Tom Hubbard Is Dead

by Robert Price

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Julian parked directly across from the Hubbard place in a spot that just opened up on the muddy shoulder of Quinns Way. Nestled between an SUV and a pickup truck, he peered through the streaks of heavy raindrops on the passenger side window. Moisture-laden white smoke rose from the farmhouse’s chimney and then sunk and hung around the front yard like a light gray fog. To Julian, the old house looked haunted.

  In high school Julian tried to stay away from the Hubbard’s. Even though he had a car and lived closer to Tom than anyone else in their gang, he would usually talk his way out of picking up his friend. So when Tom needed a ride to school, to town or to parties on the weekend, Julian would instead convince Ted, the gullible one of their group, and the only other guy with a car, to retrieve Tom, even though Ted lived furthest away. And on the unavoidable occasions when he was incapable of finagling his way out of going to the Hubbard’s, Julian would adopt a sour attitude and act as if he were performing one of the most difficult chores of friendship. This seemed strange, though, given the reception Julian got when he did show up to offer a ride. Mrs. Hubbard would hug and kiss him on the cheek and Tom’s little sister, Elizabeth, would rush outside to flirt, encouraging him to show off his cocky, teenage posture. The problem was with Tom’s father. Although, thankfully, Julian had never met the man, he was terrified of what he suspected.

  Julian had a sixth sense for these things. When he was a child, before his mother remarried and they moved to Newbury, he, too, had been “pushed around.” Like lingering, sharp cologne, he could smell it on Tom—the insecurity that came from regular beatings. He had detected the abuse almost from their first meeting in ninth grade English class. Though never spoken of, his intuition for Tom’s hidden hurts helped to form a silent bond between them. Then, in junior year, shortly after Julian got his driver’s license, before the willingness to drive to Tom’s house had dissipated, he went to surprise his friend with a visit and his suspicions were finally confirmed.

  That day, Julian remembered, had been an unseasonably warm Saturday in early May—shorts and tee shirt weather. Driving toward the farm, he found Tom wondering along Quinns Way with one shoulder hanging abnormally low, as if perhaps it were dislocated. Tom’s head tilted to the side. He limped and looked lost, blue eyes swollen, cheeks burned red. His checkered, flannel, long sleeve shirt was torn from the shoulder. The tear allowed Julian a glimpse of the fresh bruises forming beneath. When he asked what had happened, Tom shrugged and said it was nothing.

  Now, parked on Quinns Way, Julian peered up at the old weatherworn place. The rain continued and his nerves jumped around. He hadn’t gone to the gravesite after all. Going alone just seemed too eerie. He reached to the floor of the back seat and lifted up a near-full, plastic half-gallon of vodka. Turning to face the tree line and stonewall that ran along the driver’s side of his car, he said aloud, “Here’s to you, my friend,” and drank.

  Cheap vodka gripped his gut and he held onto the steering wheel until the tightness passed. Climbing out of the car, he stepped into the thick mud on the road’s shoulder. “Fucking farmland.” Cinching his chin into his jacket’s collar, he rushed up the driveway toward the house.

  “Goddamn, the boy’s decided to show!” Neil Bingham, smoking a cigarette, called out from under the portico.

  “It’s freakin’ pouring out here. I’m gettin’ fuckin’ soaked,” Julian shot back without looking up. He had recognized Neil Bingham’s voice, and extended a hand as he slid under the cover of the portico. “Bing!”

  They had barely talked or seen each other since high school, every five or six years at the most. But Neil grabbed Julian’s hand and the two men folded into an effortless embrace, as if they had last seen one another just the day before.

  “Can I get one of those?” Julian pointed to Neil’s cigarette. “Left mine in the car.”

  Neil held the butt of a cigarette between his lips, closed one eye while the smoke curled up the side of his face, and used both hands to slap a cigarette from the pack.

  “Menthols?”

  “Yeah, I switched a few years ago. I think they’re healthier.”

  “You know, I quit for awhile.”

  “Oh, how’s that working out for you?” Neil grinned, took the butt from between his lips and offered it to Julian as a light.

  Julian, much thinner and shorter, appearing to be half the size of Neil, offered a thin sarcastic smile that reaffirmed their friendship. He placed the menthol between his lips and used Neil’s to light it, inhaling deeply. A rush of nicotine flooded his brain, a white queasiness washed over his face and he coughed. It was his first cigarette of the day. He quickly composed himself.

  “I tried to make the funeral and the burial but, you know, mid-week, man, and I work for myself. Sometimes it’s just tough to get away. So, when’d you get here?”

  “Ted picked me up at the airport this morning and then we did the church and the cemetery, now here. Can you believe it, man?”

  “I know. Melanie called and told me.”

  “His cousin Melanie?”

  “Yeah, you remember her? I already knew he’d been sent back over. She’d told me that earlier.”

  “She had?”

  “She calls. We keep in touch. She here?” Julian looked to Neil, who just shrugged. “Anyway, she didn’t tell me the details, but I guess it was a mess or something. One of those improvisational devices or something like that.” Julian’s thoughts started to drift, the nicotine from the cigarette making him suddenly sluggish. It’ll pass.

  “Yeah, I asked Ted and he didn’t know either. You’d think he’d know, though. Christ, the guy still lives around here.” Neil had lowered his voice, as if confiding in Julian, who stood silently beside him watching the rain.

  Even though Julian was off kilter, he understood Neil’s tone; Neil was inviting him to knock Ted. Ted was the easy target in their group. But Julian resisted the old temptation and let it drop, thinking instead of Melanie’s call earlier in the week. Besides, the cigarette made his mouth dry, and his forehead began to feel as if something were tugging on it. He would need another drink soon.