by Gregory Hill
“You get a rattlesnake bite and your old man brings you to the bank? What’s he got, a snakebite kit in his safe-deposit box? Your old man is a dumb motherfucker.”
If I was a superhero, I’d draw strength from the rage I feel right now. I’d flex my arms and bust the bungee cord and then punch this woman in the neck and steal her gun and rescue everyone. I am not a superhero. I slouch in the chair.
Miss Angie lights a cigarette. We’re done talking. She smokes while Neal and I sit, helpless, dying probably.
Neal and I try not to look at each other. Miss Angie puts out her cigarette and plays with Neal’s die-cast model of a 1962 Delta 88.
I fall asleep.
* * *
When I wake up, my hands are no longer tied. Clarissa is standing over me, nudging me in the thigh with her foot. She says, “Emmett isn’t helping.”
She didn’t say “us.” She said, “Emmett isn’t helping.”
I say, “So?” The word comes out. I can talk. I wonder if I’m getting better. I say “So?” again. I want to be tough but I’m about to cry.
“You gotta help him help us.” Us. She’s part of it. They’re a gang. “Or bad things will happen.”
“Who’s us?”
“Who do you think?”
“D.J. Beckman?”
“Yep. And her.” She nods to Miss Angie. “And her boyfriend.”
My head wobbles.
Miss Angie says, “He’s snake-bit.”
Clarissa says, “No kidding.” To me, she says, “You aren’t gonna die. If you were going to die, you’d be dead.”
I want to not believe her. You can’t trust someone who robs a bank behind your back. Still, I think that she maybe is telling the truth. Maybe that snake didn’t want to kill me.
Clarissa tells Miss Angie to help me up. The two of them lift me by the armpits. Miss Angie holds the gun in her free hand. They take me out of Neal’s office, right up to the safe. It’s one of those tall ones that you can walk into. The door is dark green with a yellow pinstripe painted around the edge. On the right side of the door is a heavy brass handle. In the center of the door is a dial. In front of the safe, there’s a pile of tools all tangled in yellow extension cords. A drill, an angle grinder, a sledgehammer, a crowbar, and an oxyacetylene torch. The door is nicked, scuffed, dented, and blackened with smoke. And it is closed.
Clarissa sends Miss Angie back to keep track of Neal.
Miss Angie’s ratty boyfriend is holding Pa facedown on the ground. The boyfriend’s hands are wrapped around Pa’s biceps. Pa’s breathing hard but he isn’t struggling. Clarissa says, in a sympathetic tone, “He got agitated. He started talking like your mom was here.”
Miss Angie’s boyfriend says, “I had to take him down.”
I want to kill these rats. Robbing a bank, messing with an innocent old man. I glare at Clarissa. I’m sure, with my swollen face, she can’t tell how angry I am. She says, “They aren’t going to hurt anyone. Not if you can get Emmett to open that safe.”
I say, “Where’s D.J.?”
“Who?”
“Beckman? Where is he?”
“We sent him out front to keep an eye on the customers.”
“I didn’t see him when we came in.”
“He was hiding behind the counter.”
I say, “Seems like he’d rather be back here. In the middle of the action.”
“He’s not very popular right now.”
“How’s that?”
Clarissa points at the safe. “Neal told us he didn’t have the combination, which I know is bullshit because I’ve seen him open that thing a million times. Angie and Kelly”—she nods toward Angie’s boyfriend—“they figured they’d just make old Neal uncomfortable for a while and he’d fess up. They promised not to hurt him. But then, while we’re taping Neal’s hands together, D.J. sneaks out to his car and brings in all his tools and starts whaling away on the door. Before we can stop him, he’s completely fucked up the safe so now the lock thingy won’t even turn.” She grabs the knob and tries to twist it. It certainly is stuck. “Like I said, he’s not very popular.”
I start to say something, but then I get dizzy. My legs bend and I’m on the floor.
Angie’s boyfriend lets go of one of Pa’s arms, reaches into his pocket, and pulls out a ball of aluminum foil, which he hands to Clarissa. “Give your buddy one of these.”
Clarissa opens the foil. It’s full of orange pills. She pushes one toward my mouth. “Kelly says to have one.”
I allow Clarissa to put the pill on my tongue. I swallow. It pushes itself down my dried-up throat. I nod my head for another. She puts another pill on my tongue. It fizzes some. I spit it at her face. It sticks to her cheek.
Miss Angie’s boyfriend, Kelly, jumps up from where he’s holding Pa to the ground and slaps my face. A handprint of pain thrums thru my head. My breaths come faster and shallow. I can’t take in any air. Clarissa holds me upright. She whispers into my ear, “I didn’t want you to be here.” I’m not sure if she’s sorry or if she’s irritated.
Out loud she says, “Get your dad to open the safe and this’ll be done.”
Kelly has returned to his spot, holding Pa on the ground. He says, “We’re trying to be nice, buddy. Help him help us. Maybe you’ll get something out of it.”
I shake my head. No, I think. Eat shit, you dirt-fucking scumhole.
Kelly pulls a revolver out of the back of his jeans. It’s nickel-plated and shiny. He points it at me, right at my forehead. His hands aren’t shaking like my hands would shake in that situation. What a prick. I can be a prick, too. I shake my head again. He points the gun at the back of Pa’s neck.
I nod.
* * *
I’ve never seen Dad so confused in my whole life. They’ve allowed him to sit up. He looks so sad. He isn’t wearing any socks inside his tennis shoes. His face isn’t shaved right. He has long grey hairs under his nose and on his Adam’s apple. I wish I’d shaved him this morning. I couldn’t have shaved him if I had wanted to; we didn’t have any electricity. I never learned to shave the old-fashioned way, with a razor and shaving cream. Electricity only. I try to recall if Pa ever shaved with a razor. I wonder if that makes us inferior to other men. I say, “Hey, Pa.”
He says, “What’s going?” He motions along his face, indicating the swelling on my cheek and neck.
I say, “Nothing much.”
“Somebody hit you?”
“Naw. Just a snake.”
He says, “You’re a. Inflatable.”
I say, “It’s not the end of the world.”
He nods. “I know. I been there plenty of times.”
* * *
I say to Clarissa, “We have to leave him alone. That’s the only way he’ll do it. You know as well as I do.” I’m feeling jittery. From the pill.
She says, “He’s right, Kelly. I’ve seen it. Emmett won’t do a damned thing if we’re watching him. I saw him do it in Vaughn Atkins’s basement. You just gotta forget about him. Next thing you know, he’ll have the vault open. It’s like getting rid of the hiccups. The more you try, the less it works.”
Kelly points the gun at my chest. He says, “Your old man better not pull any shit.”
I say, “He can’t pull any shit.”
Clarissa says, “Kelly, you go out front and wait with D.J. I’ll take care of these guys.”
Kelly scowls. “They better not pull any shit.” Then he’s thru the hallway and gone.
Clarissa says, “I’ll give you one minute alone with him. Then you come directly back to Neal’s office.”
She walks away, into the office, and Pa and I are alone. I’d like to hug him and then climb on his shoulders, push aside one of the ceiling tiles, crawl thru the ductwork, and escape onto the roof. Inste
ad I point him to the vault. He has tools. Dad can do this.
“Pa, we gotta get something out of that safe.”
“What’s in the safe?”
“A toilet. There’s a toilet in the safe. And I gotta take a shit.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy. I’m probably crazy. So far today, I’ve been snake-bit and I’ve taken an orange pill.
I say, “Do you want me to take a dump right here on this carpet?”
He says, “Hell no.”
“Then you need to open that safe.” I slap him on the back and shuffle toward Neal’s office.
He follows, puts him arm around my waist. “You can’t even walk right.”
“Then help me.”
He brings me to Neal’s door. I knock. Clarissa opens it. I work my way out of Dad’s arm and slither thru the door, which Clarissa shuts before Pa can enter. He knocks a few times. I hear him say, “Shakes?” Then there’s no noise.
I lean against the wall and slide to the ground. I try to put my head in my hands but it hurts too much. Pa’s out there, wandering. He doesn’t know what’s happening. I don’t know what’s happening. This is out of control. This is off the reservation. Whatever this is, it’s conclusive. We burned everything.
I cry. It hurts to cry. The tears are stones birthing out of my eyes. I curl up on the floor and shiver. Sorry, Dad, this is your reward. You’re the third generation of pioneers, people who built a farm, survived in a semi-arid landscape for a hundred and twenty years. And you end up wandering around a bank while your son’s lying on the floor with a snakebite on his neck. Four generations. Lying on a floor. Wandering in the hall. I wish I would die.
Clarissa puts her hand on my back. Miss Angie is still in this room somewhere.
Clarissa winks at me. “I told you Crutchfield would get his.” She seems proud.
I say, “It seems like you’re doing all the getting.”
“I’m sorry, Shakes, but D.J. had a better plan. A lot of people have asked me to help them rob this place. You wouldn’t believe it. Kids, old-timers, everybody. If it makes a difference, you were the first person I said yes to.”
“Out of pity.” My head hurts.
“Partly. And also because it sounded fun. But it couldn’t have worked. You need guns, Shakes. You can’t rob a bank with collectible coins. D.J. was willing to use guns.”
Miss Angie coughs a fake cough.
Clarissa says, “I mean, it wasn’t entirely his idea. Miss Angie and Kelly, they started it. They’re from Denver. They didn’t bring me in on it until a couple weeks ago. After you and I had given up on the job.”
I start to speak, but my throat’s too scratchy.
Clarissa says to Miss Angie, “Can you get Shakes some water, please?”
“No.”
Without replying, Clarissa fills up a paper cup and brings it to me. It helps.
She says, “You were saying something?”
I shake my head.
She continues, “I had started eating again and I was starting to feel good about myself. Like it didn’t matter what people think. I felt like doing something bold. But I knew you weren’t the person to do it with. You’re not action-oriented. D.J. and Angie and Kelly, they’ve got it all figured out. And they promised no one would be hurt. And look, no one has been hurt. We’ll get the money and then we’ll go away.”
“You have a getaway plan?”
“D.J. is in charge of that part.”
She misinterprets my look of dismay.
“Don’t worry, Shakes. You’ll be right here. You’ll be fine. You’re not going to die.” She sighs dramatically. “I never dreamed you’d show up in the middle of all this. I thought you’d be moping around the farm with Emmett. Of course it’s good luck that you did. We’d be completely screwed without Emmett right now.”
There are clanking noises coming from outside the door. Metal taps metal. Not aggressive. Exploratory. Pa is doing something out there. Clarissa’s eyes brighten. Then she looks hard at me and the brightness goes away. “Remember the last time we talked on the phone? When I said I wanted to come visit? I was going to tell you about everything. I was going to tell you all about this and make you promise not to tell anyone. Then, afterward, I was going to give you some money so you could get back on your feet after the foreclosure.”
I stare at her.
“But you hung up on me. So screw you.”
I don’t want to explain about the telephone being shut off. It doesn’t seem important. I say, “D.J. is a jackass.”
“Yep. And he’s mean. But he has a heart, sometimes. He’s been taking care of Angie and Kelly. He keeps them fed.”
On the other side of the room, Angie slaps her belly. “He doesn’t keep us fed enough.”
I say, “What about Vaughn?”
Clarissa says, “What about Vaughn?”
“Is he even actually dead?”
“Of course he’s actually dead.”
“We didn’t go to the funeral. I didn’t see the body. All I know is that you said he’s dead. Maybe you’ve kidnapped him and stuck him in that safe and this is all going to be a big joke on me.”
Clarissa looks hurt. “Vaughn’s dead.”
I say, “You never intended to rob the bank with us. You gave him hope. You’re always trying to give people hope.”
“That’s not true. You gave him hope when you suggested we rob this place. Not me.”
“It’s your fault he’s dead. You lied to us. You lied to him.”
Clarissa says, “Vaughn Atkins killed himself.”
“He killed himself with D.J. Beckman’s pills and now you’re robbing the bank with D.J.”
Neal Koenig groans. I had forgotten he was even there. Miss Angie kicks him in the knee. Clarissa clams up. She won’t look at me. She’s just as much of a weakling as I am, but being like me doesn’t make me respect her.
* * *
We hear more clanking. This time, it’s aggressive, purposeful clanking. Pounding. A grunt. Then the groan of iron being dragged across iron.
There’s a commotion outside the door. People are hollering. Something heavy slams against the wall.
Clarissa runs out to see what’s going on. She opens and closes the door too quick for me to see anything.
I hope Dad’s killing them all.
Neal is wheezing. I know they aren’t going to let us go. They never let you go. Assholes from Denver. I knew it, the second I saw them banging each other on that dirty mattress in that abandoned house. They were dirty, meth-eating assholes. They’re the kind of people who would murder a cat for no good reason. I bet they killed my cat. They killed my cat and I drove my cat to the farm and I found dad living in squalor with a dead woman in the bathroom, and now we’re all here except the cat and Unabelle.
I say to Miss Angie, “I expect you’ll kill me.”
She’s playing with Neal’s toy car again. She looks directly at Neal. “I don’t know why a grown man has toys on his desk. It’s immature.” She pronounces the “t” in “immature.”
Outside the door, there’s an angry, whispered discussion. I hear voices but not words.
Neal’s breath sputters around the apple in his mouth.
Miss Angie hops off the desk and squats in front of him. She rolls the toy car over Neal’s face. She presses it against his nose so he can’t breathe. The shotgun is lying on the desk.
The voices outside have grown calm.
I say, “Take the apple out of his mouth.” I’m feeling hungry. It’s been quite some time since I ate an apple.
Miss Angie removes the car from Neal’s nose and says, “After I get out of here, I’m going to buy me a car just like this one.” She giggles like a teenager. I suspect she’s in her mid-thirties. Her meth face makes
her look like she’s a thousand years old. She continues, “Except when I buy my car, it’ll be a real car. Not a Chinese toy. Always buy American. That’s what I say. It’s practical. We need to bring back tariffs on foreign goods. They need to stop manipulating the currency.”
More sounds of iron. Another burst of whispers. Someone says, “Fuck!” I can’t tell if it’s an exclamation joy or anger.
I want to know what they’re doing to Pa out there. I don’t want to know. I want Miss Angie to shoot me in the eye. The shotgun is sitting right there on the desk. Dirty cat-killing meth vampire.
Miss Angie says, “I’ll drive my new car all the way to Cincinnati. I’m gonna go to Kings Island and ride every single ride ’til I puke ten times. I’m never gonna work again. I’ll buy a Harley and take it to Mexico. I’ll run with the bulls. I’ll grow delicious apples in my own orchard.”
She isn’t watching me. My hands aren’t tied. Why don’t I just die? Pa’s still out there. Something’s happening. While Miss Angie rants her idiotic fantasies at Neal, I stand up slow. I make my hands into fists. I’m going to grab that gun and swing the butt into the back of her neck. It’ll knock her out and then I’ll untie Neal and then we’ll take the gun and liberate everybody. And me and Dad will steal all the fucking money. It’s our money. The banker owes us. Mike Crutchfield. Hadn’t thought of him in a while. It makes me even angrier.
“. . . I’m gonna buy one of those sea monkey aquariums. I’m going to buy X-ray specs and fake dog shit and everything. I’m going to become a magician. I’ll be the magician and my assistants will be sexy faggots in Speedos . . .”
I reach my hand toward the gun.
“. . . I’ll start a restaurant that serves only my favorite foods. Peanut butter sandwiches, peppermint schnapps, um, rye bread. And tapioca pudding. I love tapioca pudding more than anything in the whole world . . .”
I close my hand over the barrel.
