by Joe Meno
“Is this shit paid for?” Rick asked, looking down at the large bundle of white, unsure if it was meth or coke.
The biker shook his head, confused by the whole situation but clearly anxious about the gun. “No, we didn’t get that far yet.”
Rick turned to the girl, who was struggling to put on a pink pair of underpants. “Where’s your geegaw’s money?”
The girl shrugged, itching her neck. “In my purse.”
“Did you spend any of it?”
“Some.”
“Get your purse and start walking.”
The girl groaned, grabbed her purse, waved goodbye to Brian, and slowly made her way out the door.
Turning back to the biker, Rick smiled broadly and announced, “We’re bringing this with us. If you have a problem with that, I suggest you take it up with this genius,” and nodded at the shame-faced stooge, Brian. He snatched the bag of product, shoved it under his coat, and began to back out, pausing just long enough to whisper, “See you later, shithead,” to the hulking, pasty figure near the door.
The girl was waiting for him, standing in the parking lot, itching her rashy-looking neck. “Where’s your piece of shit?” she asked.
“Parked down the street.”
“Well, you can come back over and pick me up. I’m through being pushed around.”
She tossed her shoes on the ground and crossed her stringy arms in front of her flat chest.
Rick stared at her then, at the daring cheekbones, the high forehead, the glassy eyes, now shot red, the long, elegant neck, the narrow shoulders, the pert breasts. There was a glimmer of powder ringing her left nostril, which Rick quickly wiped away, and in doing so he secretly felt like a parent.
“Pick those shoes up before I kick you in the goddamn belly,” he whispered, and began to walk on.
The girl stood there, her arms still folded for a few seconds, then sighing, she reached over, grabbed the vinyl high heels, and began to follow on bare foot.
They were on their way back to Plano, it going on one p.m., the girl sleeping on the bench seat beside him, when the portable telephone—a bulky black instrument, attached to the truck’s cigarette lighter—began to ring.
* * *
They came to the A-frame house and the grandfather struggled to get out of the pickup. Then he was pulling himself up the whitewashed porch, his left eyelid twitching from exertion. The boy walked behind him, watching his grandfather’s advance until he had made it to the top step and was scuttling toward the screen door, which hung crooked on a pair of rusty hinges. The pistol, its black handle rising from the front of the old man’s pants, looked comical, completely out of place. There’s no way he’ll be able to reach down there if he ever needs to draw it, the boy thought to himself.
There was a doorbell which had sprung from its socket, a pair of white and green wires trailing from beneath the illuminated button. The old man regarded the switch for a moment before pressing the doorbell, both of them hearing a faint chime, and then quickly, or as quickly as the old man could manage, he took a distrustful step back. There was silence for a few seconds more before the clumsy stomping of bare feet on wood stairs, the noise getting closer, the old man reaching slyly down, placing his right hand on the pistol’s handle, the form of some human—a man—filling the doorframe, obscured by the dirty metal screen.
Quentin recognized him immediately—it was Walt, the youngest of the brothers, the one still in high school, the basketball player, taller than the rest of them, but gawky, skinny, wearing an Indiana Pacers jersey and a silver necklace. He stood there behind the screen door eating an enormous bowl of cereal, the silver spoon clanging there against the rim; as he approached the door his jaws worked over a mouthful of Cocoa Krispies. His hair was blond, cut short, and was ruffled flat on one side, which gave him the appearance of having just woken up from an afternoon nap. The cereal and the tussled hair made it seem as if he was younger, or maybe less deceitful than he actually was.
“We come looking for that boy,” the grandfather said, his hand still on the pistol at the front of his jeans. “I heard he lives here.”
The boy—who was eighteen at most—did not look particularly concerned. It seemed as if he was accustomed to various strangers appearing on the peeling porch, asking after one of his brothers. “Which one you looking for?” he asked, shoving another spoonful of cereal into his mouth.
The grandfather did not ease; his posture, rigid as an elm, actually seemed to become more tense the longer he was forced to speak. “We come looking for the one who works at the pet store in town. Does he live here or not?”
“Oh, he lives here,” the brother said with a chuckle. “Who’s looking for him?”
The grandfather sniffed at the air a little, leaning closer still. “I’m looking for him. Is he home now?”
The brother shrugged, dribbling some milk down his chin. “Nah, I don’t think so. Neither one of them is.”
The old man glanced out of the corner of his eye at his grandson, then quickly returned his gaze to the young man’s face in front of him, sizing him up, studying the shape of his mouth, his eyes, his ears; the mouth a little damaged-looking; the eyes squinty, a dullish blue, darting back and forth; the ears oblong, covered in small blond hairs, a little pointed at the top. The grandfather did not like what he saw. He loomed closer against the screen, nearly pressing his face there, and whispered, “We come to look for that boy.”
“Well, like I said, he ain’t here.”
“What’s your name?” the grandfather asked.
“What?”
“I asked you how you are called.”
“What business of yours is it?”
“I’m asking.”
“Well, I don’t have to tell you shit,” he smiled ruefully.
“It’s Walt,” the grandson whispered from the steps behind him. “His name is Walt. He’s a senior. He plays basketball. He got scouted last year.”
The old man nodded. “Now, I’m going to ask you one more time, son, ’cause the next time I’m not going to give you a chance to talk . . . You tell me: is that boy here or not?”
Walt seemed a little worried now. He licked his lips, stood straighter, glanced over the old man’s shoulder at the boy standing there on his porch. “I already told you. He ain’t here.”
The grandson, leaning against the porch railing, saw the old man’s fingers tighten and jerk the pistol free. Without grace, his grandfather shoved the screen door open and held the pistol out. The youngest brother stumbled backward, dropping the bowl of cereal on the floor, the brownish milk spilling across the hardwood, the bowl itself splitting into several shards. He slid as he turned, tripping over his bare feet, hurrying off in the direction of the kitchen, where a plastic telephone hung on the farthest wall, glowing there like an instrument of salvation. The old man marched over the threshold, kicking the porcelain shards out of his way as he approached, his heavy boots striking the floor, his drawn-out shadow hanging above the young man’s terror-stricken face. The kid was on his knees, and then with athletic quickness he hurtled toward the phone, overturning a kitchen chair, throwing it in the old man’s way; the old man steady, silent, marching past the chair, the pistol still solemnly raised. The kid pulled the receiver off the hook as the grandfather took a final step closer, the muzzle of the gun arcing up against the side of the young man’s face. Then the grandfather took the phone and set it back on its cradle. Quentin had now entered the house too, timidly, an observer only, watching from the front parlor.
The old man stared into Walt’s eyes for a moment, seeing the shock there, the surprise. “On your feet. Go sit in that chair.”
Walt quickly dropped himself into one of the wooden kitchen chairs, tears running from the corner of his eyes, snot gathering along his left cheek.
“What’s the name of the one we’re looking for?” he asked his grandson.
“Gilby,” came the boy’s answer.
Jim lowered the gun to
his side. “You know where Gilby went?”
The younger brother shook his head.
“You got some idea, though, don’t you?”
Walt nodded a little, his face flushing red.
“Who was the other fella with him? You can say that much.”
Walt looked away, covering his face with his hands. “Fuck you.”
“Now, son,” Jim said, taking a step closer, “you seem like a nice enough boy. We only come to find what’s ours. Who was that other one with him?”
“Fuck you.”
“You got some idea but you don’t want to tell us.”
“I’m not saying another fucking word.”
“Well, I respect that. I know he’s your brother. But the other one . . .”
“I ain’t saying shit.”
“You know him and that other fella, they took something from me. They took something of mine and I intend to get it back.”
“Fuck you.”
“Fuck you, huh?” The grandfather seemed to pause then, taking a moment to cast his pale-blue eyes over the angles of the kid’s face, over the tiny yellow room, glancing from counter to counter, table to refrigerator, back and again, searching for something, some sign, some clue, but finding nothing, the little kitchen grim-looking and untended, dishes piled up in the sink, pots piled up on the stove, a houseplant wilted along the counter. The kid looked unrepentant in the wooden chair, a deep, resentful, prideful gleam in his eyes. It was the same expression of ignorance Jim had seen in young men back in Korea, the same glare, the same arrogance. The pride, the belief in a future that, no doubt, would not, did not exist; it was something Jim knew he would not be able to argue with.
With the pistol still held out before him, but no longer taking aim at anything, the grandfather whispered, “You’re a good boy not to go back on your brother. But he did wrong and so he’s going to have to pay the bill for it. You don’t want to lend to his troubles, I appreciate that. So you tell him, when you see him—if he’s got any sense, he’ll bring that horse back. You got that?”
The younger brother nodded, the fear gone from his eyes; now there was only the shocked arrogance, the assailed pride. The old man took notice of it again and backed out of the kitchen. From across the parlor, the boy Quentin turned toward the front door, peering down the street to be sure no one had been watching, and noticed a girl across the way, on the other side of the block—in the picture window of another blue A-frame—who was holding the drapes back, eyes wide with interest. The boy did not recognize the dark-haired girl at first but immediately felt worried. He helped his grandfather down the steps, his hand under the old man’s arm, escorting him toward the curb, where they both stood silent, defeat filling the air.
The girl, the same dark-haired one, was out on her front porch then, crossing the street, still dressed in pajamas at this hour, a T-shirt and pink bottoms, wrapping a white robe about her shoulders. It was Belinda Clarke. The boy had passed her in the halls the last two years and had placed the yearbook photo of her playing clarinet among his most valuable treasures. She was not fainthearted, nor the least bit shy. She walked right up to the old man, standing barefoot before him and his grandson, and asked, “What did you want with him?”
“Pardon me?”
“Gilby? That’s why you’re here, ain’t it? What did he do this time?”
“Miss?”
“He went off to Lexington. I told him if he did it, I didn’t ever want to see him again.”
“Did what?” the grandfather asked.
“Took that horse and went off to Lexington.”
The grandfather turned toward the boy and smiled for the first time that day.
_________________
On and on, the horse bucking its head, nervous in the humid silver trailer, stirring as the highway fled past, stamping its hooves, waiting to be fed. The brothers had not thought to bring water for it and Gilby had spilled its food. They had also locked the gate at the rear of the trailer the night before, and then the next day, around noon, discovered they did not have the key. In the parking lot of a hardware store, somewhere among the outlying suburbs of Lexington, they argued over what course of action to take. The younger said that they should just leave it to its fate. That if they cut the lock off, the horse might somehow get out. He was afraid it would rush toward them and rear up, gauging their weakness with its dark, soulless eyes, and then tromp them both to death. The older, exercising a brief courtship with purpose and rationality, disagreed. If the animal was to die from want of food or water, it would be of no use to them at all. They pooled their resources and bought a twelve-dollar bolt cutter, snapped off the tiny lock, and flung the silver door open wide. The horse huffed a little, stamping in place, the heavy, ripe-smelling fumes of its manure rising sharply in the air. Gilby quickly backed away in fear. Although there was no room for the horse to turn inside the trailer, he thought its rear flanks looked more than capable of destroying both him and his idiot brother.
“What do we feed it?” Gilby asked, now a good ten paces away.
“You go across the street and get it a jug of water. And a pot or bowl or bucket of some kind to drink from. And some oats.”
“Oats?”
“Hurry up now.”
Gilby dashed across the main street to a small grocery with a faded wood facade, returning some minutes later with the jug of water, a large plastic bucket, and a box of oat cereal.
“How much do we feed him?”
“You finished high school, didn’t you? You figure it out.”
“I’m not going anywhere near that thing.”
Disappointed, shaking his head, the older brother grabbed the box of oats from his younger sibling and made his way up the metal ramp. The horse flicked its gray-white tail a few times and whinnied. Hearing the high womanish sound, Edward panicked, leaping off the back end of the trailer, covering his head with his hands. Gilby began to laugh, slapping his thigh, but then saw his brother’s face, which was once more strained with an unquantifiable rage. He quickly shut up, seeing Edward gather himself before once again, with as much coolness as he could muster, he climbed up the silver ramp step-by-step. He carefully extended his left hand, touching the animal’s dusty flank, patting it gently, making soft kissy noises as he tried to sneak along its side. The horse stamped once or twice, and each time the older brother froze, closing his eyes, his long nose now dripping with sweat, and then, breathing irregularly, he gently patted the animal again on its back, then along its mane, finally making his way to the creature’s snout.
The trailer was musty, hotter than he had expected, and staring eye-to-eye with the horse, he saw that what he had done—causing this thing of beauty to suffer—was damnable, would be the source of a great, lifelong doom. He did not consciously know that he now felt this, only became aware of it in the palpitations of his weak blood.
Tearing the box open, he held the unwashed oats before the animal, watching it begin to snuffle, its soft pink and black lips reaching like a hand into the box, disposing of its contents in a few mammoth gulps. “Tote that water up here!” he shouted, and Gilby, shaking his head, crept up the ramp, plastic bottle of water and metal bucket in hand. He passed both to his brother, who had set down the empty box. He watched as Edward spilled the water into the container. The horse drank avariciously, Edward refilling the makeshift trough again and again.
Together, the two brothers stood there for a few moments, pinned up against the steamy trailer walls, the horse searching around for more food, more water, its smell passing over them both, and also its quietude. The younger reached a hand up, touching its coarse mane, and smiled. “I always kinda wanted one. When I was a kid.”
“Sure.”
“For Christmas. That’s what I’d ask for every year.”
“I remember.”
“One year she got me the cowboy boots,” Gilby said. “That was good.”
His brother nodded, staring into the animal’s inky black eye.
>
“She tried anyway,” Gilby whispered. “With us, I mean. She tried to do right by us. Just none of us turned out the way she would have liked.”
They faced each other then, in the half-darkness of the horse trailer, the white-silver creature growing still as a shadow beside them.
* * *
The boy looked like a child behind the wheel of the pickup truck. The grandfather glanced over at him, trying to ignore his left shoulder as it throbbed. Almost immediately, he realized he had made a serious miscalculation, that this, this adventure, would turn out to be a mistake. There were spots of blood on his blue and gray shirt that had appeared from the taped-up wound; the stains made a red-leaf crocus shape that looked to have blossomed with the rising sun. There was also the feeling in his belly, in his joints, his anus, all of it feeling knotted up, like he couldn’t breathe. He glanced over at his grandson again; the boy was driving very cautiously, minding the speed limit, going a good five or ten below it, signaling whenever he was forced to change lanes, his husky shape never more straight than at this moment. The CB was on, and with it the static and infrequent gabbling of voices, this the only noise beside the engine’s rhythmic knocking. There was an open AAA map on the bench between them, unfolded to I-65, the long blue line bisecting the state of Indiana. They approached the capital, with its grim, gray-toned skyline and traffic. At this rate, it did not matter how slow or fast the boy drove. There was almost no way they would get to Lexington in time.
“Sir?”
“Hm.”
“There’s a lot of traffic ahead. I wish you were driving.”
“You just watch the speed limit and you’ll be fine.”
