Beard With Me: Winston Brothers

by Penny Reid

  Scarlet leaned back on her palms and stretched her legs out, drawing my attention to her. My breath caught. My stomach twisted.

  Damn, she’s pretty.

  “Or, maybe Saul just knew when he was outmatched and intelligently decided to farm out the fighting.”

  I closed my eyes. I needed another moment, and so I asked (in order to stall), “You think Saul was better fit to lead? Why?”

  “He survived, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah, but David survived too.” I gathered a deep inhale, opening my eyes and fixing my stare to the blanket. “And fought for his people. He didn’t hide or try to get someone else to do his dirty work.”

  “That’s because David was an arrogant kid who got lucky at best. At worst, he was a crazy loon with a death wish.”

  Now I was laughing again. When I dared to look at her, I saw my laugh also made her smile. We stared at each other, smiling for a bit before her gaze appeared to turn inward. A second later, she laughed anew, closing her eyes and shaking her head.

  “What? What is it?” I asked, wanting to know all her thoughts.

  Her head still shaking, she laughed harder, nudging my leg with her foot. “I was just thinking, I didn’t even need a sling or rocks to take you down. Just my knee.” She peeked at me. “Sorry about that.”

  I tried to frown but couldn’t. She was talking about the first time I’d heard her sing, chased after her in the woods, and ended up losing ten years of my life at the point of her sharp knee.

  "You’re forgiven,” I said, meaning it.

  “So fast?” She seemed genuinely surprised by my quick acceptance.

  “You must've really thought I was Darrell if you deployed the nuclear option so fast.”

  "Nuclear option? You mean a knee to the balls?" Now her grin was huge, her face beaming, her eyes brilliant, bright stained-glass blue. My lungs emptied on a whoosh.

  Dammit.

  What is wrong with me today? I’d known Scarlet was pretty before now, so why had it not mattered, or seemed so irresistible, until right this minute? I needed to look somewhere else. Anywhere else. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

  “Yes,” I said, my voice rough and low. “That’s what I meant by nuclear option.”

  Was it Sam? Perhaps it was Sam. I missed Sam. I missed when we’d—

  Nope. Not Sam.

  As my momma frequently said, Don’t go looking for your lost homework inside a blueberry pie, pies don’t eat homework. Meaning, don’t look for excuses where none exist and don’t avoid taking responsibility for yourself.

  The harsh truth was, like many teenage boys, I’d thought about girls and sex plenty, but I hadn’t thought about Sam since we broke up on Tuesday. Not once. And since I’d never been good at lying, not even to myself, I knew all this problematic noticing and staring and thinking had nothing to do with Sam and everything to do with Scarlet.

  “You know—” she drew her legs up, resting her forearms along the tops of her knees “—I never understood why men don't do it to each other more often. It's the surest way to take someone down.”

  "There's an unwritten man-rule.” I pointed out the obvious, not bothering to remind myself again that she was just Scarlet.

  Instead, I reminded myself that her father cut her, more than once. She was living in the woods. She was homeless. She is off-limits. That helped, finally. The insistent throb dulled to an ache, a jog instead of a sprint.

  "What? Y’all have an unwritten man-rule that you don't knee each other in the balls? That's a real thing?” She seemed honestly perplexed.

  I nodded.

  Keep your eyes to yourself, be a good friend.

  “Even if you're getting the shit kicked out of you?”

  I nodded again.

  Scarlet made a light scoffing noise. “I don’t get boys.”

  “Why? Because we don’t cripple each other regularly?” My voice was almost normal.

  “But you do. Football?”

  I glared at her. Folks who gave me shit about playing football got on my last nerve. There was no way I’d be going to college without a football scholarship. They didn’t like it? Fine. Don’t watch it. Whatever. Unless they were planning to pay for me to go to college, they could keep their opinions to themselves.

  Maybe sensing my mood shift, Scarlet leaned forward, her chin lifting stubbornly. “You’ll beat each other to a pulp, you’ll brutally tackle each other on the field, you’ll punch each other in the face and all sorts of violence, but God forbid you damage another man's precious gonads.”

  Sitting cross-legged, she ticked off points on her fingers. She wasn’t going to back down and I was laughing, something about the way she said gonads cracked me up.

  "Women have the same kind of thing, don't they? I know you've been in fights before.”

  “Yeah. When I was three and Jethro tried to take my ice cream. I woulda kneed him in the balls then too, if I’d known what it would do.”

  “But with a girl? Have you ever given another girl a titty twister?”

  Gasping, Scarlet's hands lifted to her breasts and she cupped them, rearing her head back as though the very thought were unimaginable.

  "Do you have any idea how much that hurts?" she asked, her eyes wide.

  Again, I laughed, realizing—even given my odd mood and errant thoughts—I was enjoying myself more than I had in a long, long time. "I have some idea, yeah. I reckon it's similar to a knee to the gonads."

  “Yeah, I guess . . .” She wrinkled her nose, her eyes scrunching thoughtfully as they shifted over my shoulder. Scarlet didn’t finish her thought and I didn’t prompt her.

  We were sitting close, about three feet apart, facing each other. Silence settled between us as the sounds of the forest settled around us. A bird called to another bird. The wind sent a hush through the top layer of the trees. The fire crackled and popped.

  After a time, I no longer heard the bird call, the wind, or the fire.

  Despite my determination to stop, I was unconsciously taking advantage of our stillness to admire the contours of Scarlet. How her long, copper and gold hair framed her lovely face; the graceful line of her jaw leading to the high arch of her cheekbone; the generous curves and pinks of her lips. Her skin was no longer yellowish, but a healthy, warm peachy color. Her freckles, which had appeared in such high contrast a few days ago, now seemed more natural. Charming.

  A funny, sweet, beautiful person; a strong, kind, generous heart; and a seriously shitty life. My stomach sunk.

  She deserved so much better than the hand she’d been dealt. Maybe her struggles had made her strong, resilient, but she didn’t deserve to be burdened with them. I loved her voice when she sang, but I suspected her spirit eclipsed it as my favorite thing about her. It was a miracle her father’s abuse hadn’t dulled her stunning spirit.

  Yet.

  I ground my teeth. How much more could she take? How much more until her daddy made a lasting, visible dent instead of a hidden scar? The thought sent a shiver down my spine, rage pressing insistently against the back of my eyes while cold determination built a solid, immovable resolution within me.

  He’ll never touch her again. I’ll keep her safe. I’ll protect her.

  I would. Even if she didn’t want me to. Even if she wanted to handle things on her own. Even if I had to persuade her, convince her. Even if it meant I had to send her a million miles away.

  My determination wavered at this last thought, of Scarlet being anywhere but here. It had only been a week, just a handful of hours, but I knew without a doubt I’d miss her if she left. I will miss her.

  I redoubled my resolve. She deserved someone looking out for her first, someone who’d set aside selfishness for her sake. So, yeah, I would keep her safe, even if it meant sending her away.

  I would.

  I will.

  Whatever it takes.

  Chapter Fourteen

  *Scarlet*

  “Most people are not looking for provable truths. As you
said, truth is often accompanied by intense pain, and almost no one is looking for painful truths.”

  Haruki Murakami, 1Q84

  Billy taught me what he called the basics—the clefs, notes, time, flats and sharps—and I must’ve caught on quick because the actual lesson part didn’t last very long. He only sat next to me long enough to explain the concepts and show me a few things.

  Then he gave me assignments based on his ten minutes of instruction. He seemed super eager to get up and move. While I worked, he checked the stakes of my tent, the security of the clothesline’s knots around the tree trunks and cleared fallen leaves from around the campfire.

  My stack of firewood seemed to be a real source of frustration for him. Actually, calling it firewood or a stack was a generous label for the small pile of sticks and rotten, felled branches I’d gathered. He kept frowning at it, questioning me about my fire tools, and scanning my camp with a preoccupied expression on his face.

  At one point, I looked up and realized he’d disappeared, so I sang. I stood and sang, “Wild Horses” again until he appeared a few minutes later.

  “Thanks,” he said, wearing a broody expression and carrying several large river rocks. “I couldn’t find my way back.”

  “What’re those for?” I lifted my chin toward the rocks, deciding not to laugh at him or tease, though I was tempted. Something about the arrangement of his features told me not to.

  “I’m putting them around the firepit, it’s safer if you have a buffer,” he grumbled, clearly in a mood.

  If he hadn’t laughed so easily at a few of my jokes earlier—like he truly thought I was hilarious—I might’ve wondered if he was irritated with me about something. But in the end, I didn’t think so. He’d been super nice all day, but also super distracted.

  We walked to the river together after that. He gathered stones, arguing with me when I insisted on carrying one too. I diffused the situation by telling a joke. He laughed. He took the time to explain his concerns, about my back healing and such. Once I understood where he was coming from, we compromised on several smaller rocks instead of the bigger ones. We walked back companionably enough, me humming, him listening quietly. But he still seemed off.

  By late afternoon, I started worrying and wondering if there was something troubling him. Maybe something I could help with? But I didn’t know Billy well enough to figure out how to ask him if he needed help. I didn’t want him to take offense or think I was being nosy. So I spent the rest of the day telling him jokes and funny stories to lighten his mood, listening to and enjoying his friendly laughter.

  Anyway, after checking my latest “music assignment” around sundown, I walked him to the edge of the field. He didn’t leave until I collected my fairy food from the crate and promised to meet him on the back porch around ten, giving me his watch when I informed him my trusty Casio had been lost sometime over the last week.

  “I’ll be on the steps out back at ten. Be there.” He was so bossy.

  I rolled my eyes, as though this was a massive inconvenience, and shrugged. “Well, I might be a little late. I have so much to do. And a few of my friends are stopping by for tree bark tea and leaf sandwiches. You know how it is.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he smiled, sticking out his hand. “See you at ten.”

  I accepted the shake without thinking, but our hands didn’t really move. We just sorta stood there, holding hands and giving each other small smiles.

  As the seconds ticked on, my heart fluttered uncomfortably and my mind grew restless, spurring me to mutter my usual departing words, “Goodbye, Billy. Have a nice life.”

  His smile fell immediately, his stare becoming a glare. “Have a nice life?”

  I shrugged, taking back my hand and saying with forced lightness, “Just in case I don’t see you again.”

  Billy exhaled a laugh that sounded angry and shook his head. “We just agreed, I’ll see you at ten.”

  I nodded. “Okeydokey.”

  Narrowing his eyes, Billy walked backward as he left me, as though reluctant to look away. After about twenty feet or so, he faced the house and walked properly toward it. When he did, I stepped back into the tree line, feeling out of sorts, but I didn’t leave. My feet didn’t want to move. I watched him go and my heart jumped when he turned over his shoulder and looked back. I had the absurd sense that he was searching for me. He stopped, faced the woods, and stood there for a minute.

  No lie. A full minute. Just studying the forest.

  Since I didn’t think Billy could see me, I took the opportunity to stare at him. He wasn’t wearing his jacket, but he’d been wearing it earlier . . . he must’ve left it at the campsite. Other than the jacket, he’d dressed similarly to yesterday and looked quite dashing (yeah, I said dashing and I meant it). Billy was so handsome, I suspected he’d look like a movie star in whatever he wore. But I admit, I was partial to the flannel, jeans, and boots. They suited him.

  He turned slowly and walked back to his house. For reasons unknown, I watched him until he mostly disappeared, and then I strolled to my tent to eat dinner. Tonight, the Winstons had made fried chicken, homestyle potatoes, and collard greens. I was surprised it wasn’t Thanksgiving leftovers; regardless, I ate every last bite.

  And since my brain kept trying to relive the day, I listened to The Beatles’s Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band album loudly, on repeat.

  Don’t get me wrong, it wasn’t a bad day. It was a good day. But I’d spent the entirety of it with Billy Winston. Being with Billy—talking to him, being near him, looking at him and catching him looking at me with that concentrated stare of his—still gave me the sense of being crushed. When I allowed myself to remember our day together, my lungs felt too full. I couldn’t inhale properly.

  So I drowned the thoughts with music until 9:30 PM, and then I put out my fire with its brand-new ring of stones buffer, turned off my CD Walkman, and walked to the homestead. But I did leave the empty, clean plate by the crate for Roscoe to find in the morning. I’d missed the Thanksgiving plate yesterday and felt guilty about it.

  Unfortunately, on my way across the field, thoughts of Billy resurfaced (now I didn’t have the loud music to distract me) and the closer I got to the house the harder it was to catch my breath. My heart was also behaving funny, beating harshly like it was unnerved every time I recalled something Billy had said, or done, especially when I thought back to the few times I’d glanced up and caught him looking at me.

  I was coming to realize that sometimes Billy Winston’s looks and gazes were just plain intense. He didn’t mean anything by it, I was sure. It must’ve been simply how he looked at folks. I needed to get used to his eyes, and him. That was all.

  But as I approached the back porch, my heart’s crazy antics became too much. I, for real, couldn’t catch my breath. I stopped, pressing my palm to my chest and taking a minute to calm down. I needed to calm down. I needed to—

  “Scarlet.”

  I jumped, letting out a little yelp of fright and surprise, and fell backward on my backside. Apparently, when I’m startled, I fall on my big ass.

  “Scarlet, it’s me. Cletus,” a whisper came from my left and I swung the flashlight around, searching for him and ended up pointing it directly in his face.

  He lifted his hand and squinted. “Will you please refrain from shining your high beams at my retinas. You’ve blinded me.”

  I breathed out, closing my eyes and clutching my forehead. “You scared the tar outta me.” My heart finally began to slow, and I laughed my relief. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I could see before. I just can’t see now.”

  “What do you mean, you could see? It’s black as grave dirt out here.”

  I heard him move toward me. “Why would grave dirt be any darker than regular dirt?”

  “Cletus!” I whispered harshly, laughing again in my consternation as I opened my eyes. “Why’re you sneaking up on me in the dark?”

  “We have matters
to discuss.” He came to a stop in front of me. In the faint light provided by my flashlight I saw he was offering me his hand. “And you didn’t come talk to me before leaving with Billy last night, nor did you come talk to me when you snuck back in. Nor did you come talk to me this morning when you left . . . again.”

  I didn’t take his hand. Instead, I gulped, staring up at the dark where his face should be. “You saw us?”

  “Yes. But only because I was looking.”

  I gulped again. “Does anyone else suspect?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  I lifted myself up all on my own. Darn. I was really looking forward to sleeping in a bed again.

  “Scarlet, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

  “It’s fine.” I wiped at the backside of my jeans, irritated when my hands came away damp. The field was wet. “I really shouldn’t have done it. Your momma has been so kind, and it feels wrong sneaking in and lying to her. It’s probably for the—”

  “Now hold on. Just wait a minute. That’s nonsense and we can deal with it in a moment. I need to talk to you about something else first.”

  Cletus reached for my flashlight and took it before I realized his intention. Then he clicked it off. Then he stepped close and looped his arm through mine.

  When he spoke next, his voice was a faint whisper, “I have a plan, but I need your help.”

  “A plan?”

  “Yeah. I have a plan to raise a lot of money. We’re going to throw a party at the Weller house on Bandit Lake after the football game Friday and I need you to get Billy there.”

  What? I was so confused. “I—what—are you—”

  “Everything is arranged. We’ll charge an entry fee. The place is stocked in liquor, no problems there, and I have Duane, Beau, and Hank on the keg issue.”

  “Cletus!”