, Dad. I’ve got a lot of problems, okay? And I’ve been trying to solve those problems here, been trying to help Bud Sweeny by making off-the-clock sales pitches for him.”
Dad smiles. “You’ve been trying to crack into sales?”
“How ’bout that, huh? A chip off the old block.”
“Son, selling shit isn’t what it used to be. People around here don’t have much money, and you don’t sell cars by cold calling. People, they know where the lot is.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I know, Dad. Like I said, I’ve been trying to solve my problems here, but…but that isn’t working.”
“Do you want to go to school? Is that it? I still have every penny of your college fund. Hell, I even add to it when I can. Lily’s, too. It’s never too late.”
“I don’t want your money.”
“It’s not mine,” he says. “It’s yours. It’s always been yours.”
“No.”
“What’s wrong with you?—why won’t you take—”
“Mom kicked me out of the house when I was eighteen, Dad. You were off limits. I didn’t qualify for loans, so that chapter is closed in my life, and I have to move on.”
“I don’t under—”
“I’m thinking about Nora now. And Lily. I want to get them out of here so they can prosper. Someplace with work, any kind of work. It’s not about breaking into sales; it’s about making an honest living. I want Nora to have a chance.”
“But Nora’s not the one with the cloud over her head.”
Maybe he’s right. Perhaps I’m full of shit.
No. Sunfall is the disease, with its decrepit roads and buildings, what few we have; with its bigmouth residents and lack of jobs. I don’t create the environment here. I’m not the fucking chamber of commerce. So I shake my head and say, “You have a point, Dad, but what I’m doing, really trying to do, is prevent that cloud from ever finding her.”
He gets up from his chair. “I’m going to bed,” he says. “Your room’s waiting for you, just like you left it.”
“If it’s all right with you,” I say, “I’d rather sleep on the couch tonight.”
“Fine with me. Can I ask why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just…I’ve confronted the past enough for one day. I don’t regret it, honestly, but I don’t want to overdo it, either. Does that make sense?”
Dad clenches my shoulder with a firm grip. “It does,” he says. His grip tightens. “Do me a favor, okay?”
“What is it?” I ask.
“Don’t leave without saying goodbye. Everyone deserves goodbye.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
He pats me hard on the back then heads down the dark hallway to his room.
Chapter Thirteen
I’m not really sleeping when my cell starts chirping, but I’m trying. Much as I’d like to say spending the night in my boyhood home brings back moments of comfort, that’s just not where my head’s at.
The first two calls roll to voicemail. But when the third beckons, I reach into my jeans pocket and snatch the phone, ready to turn it off, looking at the azure display.
Incoming Call… Unknown…
“Goddamn,” I whisper. It’s either Lee or the hospital. Either way, it can’t be good news. If it’s Lee, I need to know he’s away from here. If it’s the hospital, I need to know everything’s all right. “Hello,” I say.
“Did I wake you up, amigo?”
“Yeah, what is it? You in Chicago yet?” I whisper.
“No,” he says, and the fear in his voice makes me sit up straight.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
“Have you been watching the news?”
“Not really, why?”
“Why are you whispering?”
“Nora’s asleep.”
“Oh, okay. Hey, that phone of yours—it’s a burner, right?”
“What’s that?”
“A tract phone, prepaid, not under your name.”
“Yeah.”
“Good.”
“What the hell’s going on?”
“867-5309,” he says.
“What are you talking about? You want me to call that number?”
“Jenny, Jenny,” he drones, and I suddenly remember the old Tommy Tutone tune.
“What about her?”
“Turns out that little Jenny Snowdon had a rich daddy in Cali. This thing has become a media circus. They’re offering a quarter-mil reward for any information leading to her killer. Feds might even get involved. Might be involved.”
My heart races. “What?” I swallow the lump in my throat. “What do you want me to do, Lee?”
“You spend any money, honey?”
“No.”
“Good.”
“Why haven’t you left town?”
“And what, become suspect number one? No, bro. People know my plans—that I’m not supposed to be shoving off just yet. If I shift gears too quick, might send up a few red flags. Can’t do that, cat.”
“You sound…you sound paranoid.” And drunk.
“Maybe. Maybe not. If it keeps me out of federal lockup, I’ll risk a bit of sanity. Really wasn’t looking for this shit to cross state lines.”
“Fuuuck. They had California plates, asshole. What did you think—”
“I need you to do something, amigo.”
“What the fuck do you want from me? I’m done with—”
“Bring the money to me in front of the DQ.”
“Now? Are you—”
“Bring it to me, and we’ll decide what to do with it.”
“This is crazy. You told me that—”
“Bring it to me, then we’ll go for a little ride. I’ve got a plan for where we can hide it until this thing blows over. A small town like this?—they can just go around issuing warrants on everyone’s cracker asses. And they’re gonna start with the poorest, the most desperate. Tag, you’re it.”
“And you didn’t see this coming before?”
“Nope. Thought the bitch and her boy were some kinda wanna-be Bonnie and Clyde.”
“I’ll bring you the money,” I say, “but you’re gonna hide it on your own, and I don’t want anything to do with this anymore.”
“Just meet me, amigo.”
“Fuck you.”
“He
y, I’m just looking out for our asses.”
“Fuck you,” I repeat, then hang up the phone.
I get up from the couch and clutch my screaming head, no idea what to do next. Lee’s probably already been to my place, otherwise he wouldn’t have called. If I don’t show, he’ll put two and two together and eventually end up here. That, I can’t allow. That’d fuck my whole world for real.
Desperate, I walk to Dad’s desk and open the top left hand drawer. And there it sits, just like it always has (except when he was on the road). Dad’s .38 Special.
I grab the gun and study it. Fuck, I hate these things. Dad took me to the shooting range as a kid, but I stopped going. Even Mom thought I was a pussy. But I remember how to load the gun, and I remember how it works. So I close the drawer and open the one below it. This is where Dad keeps the bullets. Never understood that. Here’s his desk, not four feet from the front door. Gun unloaded. Bullets in a completely separate place. And yet he always claimed he kept the gun for self-defense? Bullshit. Folks around here just like guns, plain and simple. Talking and guns and college football: a real mecca for humanity. Could be something in the water, and maybe that’s why I always avoid the tap.
Rather than load the chamber here, I slide the gun and six bullets into my front pocket. Then, as quietly as I can, I unlock the front door and press into the muggy summer night.
Chapter Fourteen
I don’t plan to kill Lee, and I’m not bringing him the money. The gun’s purpose is twofold: self-defense, of course, but it’s also a threat. My pleas have so far fallen on deaf ears, so it’s time, much as I hate it, to lay down the law.
When I get to the DQ, Lee’s car isn’t in the lot, but I keep walking. He’s around here somewhere, I know, and I’m staying strong. Not letting him maintain the upper hand. Once in the parking lot, I look around and say, “Where are you?”
High beams suddenly come alive in Bud Sweeny’s lot, and I shield my eyes against the familiar glare of Lee’s headlamps. He steps out of the car and motions for me to approach, but I shake my head and gather my courage. Here he is, changing the rules again.
No. Not this time.
“Cut the lights, Lee,” I say, moving across the west side wall of the “Brazier,” whatever the fuck that means. Then I add, “Come to me.”
“You brought the money?”
“Come here,” I growl.
Finally, he cuts the lights and struts across the lot. Getting closer, he says, “I didn’t want to stand out like a sore thumb, so I thought it was best to park with other cars.”
“Yeah,” I say, “you’re a fucking genius.”
“What’s wrong with you, Jack?” He halts his advance. “Why are you busting my balls?”
Almost to the back of the building now, I say, “You don’t want to look suspicious, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, let’s talk behind the fucking building then. If a cop drives by, we don’t end up on their radar.”
“Inside the car, moving, that’s the safe place to be, amigo.”
“Come here,” I repeat, and he starts walking.
I slide the revolver, which I loaded on the way over, out of my pocket and wait in the shadows for Lee to round the corner. When he does, I grab him by the neck, pull him close, and jam the barrel of the gun hard into his temple.
“Jesus Christ,” he cries.
“It’s fucking loaded, douchebag, and don’t think I won’t fire. Blow your brains all over this wall. Is that what you want, bitch?”
“What the hell has—”
“Shut up!” I let go of him, but the gun remains steady on its target. With my free hand, I pat him down.
“Where’s your gun, Lee?”
“In my car, under the seat.”
“That where you always keep it?”
“Yeah.”
“So why did you have it your pants the other night when we were checking on the other car?”
“You never know what to expect when you’re dealing with strangers.”
“You know, I bet Jenny Snowdon would agree with you on that count.”
I push him, and he takes a stumble-step away from me. He looks like he’s going to run, so I say, “Stop there,” and he does. “Now, kneel on the ground and listen to me.”
“You’ve lost your mind, Jack,” he pleads. “You’re not thinking right.”
Motioning to the ground with the gun, I repeat, “Kneel.”
Slowly, he crouches, drops one knee to the pavement, then the other. The look on his face is priceless. Pure fear, just like the shit he planted behind my eyes, the permanent stain he left in my brain. In this moment, I’m not so sure I want to let him live. Should he live, I hope the rest of his days are haunted by this—that this shit sends ripples through his family line, letting them know not to fuck with me or mine.
“What do you want?” Lee whimpers, sounding like a child now. Like the kid I knew back in grade school; the little redheaded, freckle-faced, snot-nosed freak that kids called “Stinky Lee.”
“You know what I want,” I say.
Lee’s crying now.
“I want you to leave me alone. I don’t care where you go, but get out of town and don’t come back.”
“And..and what if I get caught, Jack? Are you thinking about that?”
“No, and I don’t want to.”
“But—”
“You’re sly, you’re resourceful. So don’t get caught.”
“What about—”
“Here’s the plan,” I say slowly. “You take care of Lee, and I take care of me. Got it?”
He nods, tears running down his reddened face.
“You fuck with me one more time, asshole,” I say, “and I’ll fucking kill you. I won’t hesitate.”
“Come on, Jack. You can’t do me like this.”
I laugh, but there’s no joy in the gesture. “You’ve got to be kidding. Who the hell brought us here, huh? Three days ago, I was trying to put my life together, then you show up and manage to fuck me all the way to kingdom come.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Fuck you,” I say. “You never mean to fuck me, but you always do.”
“I—”
“Fuck you.”
“I—”
I stride at Lee and press the revolver into his forehead. “Say ‘I’ one more time and I’ll fucking kill you.”
Silence ensues, only the sounds of our heavy breathing and the crickets to keep us company.
Finally, I pull the gun away from his head and say, “Is my message clear?”
“Crystal.”
“We’ve been through a lot together, Lee. I remember how kids picked on you, how I was your only friend, how I defended you.”
“I know, man, and I love you for it.”
“But you went bad anyway, didn’t you?—went bad and always tried to drag me down with you.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You made yourself tough, learned how to fight, to scrap, to survive—I respected that. Still do. But you’ve crossed the line one too many times.”
I aim the gun at him again, and this time I press the trigger.
Click.
A wet blotch spreads down the legs of Lee’s khakis, and he’s balling now.
“The other five chambers are loaded,” I say. “Want me to squeeze again?”
“Please don’t kill me, Jack. I promise, promise I’ll leave—I’ll get out of town. I promise.”
“Your word and nickel are worth five cents,” I say.
“I promise,” he bawls. “I promise.”
“Know this, Lee, I hate you. I’ve hated you for a long time.”
“I’ll go, just don’t kill me.”
“To me,” I say, “you’re already dead.”
Then I turn my back on Lee and start for his car. When I get there, I pop open the door, snatch his Glock from beneath the seat, and start jogging back to Dad’s.
Fueled by adrenaline, I’m moving fast
er than I have in a long time. The dark within dark night bounces in my sweat-streaked vision, and my pulse thrums like the rhythm section of a heavy metal band.
Halfway between Main Street and Dad’s, I stop. Breathing deeply, I clutch my knees, bent over, nauseous. Then I throw up, and Dad’s barbecue, it doesn’t taste as good the second time.
Everything spins, spots multiplying in my periphery. Then, sight balancing, I see two yellow eyes staring at me from the darkness, the shape around those eyes slowly bleeding into focus.
It’s the black dog. The Labrador. The one I’d fed then assumed dead. It’s still scrawny and sad, but not dead. Just staring at me, probably hoping I’ve got some burgers in my pockets.
“Sorry, boy,” I say.
A curious tilt of its head, then the dog sniffs my vomit and starts eating.
Friday
Chapter Fifteen
I’m trying to push the image of that damn vomit-eating dog out of my head, and here’s Dad, frying bacon and singing along with some country-western radio station out of Lincoln. The scent of food and fresh-brewed coffee is doing nothing to heal me, and Willie Nelson, or whoever the hell is twanging away, is about to push me over the edge. But I hold my shit in check, ’cause sitting across the table from me, staring inquisitively, is Nora.
“You don’t look so good,” she says.
Closing my eyes, I rub my head. “Don’t feel so hot, either.”
Dad walks into the dining room and sets a steaming plate of bacon and eggs in the middle of the table. “Eat up,” he says.
“None for me,” I say.
He regards my apathy with a grunt, but Nora starts piling food onto her plate. “I’m gonna get fat if I keep eating here,” she says, then pours herself a big glass of orange juice.
Now that the food is closer to me, I wince, and my stomach does somersaults.
“You didn’t drink that much last night, did you?” Dad says.
“Might be a bug,” I say, grabbing my gut.
Dad turns to Nora. “Hey, Professor, your Uncle Jack and I are gonna step outside for a minute, okay?”
Still chowing down, she nods, not really paying attention to either of us.
Listlessly, I get up and follow Dad through the kitchen. He grabs a steaming mug from next to the sink then keeps on walking. Through the porch door. Onto the back deck. He takes a sip of coffee, then reaches into his shirt pocket and pulls out a pack of Kools.
