Cry Father

by Benjamin Whitmer

  Patterson hadn’t expected to see Junior again anytime soon. As a matter of fact, he’d meant to make that a rule. There are many things a man of Patterson’s age shouldn’t be doing, and pulling guns on Mexicans in their own bars is probably at the top of that list. But sometimes events conspire against you. And after seeing those fucking pictures he figures he’s up for any trouble Junior can get them into.

  He’s wrong.

  Junior’s sitting on his couch with his cowboy boots kicked up on the coffee table, holding a remote control. When Patterson walks in through the screen door, he can’t tell at first what the remote control is for. But then he follows Junior’s eyes to the television mounted on the wall. It’s the size of a small movie screen. “I got satellite hooked up,” Junior says. “You wouldn’t believe all the channels I can get.”

  “It’s a nice set,” Patterson says.

  “It’s a boring piece of shit,” Junior says. “I been sitting here for three fucking hours trying to find something to watch that doesn’t make me wanna take a pipe wrench to my own fingers. The only thing it doesn’t have is Wizard of Oz, and that’s the reason I fucking bought it.”

  Patterson takes a chair. “You get baseball games?”

  “Yeah, I get baseball games. Everybody gets baseball games.”

  “Let’s see a game.”

  Junior flips channels, stopping on a Reds game. “You want a drink?” he asks.

  “I can’t dance and it’s raining too hard to haul stone.”

  “Is that a yes?”

  “It means yes.”

  “Then say what you fucking mean.” Junior fetches a couple of glasses and a bottle of bourbon out of the kitchen, hands one of the glasses to Patterson. “You don’t happen to know any ladies with black hair, do you? About twenty years younger’n you? Better looking than you’d ever have any right to think about?”

  “Not interested.” Patterson takes the bottle and pours himself a drink. “And I hope that ain’t what you brought me here for.”

  “Not hardly,” Junior says.

  “Then what?”

  “You’re going to want to finish your drink first,” he says. “I can promise you that.”

  24

  nagging

  Chase is tied onto a ladder-backed kitchen chair in Junior’s basement, clothesline triple-wrapped around each arm and leg, duct tape over his mouth. His tank top and jeans are stiff with dried blood and vomit, his face swollen and red. Patterson whistles softly, coming down the basement stairs, and Chase’s eyes try to leap out of their sockets and strangle him.

  “You got yourself into a hell of a mess,” Patterson says to him.

  “I wouldn’t have duct taped his mouth except he kept screaming.” Junior leans on the wall by the stairs. “Not that anybody could probably hear him on the street, but I could hear him over the television.”

  “One hell of a mess.” Patterson kneels down in front of Chase. Chase’s arms strain at the rope.

  “I didn’t know what you wanted me to do with him. He was nosing around Denver trying to figure out where you lived. Says you stole his drugs and ran off with his wife.”

  “He’s full of shit,” Patterson says. “He had his wife hogtied in the bathroom. When I let her loose she took all his crystal meth. I ain’t seen her since.” From the way the chair starts hopping up and down, Patterson can tell Chase doesn’t believe him.

  “He didn’t come to do you any good. So you know. He had a little Kel-Tec .380 on him and there was a shotgun in his car.”

  “That right?” Patterson asks Chase. “You come to kill me?” Chase’s head bobs up and down sharply. “Jesus,” Patterson says.

  “Shoot him,” Junior says. “Nobody’ll hear it. Hell, even if they do, nobody’ll give a shit.”

  “I don’t think he’s going to give me much of a choice,” Patterson says, impressed. Chase’s head is still bobbing.

  “I don’t think he is,” Junior says.

  Patterson lifts his T-shirt and slides his .45 out of its holster, letting it sit on his leg loose in his hand. Chase starts grunting something in a furious chant, like pistons driving. Tears squirm out of his red eyes and stream down his cheeks, over the duct tape. “You want to say anything?” Patterson asks him. His chin jerks up and down. “Go ahead,” Patterson says to Junior.

  “If you yell out, you won’t have to worry about him,” Junior says to Chase. “I’ll shoot you before you get the first syllable out.” He rips the duct tape free of Chase’s mouth, hard.

  Chase’s mouth works for a few seconds before he can speak. “I wasn’t going to hurt that bitch,” he croaks. “That’s a game we play, you dumb cocksucker. She likes that shit.”

  “I oughtta shoot you for that lie alone,” Patterson says.

  “Fuck you,” Chase says, his voice gaining strength. “You don’t know how that bitch is. She nags and nags and fucking nags. Locking her in the bathroom is the only way you can get any peace at all.”

  Junior starts laughing.

  “I don’t see how that shit’s funny. She could nag dogs off a meat truck.” Chase’s voice rises into a falsetto. “Chase, buy me a pack of cigarettes. Chase, let me hit that. Chase, fetch me one of them McMuffins. Chase, pick that shit up. Chase, get off my sister. Goddamn, could that bitch nag.”

  “You realize you told us two completely different stories right in a row,” Patterson says. “Right like that, without even pausing.”

  “I ain’t got time for this shit,” Chase says.

  “You came to Denver to kill me,” Patterson says. “You ain’t got any time at all.”

  “What the fuck ever,” Chase says. “I didn’t come to kill you. I come to get her back. I come to bring her home with me. I love the bitch.”

  “I don’t have your wife,” Patterson says. “I don’t have your crystal meth either.”

  “I’m supposed to believe that?” Chase says. “I’m supposed to believe you found a naked woman in a tub that looked like that and you didn’t run off with her? That you left a couple of thousand bucks’ worth of crank there on the table?”

  “Believe whatever you want,” Patterson says. “I don’t give a shit. I ain’t got a reason in the world to lie to you.”

  Chase’s chin starts trembling. Then his lower lip.

  “Jesus fucking Christ,” Junior says.

  Chase tries to control himself, but it’s like trying to hold down the cover on a pressure cooker. He blows in an eruption of tears and snot that lasts a good minute before he begins a stuttering series of gasps, each one lessening in intensity, until he’s finally quiet.

  “You need to convince me that you know I don’t have your wife,” Patterson says.

  “I know you don’t have my wife,” he says, his voice melancholy, his eyes red and downcast.

  “And that you won’t be looking for her in Denver anymore,” Patterson adds. “Hell, Colorado.”

  “I know it,” Chase says. “I know she ain’t here.” His fists clench in their bonds. “Goddamn it.”

  “All right,” Patterson says. He passes his .45 into his left hand, flips his clip knife out of his pocket, slices the ropes apart.

  Chase rubs his wrists. “That shit hurts.”

  “C’mon.” Patterson closes his knife on his leg, pockets it. “I’ll stand you a tank of gas and some food.”

  “You’re a soft touch,” says Junior, starting up the stairs.

  “I know it.” Patterson turns to follow him.

  That’s when Chase hits Patterson over the head with the chair. The front and rear footrails splinter on Patterson’s back and the leg stiles snap off, clattering on the floor. Patterson tries to spin, but Chase jumps on his back, clamping his teeth down on his shoulder. He claws for the gun, still in Patterson’s left hand. Patterson shoots an elbow back, connects with something, pain ripping up his ulnar nerve. Chase chews shoulder muscle. Patterson lurches, rams his back into the cinder-block wall, and the man falls away. The basement wobbles around Patt
erson when he sees the blood drooling out of Chase’s mouth.

  “Shoot him,” Junior says.

  “You motherfucker,” Chase spits at Patterson, blood flecking through the air. “I know you got her.” He’s crouched down on the balls of his feet.

  “Will you shoot him?” Junior says.

  Chase lunges at Patterson, making a screeching noise from the back of his throat. Patterson throws his left arm up, the one holding the .45, and Chase sinks his teeth into Patterson’s forearm. He wraps his arms around Patterson and gnaws. Patterson slams his right fist into the side of Chase’s head. Chase’s legs slip out from under him, and they fall together to the floor. Patterson punches him again in the side of the head. Again. Chase’s head bounces on the concrete floor. Patterson punches him again. Again. Again.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake,” Junior says, standing there watching. “Will you shoot him already?”

  Patterson stands. Chase is crumpled up on the floor like something you’d leave discarded outside of a trailer-park dumpster.

  “I’d have shot him,” Junior says.

  “He had his fucking teeth in the arm that was holding the gun,” Patterson says.

  “Switch hands.”

  “Switch hands. Fuck you.”

  “You broke his nose anyway.”

  Patterson sits down heavily on the floor. He hangs his head.

  “Take a minute,” Junior says. “I’ll tie him back up. Unless you want to shoot him now?”

  Patterson shakes his head. Then he isn’t entirely there at all. He’s in and out of a gray-black fog. He’s looking for something, something he can’t find. And it’s terrifying him that he can’t find it. And then he realizes it’s his son, Justin. His full cheeks flushed, and one of his little fists balled up the way he did when he got scared. Patterson doesn’t know how long it lasts, but when he comes awake he’s still sitting on the floor and Junior is shaking his shoulder.

  “You need something to eat,” Junior says.

  “Food,” Patterson says thickly.

  “Unless you want to go to the hospital,” Junior says.

  “Food.”

  25

  edges

  They walk to a corner bar by the stock-show complex where Junior says they’ll still let you smoke cigarettes. It’s original Denver, Italianate brick. A fat man sits at the bar next to a blond, cherub-faced lady with cheeks as pink as a drugstore rose, and off in one corner a tall cowboy sleeps at one of the low bar tables underneath a whorehouse nude. It’s windowless, everywhere trimmed in red vinyl, the kind of place where old jackpot rodeo riders drink away the ones they couldn’t ride and the ones that walked away.

  The bartender is a fat woman, all of it rolling around in a dirty yellow sweat suit as she moves behind the bar. She microwaves frozen burritos for them, and while Junior shovels his into his mouth, Patterson stares at the bandagework on his arm, now and then trying to force down a bite. Then Junior finishes his food and flips open his cigarette pack. Empty. “You got any cigarettes?” he asks.

  “I’m out,” Patterson says.

  Junior signals the bartender, points to their bottles of beer. “Two more, and a pack of cigarettes.”

  “We’re out of cigarettes,” she says, uncapping the beer. “There’s a gas station down the street.”

  Junior tips his bottle at her and drinks, then looks over at Patterson. “How’s the arm?”

  “It hurts.” Patterson’s voice smears across the thick bar air. “Hurts like a son of a bitch.”

  “We got all kinds of antibiotics on it,” Junior says. “And we wrapped the hell out of it. I don’t think they could have done more at a hospital.”

  Patterson shrugs, his shoulders crumbling away like the foundation is sinking under them.

  “You don’t have to be embarrassed or nothing,” Junior says.

  “I’m not embarrassed.”

  “About almost fainting.”

  Patterson just manages not to pull his gun and shoot Junior in the teeth. “I didn’t faint.”

  “I said almost.”

  “I didn’t almost faint.”

  “You got a little light-headed there, partner,” Junior says. “That’s all I’m saying.”

  The bar door opens behind them and a hot streak of unwelcome sunlight cuts its way in on them. “Junior!” a woman squeals in an excited voice that rips a hole right through Patterson’s head. “Junior Bascom!”

  “Son of a bitch,” Junior says under his breath. She’s a big girl and there’s a sort of burnt-crisp wrinkle to her face like there’s a smoker working inside her, jerking her skin. The girl with her, though, she’s different. Redheaded, high-titted, and good-looking in that malleable way strippers are, like the years of affecting desire have somehow plasticized their skin. Junior’s wearing his eye patch and his good eye hops all over that one. “Hello, Darlene,” he says to the big girl with a little more enthusiasm.

  “Hello, Darlene,” she mocks. “I ain’t seen you in four years or more and that’s all you got to say to me.” She slaps his arm. “That’s a sorry greeting, Junior.”

  “It’s been a long day,” Junior says.

  “Well, you’re looking good,” she says. Her eyes flick over to Patterson. “Is this your dad?”

  Junior barks out a laugh. Patterson reaches his hand out to her. The one without the bandages. If he were to move that one, he thinks he just might faint after all. “Patterson Wells.”

  She shakes his hand. “Good to meet you, Patterson Wells.”

  “What’ll you have?” Junior asks, his eye straying. “For old times.”

  “Bud Light,” Darlene answers. Behind her the redhead nods.

  “Two Bud Lights,” Junior says to the bartender, who is already picking them out of the cooler. “What are you doing in town?” he asks Darlene. “I thought you moved east after rehab. Syracuse or something.”

  Darlene takes a pack of Marlboro Menthol Lights out of her purse and eyeballs the empty pack in front of Junior. “You want one of mine?”

  “Menthol?”

  “Menthol.”

  Junior waves them off. “I don’t smoke them niggerettes,” he says.

  Darlene slaps him on the arm. “My uncle died.” She extracts a cigarette from the pack, nods at the redhead. “This is his daughter, Shawna.”

  “I’m sorry about your loss,” Junior says to Shawna. Patterson manages to mumble something like that, too.

  Shawna lights one of Darlene’s cigarettes. She looks too young to smoke. She also looks like it probably ain’t the first time. Watching Junior stare at her tits, Patterson wants to tell her to put a sweatshirt on. “Don’t worry about it,” she says.

  “All right,” Junior says. “I won’t.”

  Darlene smacks him on the arm again. Something flashes across his face that she doesn’t see. “Don’t be mean to her,” she says. “She’s a good kid, and it ain’t easy losing your father.”

  “I think it’s real easy,” Shawna says. “I ain’t had any problem with it at all.”

  “Aw, honey.” Darlene strokes her arm, her fingers trailing boozily. “You don’t mean it.”

  Shawna lifts her eyebrows, drinking from the bottle of Bud Light. She seems like she means it to Patterson. Junior looks her over like she’s a big piece of meat and he’s deciding where to make the first cut.

  “It ain’t her fault,” Darlene explains. “There’s a lot of history between her and her old man.”

  “There’s very little history,” Shawna says. “There’s almost no history at all.”

  “Well,” says Darlene, “that’s what I mean.” She strokes the girl’s hair. “Aw, honey,” she says again. She turns to Junior, and the whole sorry mess, whatever it is, threatens to come spilling out of her mouth.

  “Tell you what,” Junior cuts her off. “Whyn’t you pretend you already done told me all about it and I’ll pretend I’m real sympathetic.”

  Darlene raises her hand to smack him in the arm again, but she d
oesn’t miss his look this time. She giggles, deciding it’s all in good fun. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

  Shawna draws a pill bottle out of her purse. She unscrews the childproof cap, taps three of the pills into her palm, chases them down her throat with a swallow of her beer. Then she taps out three more and sets them on the bar in front of Darlene.

  “I can’t take those,” says Darlene, watching the pills like they might start playing leapfrog across the bar. “I don’t even know what they are.”

  “Percocet,” Patterson says.

  “You want a couple?” Shawna asks him.

  Patterson smiles weakly, thinking he might just faint before her mercy. “Please.”

  She fishes out three more pills and hands them to him. Patterson chews them. “How about you?” she asks Junior.

  “I got everything I need,” says Junior.

  Darlene’s still holding the pills in her palm.

  “They won’t hurt you,” Junior says. “Just take the edge off.”

  “I been drinking all day,” says Darlene. “I ain’t got any edges left.”

  “Then they’ll help you sharpen them up a little,” Junior says.

  Darlene rolls the pills in her palm. “If I take them you ain’t leaving, are you?”

  “I ain’t got nowhere to be,” Junior says.

  “All right.” She places a lonely pill on her fat tongue, takes a hopeless drink of beer through her fat lips, washes it down her fat throat, swallows. She repeats the same for the following pill. By the third, none of them can look at her.

  26

  free

  Darlene snores, her mouth slack, saliva pooling on the surface of the bar. Shawna empties her purse. Keys, a battered pen, a cell phone, a long-toted condom with a scuffed wrapper, a tube of lipstick. Then, finally, her pocketbook, which Shawna strips of six dollars and twenty or thirty coins. Pennies mostly, greenish and dull. “She doesn’t have any credit cards,” Shawna says with disgust. “Not a single fucking credit card.”