Outland

by Kiernan Kelly

  A big paw stuck out, mindless of the grease covering my arms from my fingers to my elbows. I quickly tried to wipe some of it off with my shirttail, before shaking it. His grip was firm and strong, muscles and tendons tightening visibly in his forearm.

  "Name's Hank Adams. Good to meet you. Can I give you a lift someplace?"

  "Harv Turner. Folks call me Beaver, and I sure would appreciate it. Long walk back into town," I said, noticing how good-looking Hank was, how tall and broad through the shoulders. My prick noticed too, stirring in my britches.

  "You work at the mill, don't you? I think I've seen you around from time to time."

  "Yes, sir, I sure do. I don't remember seeing you there, though."

  "Only been working there a couple three weeks," Hank said, smiling. Lord, he had the warmest smile, open and friendly. It made his eyes sparkle and did funny things to the pit of my stomach.

  I followed him back to his car, a later model than mine, though only marginally better suited for the road. At least it started up and ran well enough, and he drove me home to my little house out in the sticks. I asked him in for a beer, and he accepted.

  That was all there was to it, the simple beginning to a love affair that'd last us the rest of our lives. What began as a friendship soon deepened into something else. Neither of us came out except to each other, but at least we were in the same closet from that day forward. Hank moved in with me not a month later and never left.

  "Beaver? What happened with Ashley?" Hank's voice brought me back to the dismal little waiting room.

  "Talk about it later, Hank. We have enough to worry on, for now," I said, refusing to say anything else.

  I didn't tell Hank any of what Ashley had said. There was no sense in the both of us sprouting ulcers. Besides, I figured Hank had enough on his mind with Fargo and didn't need any more crap piled on the shit heap. Not yet, anyway.

  But I wanted to. Oh, Lord, how I ached to confess, to share what I'd learned, to let Hank take on some of the burden of fury that burned like acid in my chest. I worried after his heart, though, and kept my mouth shut, stewing in my own juices.

  Four long hours after they rolled Fargo into surgery, give or take a few minutes, a doctor walked into the waiting room. He was wearing hospital greens, a surgical cap, and had a mask hanging around his neck. There were specks of dried blood on his gown. He looked grim, and for a minute I felt ice coat my heart. My lungs froze; I felt like the smallest breath would shatter them into a million pieces. Fargo was dead. I knew it. He hadn't made it through the surgery. My next thought was for Hank, and I reached for his hand. We both stood up, facing him, bracing ourselves for the news.

  I was wrong, thank God. He was alive and doing okay, in the Recovery Room. The doctor explained that an artery had been leaking like a radiator hose, filling him up with blood. The doc fixed him up, sewing him back together like a patchwork quilt, and although it'd been touch and go a few times, they held good hopes Fargo would make a full recovery. They would transfer him into the Critical Care Unit in a few hours for a day or possibly two, then on to a regular room. He still needed surgery to wire his jaw, but that would come a little later, once he was stable. The doctor said we could see Fargo as soon as he was transferred out of Recovery, but only for a couple of minutes.

  My legs gave out then, Hank's too, and we sank down onto the small sofa. This time, the tears burning in my eyes were from relief. We leaned against one another, each soaking up strength from the other, exhaustion born of stress leaching the last of our energy.

  When we finally got to see him, Fargo looked thinner than usual, and deathly pale under his bruises. He was hooked up to even more machines than while in the Emergency Room, all of them humming and blinking. He looked fragile, like a broken piece of delicate china held together only by thin strips of white medical tape and gauze.

  He didn't wake up, didn't even stir, and I was grateful to the doctors for whatever drugs they'd given Fargo to make him sleep. There was no sense letting him feel the pain until absolutely necessary, or the fear and anger I knew he'd need to deal with later on.

  We stayed until the nurses shooed us out, promising to call us if there was any change in his condition at all. When we left the hospital, I noticed the smoking area out front was empty -- there was no sign of Jethro or Ashley.

  I drove at a much slower pace than we'd arrived, my mind half on the road and half on poor Fargo, lying beaten and bruised in his hospital bed. Hank left me alone for a good long while, but eventually, he started asking questions.

  "So, you gonna tell me what-all happened, or let me make up shit in my head?" Hank's voice was soft, hesitant, almost as if he already knew the answer, or suspected it, and was hoping he was wrong.

  "Well, if you believe Ashley -- and I do -- it was Sanford Matthews and a few of his church buddies who put the hurt on Fargo. They paid Ashley a hundred bucks to tell them when they could get Fargo alone. Fucking little Judas gave him up for money."

  "Oh, Lord, no. Fargo's gonna be heartbroken, Beaver."

  "Are you kidding? He's gonna be spitting like a wet cat. That boy set him up!"

  "He loves Ashley. First loves are the hardest to let go, and when that person stabs you in the back... sweet Jesus, it's gonna kill Fargo, Beaver."

  "Maybe," I conceded. "Personally, I wanted to skin the little bastard."

  Hank grunted. "No doubt. I'd lend you a hand doin' it, too, but don't be too surprised if Fargo don't feel that way, at least in the beginning." He finally noticed we weren't heading toward the house. "Where are we going?"

  "The police station. I'm gonna press charges against Matthews. Bellows, too. He wasn't there, but he may as well have been. There ain't a doubt in my mind that Matthews was acting on Bellows' orders. Fucking sheeple, that's all they are, listening to that maniac."

  "Beaver, you ain't thinking right! You can't accuse nobody of nothing -- you ain't got no proof except Ashley's word on it! You think anybody will believe him, even if he told what he knows? In this town, Ashley's word against Bellows and Matthews wouldn't mean squat, and you know it. Fargo's the only other witness, and he's not talking, yet."

  "We can't let them get away with this, Hank! This ain't burning down an ol' rundown bar, or having somebody arrested. They purt near killed Fargo!"

  "I know it, but it ain't your fight, Hank. Not until we talk to Fargo, figure out what he wants to do, anyway." I could see Hank's jaw set against going to the cops, and damned if he wasn't right, too. All I had was a pocketful of accusations and suspicions, none of which would do the cops a spit wad of good, even if they took me seriously.

  "All right, all right. Hank, you listen to me close. I'm sayin' here and now if anybody tries to do anything else to Fargo, all bets are off. I'm going straight to the cops, and I won't leave 'em be until they find the bastards that did it. Got it?" I didn't mention that if anybody did anything to Hank, I wouldn't bother with the police. I'd get my shotgun down from over the fireplace, find my shells, and go hunting for their asses.

  "Sure, Beaver. When he comes home, we'll watch him real close, you and me. Ain't gonna let nothing else happen to him."

  I slowed the truck, hung a U-turn, and headed home.

  Chapter Six

  The doctors operated on Fargo again a little less than a week later, wiring his jaw shut. While he was in surgery, we spent the hours in the same, dreary waiting room. We weren't as tense as the last time, but we were still relieved when it was over and he was again in Recovery.

  Fargo got a little better every day after that. We didn't tell him anything about Ashley, although he asked after the little shit every day. Near broke my heart knowing what I knew, and watching him hurtin' because Ashley hadn't come to see him, hadn't even called.

  "Where is he?" Fargo asked again, his words sounding like mush squished through a strainer because of the metal wiring his broken jaw. His clenched teeth did nothing to filter the pain in his voice, pain that had nothing to do with his jaw or his
bruises. "Gimme a phone, Beaver. I want to call him."

  "He's fine, and you're not in any condition to make phone calls, Fargo. We can't hardly understand you, and we're standing right here." I hated lying to him, hated more seeing the look in his eyes that told me he knew I was lying, although he didn't call me on it. I figured he was afraid of what I'd say if he did.

  We brought him chocolate shakes from McDonald's, and ice cream, and Hank made him homemade chicken broth because Fargo hated the slop the hospital fed him through a straw. I picked up a couple of word-search puzzle books for him, and a copy of the latest People magazine. Jethro bought him a brand new pair of pajamas by some fancy, big shot designer I never heard of, saying he didn't want to see Fargo's skinny ass bared in a hospital gown all the time. Skeeter brought him a portable DVD player, and a stack of porn movies to play on it, joking that the only part of Fargo still working was his dick, so he might as well use it.

  No matter what we did to distract him, I could see the pain in Fargo's eyes that had nothing to do with his physical injuries. His heart was broken, pure and simple. He couldn't understand why Ashley hadn't come to see him, or called, or at least sent a fucking get-well-soon card.

  Hank and me were telling the truth when we said we didn't know where Ashley was -- we hadn't seen or heard from Ashley, not since the night Fargo was brought into the hospital. I'd told Jethro to keep Ashley away, and Jethro had been good to his word. I didn't know where Ashley got off to, and I cared even less. That was enough, for now, but it made it harder to watch Fargo suffer. More than once, I wanted to tell him, to make him understand Ashley wasn't worth what Fargo was putting himself through, but Hank talked me out of telling him each and every time.

  "Give him a few more days, Beaver," Hank would say. "Let him get over Ashley now, like this. It'll be easier for him to accept the truth later, when he's well again."

  Maybe Hank was right, maybe not, but I knew when to pick my battles with Hank and this wasn't one of them. I kept my mouth shut about the matter.

  A police officer came in the day after Fargo's surgery. It was obvious he didn't want to be there, shuffling his weight from one foot to the other, and barely meeting anyone's eyes. Fargo told him what little he could remember, and we got him on the side before he left to tell him about Ashley and rest.

  The cop snorted when we mentioned Bellows and Matthews, and when he spoke his tone was condescending. He looked at us as if we were a pair of worms too slimy for bait. "You're telling me the preacher put a hit on that boy in there?" he asked, jerking his thumb toward Fargo's room. "Ya'll better think twice before accusing anybody of attempted murder, especially a righteous man like Reverend Bellows."

  "Ashley Wills is a witness! He can tell you that it was Bell--"

  "Now, we'll take a look around, see what we can find, talk to this Ashley boy, see what he knows," the officer said, putting a hand up, cutting me off. "Y'all can stop by the station after the boy gets released from here and fill out a formal report if you insist on pursuing this, but I doubt if the good Reverend had anything to do with it."

  He turned on his heel and stalked away, leaving Hank and me standing in the hallway with our mouths hanging open.

  "Can you believe that?" I was sputtering, so mad I could've chewed up the nurses' station and spat out two-by-fours. I started after the officer, but Hank pulled me back.

  "Don't, Beaver. You'll only get yourself in trouble. He doesn't want to hear what we got to say, and yelling at him is only going to get him riled. Let it go for now. We'll do as he said and go down to the station as soon as Fargo is able, fill out a formal report."

  I didn't like it, not one damn bit, but I relented and let Hank pull me back into Fargo's room. He was right, though. We had enough to worry about for the time being.

  ***

  Outland stayed closed while Fargo was in the hospital. I wasn't leaving him alone during visiting hours, not if I could help it. I guess Bellows and the First Corners Church thought they'd won, that we closed the place down for good, but even though the thought burned my britches, it couldn't be helped. I wasn't taking a chance that Matthews or someone else might pay Fargo a visit in the hospital while we were at the bar and try to finish what they'd started. Maybe I was being overly cautious or paranoid, but I couldn't help it and on this, Hank agreed with me. As it turned out, we were right to worry.

  One afternoon when we got to the hospital, we saw that somebody set a bouquet of dead flowers just outside of Fargo's door. They were roses, brown and withered, and decorated with a big, black ribbon. A little note read, "These were meant for your grave, faggot."

  We tossed 'em before Fargo could see them. None of the nurses had seen who'd put them there, but I had a pretty good idea it was courtesy of the same folks who'd put Fargo in the hospital in the first place. After that, we were afraid to leave Fargo alone at all. The official rule was two visitors per bedside, and mostly we stuck to it. If me and Hank weren't sitting in his room, then Jethro or Skeeter was, but sometimes all four of us would be crowded in there together when Jethro and Skeeter could sneak upstairs past security. If the nurses would've let us, we'd have brought pillows and slept on the floor by his bed.

  The days passed without further incident, though, aside from a couple of nasty cards delivered through the hospital. They weren't get well cards -- they were sympathy cards, the kind you'd buy for the family of someone who'd died, and whoever sent them wrote "You should be dead," on the inside. There wasn't any return address on either of them, and we stashed them away before Fargo could see them, thinking to turn them into the police when we filed the formal report at the station.

  ***

  Fargo came home three weeks after he'd gone in, richer by a set of wires in his jaw and thirty-six stitches in his hide, and poorer by three teeth. We brought him to our place since we couldn't depend on his mama to take care of him. Couldn't trust that somebody might not break into his house and have at him again, neither.

  Jethro called me the day before Fargo was due to be released. Said Ashley started drinking the minute he got home after the hospital, and he'd stayed inside the bottle ever since. During one of the few times he was sober enough to speak and make sense, Ashley told him something Jethro thought we needed to know.

  The bastards who'd beat Fargo hadn't let him be because Ashley had gone for help like he'd claimed. Ashley hadn't gone anywhere. He stayed and watched the whole damn thing. Matthews and the rest left because they thought Fargo was dead. When Ashley realized Fargo was still breathing, he panicked, and called for an ambulance and me. He ditched his wig and ripped his own dress and hose to try and make it look like he'd been beat on, too. Nobody was ever supposed to know Ashley had been there, or who'd beat Fargo near to death. They expected his mama to find him cold and stiff in the morning.

  It hadn't been hysteria over what happened to Fargo that I'd heard in Ashley's voice on the phone, and it was fear I'd seen in his eyes later at the hospital, but not just because he'd turned Fargo over to the bastards for money. Ashley had been scared shitless he'd be charged as an accomplice to attempted murder. Jethro said he slugged Ashley a good one after that and threw him out, told him not to ever come back.

  I couldn't help hoping Jethro took out a mouthful of Ashley's teeth with that punch. It wasn't exactly a Christian thought, I suppose, but it was an honest one. By that point, I didn't only want justice -- I wanted revenge.

  "Feelin' any pain, Fargo?" Hank asked as we helped him inside the house and made him comfortable on the pull-out in the living room. We could've put him upstairs in one of the spare bedrooms, but we wanted him down with us, close by, where we could hear him if he called. Hank fluffed up his pillows while I took off his shoes and carefully lifted his feet to the mattress. I covered him with a nice, soft blanket, and a crocheted afghan.

  Leroy padded around and between us in that lopsided hop of his, wagging his tail and woofing softly, as if he knew what had happened and was glad to see Fargo home, too. He cu
rled up next to the sofa bed and promptly fell asleep.

  "No. Hungry," Fargo said, or tried to. It was hard talking when your jaw was wired shut, I reckon. Fargo tried, but everything came out sounding like mumbled baby talk.

  "I'm making you soup for supper, chicken broth with mashed-up noodles. We got some applesauce, too, and that supplement drink the doc told us to get for you," Hank said. "We bought pudding and Jell-O, too. I'll whip up a snack that'll hold you 'til supper's ready. You got his prescriptions, Beaver?"

  Fargo made a face I knew wasn't from pain. After three weeks, the boy wanted food, not pap, but mush and soup was all we could slide between his teeth. I smiled, careful to hide it from Fargo. He looked like a little kid about to get a dose of castor oil.

  "Yeah, got them right here," I said, holding up the small white bag from the pharmacy. The doc prescribed some pain pills, muscle relaxers, and antibiotics for Fargo. Hank and me decided it'd be my responsibility to make sure he took them. Hank was in charge of feeding him. That was fine by me, since I couldn't cook worth a shit anyway. Better to grind up a few pills than to try to force the boy to eat another bite of oatmeal or liquefied vegetables.