by Thomas Scott
Virgil’s mother carried a blanket so they could all sit in the grass to watch the game and his father carried a picnic basket filled with fresh fruit and a jug of ice water and white plastic cups. The lights were on at the corners and midpoints of the field, the moths and other winged creatures already starting their dance around the lights as the three of them settled in to watch the game.
Murton stood at the side of the field, his father towering over him. They were deep in conversation about something, the opposing team waiting patiently at midfield. Ralph Wheeler was saying something to Murton who was shaking his head back and forth so hard it looked as if he were trying to remove a bee that had gotten tangled in his hair. Wheeler grabbed his son first by one arm, then the other. He held him so hard and tight that Murton was forced to stand on his tiptoes. Virgil’s mom started to rise, but Mason placed his hand gently on her thigh and dipped his chin just so. There was no mistaking his message. The Jones family would not get involved with the Wheeler’s grief.
It was clear that Murton did not want to play soccer, but his father was not having it. He pushed Murton onto the field just past the sideline and then pushed him again to send him further out. When Murton turned around to walk off, his father grabbed him by the scruff of his neck, dragged him to the bench and forcefully sat him down. Mr. Wheeler turned to walk away and then something else happened, something that turned out to be a catalyst of change that would forever alter not just Murton’s life, but Virgil’s family as well.
Murton said something to his father.
No one heard what was said, but whatever it was, Mr. Wheeler was not in the mood nor the proper state of mind to hear it. He spun around and leaned into his son’s face and began to yell at him, his words thoughtless and cruel. Spittle flew from his lips and landed on Murton’s face, but to his credit, Murton never looked away in fear or shame. Mason stood and began to make his way over behind Mr. Wheeler, any thoughts of remaining uninvolved in another family’s grief quickly forgotten. But even as he approached it was clear that Mr. Wheeler was losing steam, his words now focused more on himself than his only child. At last he sat down at the far end of the bench, away from Murton, his head hung low. The coach of the opposing team walked over and said something to Mr. Wheeler that went unacknowledged before he gathered his team and left the field.
Virgil was disappointed about the game and embarrassed for his friend. When he called out to him, Murton turned away as if he hadn’t heard and left the field. Virgil stood there for a few minutes and watched him go, then helped his mom fold the blanket and gather their belongings.
Everyone mistakenly thought the evening was over.
They hadn’t been home more than an hour. Mason was tinkering with something out in the garage while Virgil helped his mother wash the dinner dishes they’d set aside for later, after the game. Virgil had just placed the last dish into the rack when he and his mother heard a terrible crash at the front of the house. They ran into the living room and discovered the large plate glass window that fronted the porch had been shattered. Glass was everywhere and a softball-sized rock lay in the middle of the room. When Virgil looked out through the hole where the window used to be, Murton was in the front yard, his small body illuminated by the mercury street lamps that hummed overhead at the edge of the sidewalk. He was on his hands and knees and he swept his arms back and forth and kicked and scuffed his feet across the seeded lawn in an attempt to do as much damage as he possibly could.
Later in life it would become obvious to Virgil that Murton wasn’t just mad because he’d lost his mother, he was mad at his best friend because of what Virgil had…two parents who loved him and a future that was both bright and secure. Virgil and his mom went out on the front porch just as Mason came running around the corner of the house. Murton’s hands and face were covered with a mixture of dirt and snot and tears and Virgil watched as his father sat down on the ground next to him, wrapped Murton in his arms and held him on his lap until he cried himself out. They stayed out there for a long time, deep in conversation, until finally Mason walked him inside, his massive arm around Murton’s shoulders. Murton’s face was red, his lower lip was split open and he had the beginnings of a shiner on his left eye. They all stood there for a beat looking at each other before Virgil’s mom took Murton by the hand and said, “Come on honey, let’s get you a bath. We’ll put some antiseptic cream on your lip and get you an ice pack for your eye. Hey, I’ve got an idea. You can wear a pair of Virgil’s pajamas and spend the night with us. How does that sound?”
Murton followed her upstairs without answering and when Virgil looked at his father he saw the muscles of his jaw flex with tension. “I’ll be right back,” Mason said. An hour later he walked through the door carrying a small canvas-sided suitcase. The knuckles of both his hands were bloody and swollen, but other than that he didn’t have a scratch on him. “Murt will be staying with us for a while,” he said. “What do you think of that, Son?”
Virgil didn’t remember if he answered his father or not, but he remembered hugging him, his face buried in his shirt, his boney arms wrapped around Mason’s massive body, Murton’s little suitcase banging against his side as he did.
Two days later Ralph Wheeler bonded out of county lock-up, hopped a Southern Freight boxcar and was never heard from again. Murton lived with Virgil and his parents until they were both grown and left for the army.
Murton had yet to turn around. Virgil put the key into the lock, opened the door then walked over to the porch railing and stood next to his friend. “What are you thinking?”
Murton turned, his eyes dark. The look on his face caused Virgil to take a half step back. “Simpler times my ass,” he said. “That’s what I’m thinking.” But just as quickly he removed his hat, wiped the sweat ring inside the band with his index finger and placed it carefully back on his head. Then he winked at Virgil and smiled as if he hadn’t a care in the world. “So, why are we here?”
“I’ve got something for you,” Virgil said.
“Why didn’t you just bring it to the bar?”
“How about we go inside?” They walked through the front door with Murton leading the way. They were only a few steps inside when he stopped and turned around. “What gives, Jonesy? I thought you said you had something for me. The place is empty. Where’s all your dad’s stuff?”
“I had the mover’s put it in storage. You can have anything you want, Murt. Just let me know and I’ll get you the key. I had everything stored because I thought maybe you might want your own stuff here. You know, a way to sort of make the place your own.”
Murton visibly swallowed and opened his mouth to say something, then closed it just as quick. He looked around the front room, walked into the kitchen and then back out again. “What are you saying? You’re giving me your old man’s house?”
Virgil smiled at him. “I wish I could take the credit, but I can’t.” He pulled the deed from his pocket and handed it to Murton. “I’m not giving you his house, Murt. My dad is. He left it to you in his will.”
They rode back to the bar with little conversation. After pulling into the rear lot, Murton turned and looked at Virgil.
“What?” Virgil said.
“I’m not sure I know what to say. His house? It’s too much, man. I’m not going to take his house.”
“Well not to put too fine a point on it, Murt, but it’s already yours. He left it to you, just like your percentage of the bar. You own it, free and clear.”
“I don’t believe it.”
“What’s not to believe? He wanted you specifically to have it.”
“Why?”
For reasons Virgil could not readily explain, he found himself irritated. “Why? What do you mean why?” he said, his voice louder than necessary. “Jesus Christ, Murt, that is a hell of a thing for you to say to me after everything we’ve been through.” He laughed without humor. “And people are questioning my judgment lately?” But when Virgil saw the effect his words h
ad on his friend he wanted to try again, except Murton cut him off.
“I’m going inside. Thanks for the trip down memory lane. What time is it anyway? You sound like you might be ready for your medicine.” He slammed the door and walked away.
How much damage can one guy do in a single day? Virgil thought.
10
Sandy was already asleep when he got home. Virgil thought about waking her so he could apologize and explain his feelings in a way that might put them back on track, but in the end, he simply let her sleep. He went into the kitchen and poured a glass of ice water, but when he raised it to his lips his hand shook so badly he had to set the glass back down. He pulled out his pills and set them on the counter, then reached into the silverware drawer for a straw. And that’s when it happened. He took a pair of kitchen shears and cut the straw down to half its original length, then put both of the pain pills between two spoons and ground them together until they were a fine blue powder. He dumped the powder into a little pile and used the handle of the spoon to draw out two lines then bent over and snorted the medication through the straw, one line for each nostril.
The rush hit him at once, the warmth and lightheadedness something like a surprise meeting of a long lost friend or lover. When he stood and turned from the counter he saw that Sandy was standing behind him, her blonde hair askew, sleep lines etched across one side of her face, her naked body warm and inviting. The look she gave Virgil was one he would not soon forget, if ever. She covered her breasts and pubic area with her arms and hands and ran back to the bedroom. When she snapped the lock on the knob, the finality of the noise reminded him of the sound a jail cell door makes when it clangs shut.
He stood there, a cut down straw in his hand, the buzzing in his head as loud as a gas-powered leaf blower, blood pounding through the dark rivers of his heart. But when he picked up the glass of water, his hand was rock steady.
He knocked on the bedroom door but Sandy refused to acknowledge his presence, so he walked outside and sat down in a lawn chair near the edge of the pond and stared across the black water. The moon was out and full, the night sky cloudless and when he looked up and cupped his hands around his eyes and blocked out the ambient light it felt like he could see halfway across the galaxy. Tree frogs and crickets sang in the darkness and Virgil thought were it not for his addiction and the people he continued to abuse with his own selfishness and indignation, the night might have been perfect.
A sense of calm floated over him as he stared upward into the night sky. At some point he fell asleep for a while and just a few seconds after he woke and without warning, the tree frogs and crickets stopped their nocturnal calls and the buzzing in his head went quiet. He closed his eyes again and folded his hands into his lap. A soft breeze blew across the pond and tickled his face. When he spoke, he thought he sounded like a fool. “I’m not doing very well, am I?”
“No, Son, I don’t think you are.”
Virgil opened his eyes and looked at his father’s willow tree. Mason stood there, just like before, visible behind the hanging branches. “Lately I’m having some difficulty distinguishing reality from fantasy, Dad.”
“I’m not surprised. When you flood your system with mind-altering chemicals, you’re not foolish enough to believe that they won’t have any ill effects, are you?”
Virgil didn’t ignore the question, but he didn’t answer it, either. “I don’t know what to do.”
“The answer is right in front of you, Virgil. It has been all along. You do know what to do, you simply refuse to do it.”
“You may as well ask me to stop my own heart from beating. That’s how much control I have over it.”
“That’s a bullshit cop-out, Virg and you know it.”
“They let you swear in heaven?”
Mason smiled and the lines on his face looked like a familiar road map one might consult out of ritual rather than necessity before taking a well-known cross-country journey. “One of the first things you learn when you come back home is that there isn’t anything you can do that is ever wrong.”
“So it’s not like it is here, huh?”
Mason laughed. “No, Virg, it sure isn’t. But you already know that. You just can’t remember it. But you will, when your time comes.”
Virgil looked away from his father for a long time…so long in fact, that he thought his dad might be gone when he looked back. But he was still there, now seated at the base of the tree, his fingers interlaced behind his head, his legs crossed at the ankles.
“I feel like my time might be right around the corner.”
“It’s not hard to understand why you might feel that way.”
“Are you real?”
“We’re talking aren’t we?”
Virgil nodded at him. “Yeah, we are. I just don’t think that answers my question. Are you chained to that tree or can you move around?”
He stood up and dusted off the seat of his pants with his hands, an act that Virgil found odd. “You’re asking all the wrong questions, Son.”
“Am I, Dad? Never mind. Don’t answer that. Answer this instead: Am I doing anything right?”
Virgil wasn’t very surprised that his father refused to play the part of enabler when it came to his own self-victimization. “Have you already forgotten what I told you earlier? You’ve got people in your life who are going to need you.”
“Everyone seems to be doing just fine.”
“Your thoughts are deluded, Son. Everyone is not doing fine. Sandy lied to you today. When was the last time that ever happened?”
“What? It’s never happened,” Virgil said, his voice louder than necessary. “Ever.”
“You’re mistaken, Bud. She lied to you today, she just doesn’t know it yet.”
“How about we can the mysticism? Will you please just come out with it, already? It’s almost time for—”
“Almost time for what? To snort some more Oxy?”
“So you’re not tied to that tree after all.”
“I never said I was. Do you remember what I told you that afternoon at the bar, the day my body was killed? We were talking about Sandy…she’d just gotten there…it was right before Amanda Pate came in.”
“Yeah, I remember. What about Amanda, by the way? Is she there?”
Mason smiled in a way Virgil did not expect. “She sure is. In fact, we’re on something of a journey together.”
“What does that mean?”
“Answer my question, Virgil. What did I say to you that day?”
“I said I remember, Dad.”
“Then tell me what I said.”
“You said, ‘that’s one you don’t let get away, Son.’ What about it?”
“The intricacies of free will are really something. Absolutely amazing. I wish I had the words to describe it to you. I almost think I could spend the rest of eternity studying nothing else.”
Virgil rubbed the heels of both hands into his eyes. “You’re losing me, Dad.”
“That might be the most accurate thing you’ve said all night. Sandy told you she’d never leave you, but she was wrong. You’re losing her, Son.”
Virgil stood from the chair and pointed at him. “You’re wrong. Do you hear me, you’re wrong. She’d never leave me.” Then, as if he had to make his point to an apparition whose existence was questionable at best, he added, “You’re not even real.”
“Virgil? Who are you talking to?”
The sound of Sandy’s voice made Virgil jump and he lost his footing in the wet grass and ended up flat on his back. She walked over and ran her fingers through Virgil’s hair. She wore an oversized sweatshirt that hung just below her waist and a pair of lime green rubber garden boots embellished with images of multi-colored daisies.
“Who’s wrong? And why are you yelling?”
“Will you help me up please?” Virgil asked.
The night was warm and the sky was clear and instead of helping him up, Sandy laid down next to him in the grass and placed
her head on his chest. They stayed there like that for a few minutes, neither of them speaking, then she lifted her head and began to kiss him, her tongue probing desperately inside his mouth. She swung one of her legs over his body and sat on top of him before peeling the sweatshirt over her head.
But Virgil was having some difficulty with the sequence of events as they unfolded around him and he grabbed her arms and gently pushed her back. “Sandy, I don’t think I can. I want to, but the medicine—”
Even in the dark of night he could see the embarrassment of his rejection play across her face. She grabbed the sweatshirt from the ground and then, almost as an afterthought, dropped it on his chest. She stood over him, her mouth moving as if to speak, but if she said anything at all Virgil never heard it over the buzzing in his head. He watched her walk back to the house, her daisy-laden garden boots leaving dew tracks across the lawn. She looked, Virgil thought, like a little girl.
When he looked back at the willow tree, his father was gone.
11
Virgil and Sandy had a quiet Sunday to themselves, both taking a mental break and pretending that Virgil did not have a drug problem and the events of the previous night hadn’t happened. They spoke of nothing of consequence, were together yet separate and when they made love in the evening Virgil felt a sense of urgency and a longing for normalcy that seemed to exist without boundaries. She fell asleep in his arms that night and Virgil began to understand what his father had said, the truth of his words. He was losing her. The woman he loved more than anything else was drifting away, yet he felt powerless to do anything about it. Ultimately he would have to make a decision, one that would not come easily. He wanted to talk to Sandy about how he felt with the hope that it was not too late, that they could put the past few months behind them and look forward to a future free from the relentless grasp of the pills and the damage they’d done. Those were the thoughts going through his head as he fell asleep, but by the time he woke on Monday, Sandy had already left for work.
