by Martin Clark
For the next several months, into the onset of winter, Mason was a bear in court, brutal to the chronics and petty criminals, the wastrels who stole small items from unlocked sheds or forged a check lifted from their very own mama’s purse, the worthless recidivists who whined and whimpered and boohooed, always begging for one more chance, another trip to rehab or a suspended sentence, clutching their prison-ministry tracts on the stand, swearing fealty to a new way of life for the sixth or seventh time. But nothing riled him more than shiftlessness, flagrant sorriness, and pity the stupid crook who made the mistake of dragging his aged mom or crippled grandmother in to testify how she knew her boy had learned his lesson this go-round, was sure to shape up if he could come live with her. “Nice,” Mason would sneer at these defendants when he questioned them. “How proud you must make your family.”
Also, the county’s habits, quaint bent, erratic pace and unpredictable characters—its offbeat country charm, if you were in the mood for it—began to prick him, weighing on his patience, like a medicine that had been splendid and effective, then suddenly went toxic. “It’s a wharf rat, not a wolf rat,” he declared to Mo Jenkins, the humble hired man who helped with the yard, cleaned the gutters and mowed the pasture. “And while we’re at it, the dog is a Rottweiler, not a Rockweiler.” Rustic became irksome—the slow-ass pickups that never gave a turn signal, the farm tractors, hay wagons and old people in muddy Buicks that clogged the main highway, the stores that didn’t sell a respectable dress shirt, the endless chatter about nothing, the same-old, same-old all along every route. Then there was the sort who got everyone’s goat, the snaggle-toothed clods who drew a government check they didn’t deserve, slurping their bowls of pinto beans bombarded with chunks of corn bread, green feed-store hats still on their heads while they ate in a restaurant, no manners whatsoever. “It’s all I can do,” Mason told Custis, “not to knock the piss out of someone. I used to like this shit. Now it drives me crazy.”
Unable to stay still for very long, he skipped meals, ran extra miles at the high school track and added reps to his gym routine. Always fit and athletic, he lost eleven pounds he shouldn’t have lost, the majority of it through his face, or so it appeared to the people around him. “Mason really looks like he’s bad off,” Sadie Grace’s cousin mentioned at an elementary school fund-raiser. “He ain’t hisself, is he?”
There was one mild, interesting deviation. When the special prosecutor consulted Mason about offering Lonnie Gammons a reckless-driving plea, he didn’t object, insisting only that Gammons lose his license for a year and be required to volunteer at the hospital ER. “His punishment’s really not my main issue,” Mason said obscurely. “He’s a dumb kid with no daddy.” After court concluded, Gammons, scared and remorseful, standing beside his plain, threadbare mother, choked out an apology, and while Mason only frowned and grunted, he didn’t curse the kid or lunge at him or threaten retribution, allowed him his say, a tiny forgiveness.
Coal-fed ire takes its toll, of course. The bile and twenty-four-seven, high-end fury couldn’t last forever, and gradually Mason wore down into the last phase of his suffering. After the searching and confusion, and after the rants, anger and days of looking to pick a fight for no real reason, he grew weary, blue. Gloomy. He realized what had happened to him, his sad state, standing at a convenience-store counter on the first day of the year 2002, gazing at a Peg-Board on the wall behind the clerk, caught up in the hairbrushes, rubber bands, fingernail clippers, combs, playing cards, off-brand condoms and colorfully wrapped patent medicines, unaware he’d been asked three times, very politely, if he was ready to pay for the gas he’d pumped. He was so distracted he never responded until the clerk touched him on the sleeve and said, “Are you okay, Mr. Hunt?”
Most everything in the world had become a detour or trapdoor for him, sucking him away into chutes and sluices of the past, leaving him distant and dumbstruck. A court reporter’s painted fingernails as she adjusted a microphone summoned Allison’s hand around the green throat of a wine bottle, pouring herself a glass for breakfast soon after they’d met. A sloppy Hardee’s restroom took him to his father’s sink in the old shed and the dried, dirty webs of black grease that fanned from a bar of Curt’s Lava soap. A glimpse at a DMV transcript in juvenile court and he was drinking sloe gin fizzes with Gates, underage but ready with a fake Wisconsin operator’s license when the Myrtle Beach bartender asked. Passing the Stuart hospital carried him to the day the nurse handed Grace to her mother, thirteen years ago. And an ordinary convenience-store hairbrush had ended up in Allison’s hand, gliding through her hair while she sat before an antique mahogany vanity, the strokes rhythmic, music without sound. “I’m fine,” Mason assured the clerk. “Didn’t mean to ignore you.”
Worsening his dislocation, he would dwell on change and what had gone missing. Nothing seemed to be nailed down. Nothing could hold. Driving around Stuart one morning, he passed the spot where Smokey’s Restaurant and Motor Court used to be, and he coasted to the side of the road, staring at a flat patch of grass and the yellow lines that marked the blacktop. First the motel rooms were razed, then Smokey’s became the Lumberyard Grill, next it was Skip’s Seafood, and forty years later there wasn’t anything left, only a curve in the new four-lane, the Mayo River rechanneled to accommodate the expanded highway, the building bulldozed and the debris hauled away in dump trucks, the kitchen equipment sold to a junk dealer, the old site buried under asphalt and steamrolled earth, Smokey and Ada Fulton and their homey café thoroughly vanished save for a few photos at the county historical society.
Following the holidays, in January of 2002, an unexpected ice storm encased the county, bejeweling branches and power lines and broom-straw fields, and Custis marched into Mason’s office for their usual Monday-morning meeting wearing galoshes and a wool scarf, his coat still buttoned to the neck. He tossed a large yellow envelope onto Mason’s desk.
“What do we have here?” Mason asked, glancing up from a Code of Virginia volume.
“Important business.” Custis sat down. “Inside you will find both your Allman Brothers at Fillmore East CD and your Jimmy Cliff CD. I got one from your car, the other from the stereo at your house. I took the liberty of defacin’ them with a screwdriver before smashing ’em to pieces. I’m tired of walking into this office or your house and hearin’ ‘Whipping Post’ and ‘Many Rivers to Cross.’ Enough of that shit, Mace. It’s time for the handkerchiefs to go. Time to rejoin the rest of us.” He smiled, hoping to get a rise.
“I’m sorry, Custis,” Mason said without conviction. “I know I haven’t been much good to anyone.”
“Listen. You gotta rally. It’s awful what happened, but let’s draw a line and look at what’s left, what comes next. It can’t be all bad. Plus, your daughter deserves better.”
“I’ve never, ever neglected my daughter. In fact—”
“Yeah,” Custis jumped in, “in fact you’ve been too damn nice, like a Stepford father or something. Grace thinks she’s taking care of you. Kids can tell when the train’s jumped the tracks, Mace. You ain’t foolin’ her.” He finally loosened his scarf and undid his coat.
Mason put his elbows on the desk, his chin in his hands. “I suppose you’re right. Hell, I know you’re right. But I can’t change how much this punishes me, every moment of every day.”
“Well, amigo, Uncle Custis has a plan.” He reached inside his suit jacket and produced another envelope, this one white, letter-size and thick. “For you.” He stretched the envelope across the desk and Mason took it.
Mason lifted the flap and removed the contents. “Puerto Rico?” he asked, befuddled. “A ticket to San Juan?”
“Me and you, Mason and Custis, sampling the high life come next week. We’re gonna forget our troubles and jet to hot weather and drink. We’ll sit by the pool, and if the opportunity presents itself, roll up on the fine tourist women. Start the new calendar with a bang. Turn the page in style. Your mom’s taking care of Grace, the docket�
��s clear and you’ll notice those aren’t just any tickets, nope, they’re two first-class rides across the ocean. We’re gonna fly away from winter for a while and find you a party. Gamble, drink, carouse, burn the midnight oil. The brochures should tell you all you need to know.”
Mason laughed. “I’m not a big drinker, Custis. You know that. I’ve never gambled in my life.”
“All the better. It’s healthy to explore new vices.”
“How much is this costing you? I can’t let you buy me a trip.”
“Not costin’ me a penny, Chief. I had Sheila write the check from your personal account.” He grinned at Mason. “I paid for my own, naturally.” He leaned back in his chair. “This is a done deal, Mason. Pack your bags.”
Mason studied the ticket. He flicked his eyes up at Custis. “Why the hell not? I’ve got to do something. A break might be what I need.”
“Make no mistake—this isn’t going to be a break, okay? This isn’t a change of venue so you can be unhappy by the pool instead of in the woods. This is about a crushed-velvet, seven-day, groove-on, roof-off, Mayor Marion Barry party. And I’m drivin’ the bus.”
“I’ll be sure to bring my festive clothes.” He grinned a little, cheered by his friend. “Thanks.”
Two days later, Gates phoned Mason at the farm, around ten at night. It was the first call since November, as their relationship had continued to decline at a steady clip, especially after Mason had burned Gates’s legal papers and returned them with a short, hostile note.
“It’s me,” Gates said. “Callin’ to check in.” He sounded tense.
“I know it’s you. Collect call tipped me off.”
“Right, yeah.” It seemed unusually quiet at the penitentiary, no shouting or clamor coming through the receiver from Gates’s end. “So are you makin’ any progress, you or Mom, on getting me some help? Thought of anything?”
Mason resisted the impulse to hang up. “No” was all he said.
“How come? How come you’ve forgotten about me? I don’t understand.”
“Anything else I can do for you, Gates? Any new business before the secretary adopts the minutes and we close the meeting?” He actually looked at his watch, even though he was standing in his den, wearing sweatpants, nowhere to go, Grace bumping around upstairs preparing for bed.
“I just wanted to give you one last chance.” Every word was coiled and deliberate.
“Or what?” Mason quickly asked.
“Or else. I’ve been patient long enough.”
“Excuse me, Gates? Are you…are you threatening me from there in the pen, miles away? Are you? Have you lost your fucking mind? Let me guess: you’ve met a guy who belongs to a motorcycle gang or some hood with ties in New Jersey and this new buddy owes you a favor. You’re a damn joke these days, Gates. A joke. You ought to be grateful for everything we’ve done, but that wouldn’t be your style, would it?”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you or give you a million chances.”
“Whatever, Gates. You—”
The line went dead.
When Mason woke up at the Wyndham El San Juan, the sun was jitterbugging about on the ocean, his room was bright, the balcony doors were wide open and a set of long, translucent drapes was hanging free and swaying with the breeze. Custis was missing; it was 10:16 according to the red digits of the clock next to the bed. Mason walked out onto the balcony and surveyed the blue-green water, the buildings ringing the beach and the hotel pool, already filling with tourists. He located ESPN on the TV and unzipped his suitcase to start putting away his clothes. Not long after he began, he heard a card slip into the lock and looked up, saw Custis holding the door against his hip, boxes and bottles on the ground, grocery bags cradled in his arms.
“How ’bout givin’ me a hand?” he said to Mason. “The bellhop got me this far.”
Mason helped him carry in two cases of beer, half gallons of rum and vodka, a bottle of Courvoisier, champagne, mixers, food, napkins and plastic cups. The small fridge was overwhelmed, so they filled a sink with ice, dumped in several beers and the champagne and covered them with a bath towel.
“You were serious about the big vacation,” Mason said. He was sitting at the foot of his bed, still wearing his boxers.
“This is just a down payment, my man. No more than the pre-party appetizer.” Custis was occupied with a boom box, searching for an electrical outlet.
Mason laughed. “The minibar would have lasted me a month. I don’t know who’s going to help you slay this dragon.”
“Never want to get caught short.”
“No worry there.” Mason yawned.
“Let’s see about improving our situation and headin’ to the pool. It’s eighty degrees, and I’m already feelin’ a very promising, platinum kinda vibe take shape.” Custis had the box operating. He was piling chips, nuts and snacks onto a table, next to the liquor.
“Jeez, Custis. What is that? Rap? It’s bad music generally, even worse before noon.”
“A little old-school to get your blood pumpin’. Wu-Tang Clan. Come on, Mason. Dentists listen to this shit.” He was nodding to the beat. “And I don’t have any Conway Twitty, so it’ll have to do.”
“Now I discover this wicked flaw, stuck here with you for a week.” Mason stood, took his swim trunks from a drawer, dropped his boxers and changed into the trunks and a button-front cotton shirt. He talked as he was dressing, naked for an instant. “Some tone-deaf turd carves the sweet spot out of a real talent’s song—steals it, to be blunt—then litters it with studio tricks and seventh-grade rhymes while his cousins and lowlife friends yelp in the background. Awful. The worst of it, Custis, is you have to know the chump with the gold teeth and Fatty Arbuckle pants, the brother with the mike, has about as much talent as a block of wood.”
Unfazed, Custis was pouring a beer, taking care not to let the foam get away from him. “By the end of the trip, you’ll be sold on Wu-Tang. I’ll bet you fifty bucks, confident you’ll be such a fan you won’t lie just to win the cash.”
“Done. Bet.”
“I got another little treat for you,” Custis announced.
“I hope it’s an improvement.”
Custis reached into his pocket and came out with a clear bag, dark across the bottom portion. He held it up with his thumb and first finger, letting it dangle. “A little smoke to boost our spirits.”
“Well, now.” A few fine lines formed at the corners of Mason’s eyes. He extended his chin a tick forward. “Where in the world did you get that?” he asked, more amused than surprised.
“People sell it, you know.” Custis tossed the bag to Mason, who caught it with cupped hands.
“Damn, I mean, here—you bought it here, I hope?”
“Of course.”
“What if you’d gotten caught or—”
“Not to worry—it’s all taken care of.”
“How’d you find it?”
“I bought it from the concierge. But, hey, I charged it to your credit card, so I’m in the clear when the DEA arrives with the black helicopters and night goggles.”
“You what? You—”
“I’m just fuckin’ with you,” Custis said, laughing so hard he snorted.
Mason relaxed, a grin twisting into his lips. “Smart-ass.”
“I paid a kid on the beach fifty bucks; he seemed enterprisin’. Runs a Jet Ski rental right below the hotel.” Custis sipped his beer. “So you gonna take advantage of my acquisition?”
“We’ll see, I guess. I’ve told you before I’ve never tried it. No lie, I never have, not even with Gates. Allison used to dabble a bit. I mean, I don’t have a major problem with it. It’s not a moral thing or whatever. Just never had the urge, especially when I was playing baseball and trying to stay in shape. Hell, it’s no worse than alcohol, right?” He was distracted, concerned with the bag. “Don’t see too many potheads beating their wives or holding up the liquor store, all jacked up on grass. Hmmm.” He fingered the dope through the plas
tic. “You do this much, Custis? At home, in Stuart?”
“Never shit where you eat, Mace. And it wouldn’t be quite righteous for me to prosecute people and then burn one during the drive home from work. I might party a bit when I’m visitin’ out of town, with friends in D.C. or Atlanta. It’s all politics anyway—reefer madness, you know? One toke, you’ll become wild-eyed riffraff, playin’ the jazz piano and kickin’ in doors to support your Mary Jane habit. Comes down to it, the moonshine and apple brandy we laugh off and wink at is probably far more harmful.”
“I’m not saying I disagree.”
“Since we’re on the subject, I appreciate the fact you’ve never pressured me ’bout my, uh, what should I say, my appearance and libertarian streak. Don’t ask, don’t tell has been a good policy for us.”
“Sure,” Mason said solemnly. “But now that I’ve learned the truth, I’ll be firing you. Can’t have a druggie on the state payroll, can we?”
“Damn, what a bitch. You’ll probably give me bad references, too. ’Course, you the man holdin’ the reefer. I don’t have the first idea how it got in our room.” Custis grinned.
“You know, why not? Let’s smoke some. You’re absolutely right—I need to loosen up. We’re on vacation in a foreign country, miles away from everything and everybody, and I’ve been through a hellacious year. Who’d begrudge me a simple misdemeanor? Fix us a joint.”
“It’s not quite a foreign country, Secretary Albright. Last I checked, Puerto Rico is a U.S. commonwealth, but—”
“They speak Spanish—close enough for me.”
“Comin’ right up,” Custis said. “Attaboy. Grab yourself a cold Corona to wash it down.” He gestured toward the bathroom. “I knew this was gonna work out. Damn straight.” He took the pot from Mason. “There’s an opener on the back of the door—say what you will, that’s takin’ care of your guests, yes indeed. A fine omen, Mace. Your accommodating hotels know to hook you up with some convenient hardware on the door or right under the sink. What would you prefer—French-milled soap or a place to open your malt liquor?”
