Blacktop Wasteland

by S. A. Cosby

  “Get the fuck out of here,” he said. Patrick rolled into a kneeling position. He held his stomach with one arm and crawled to his father. Butch was flat on his back and mewling. Patrick struggled to his feet. He grabbed his father by the arm and helped the older man off the floor. The laceration on his scalp was bleeding freely, making his face a crimson mask. His beard was nearly soaked through. The two of them limped out the door. Kelvin tossed the torque wrench to the ground. It sent an echo reverberating through the garage. He was breathing hard.

  “Well, that went well. How much bail money you think we gonna need?” Kelvin said.

  “They ain’t gonna tell nobody. At least not the cops.”

  “You don’t think so?”

  Beauregard set the impact wrench on top of the tool chest. The socket was smeared with blood and spit.

  “They were here trespassing. They said the cops told them to let them handle it. They won’t feel too much sympathy for them. Besides, guys like that only talk about the fights they win.”

  * * *

  Beauregard turned into the cul-de-sac off Falmouth Road. It was called, not surprisingly, Falmouth Acres. He drove past the lawns manicured to within an inch of their lives and the only sidewalks outside of the courthouse area. This was where money lived in Red Hill County. His old pickup stood out among the luxury cars and SUVs.

  The Cook house sat at the end of the cul-de-sac under the shade from an enormous elm tree. Beauregard would not have built his house there. A strong storm could send a branch crashing through the bedroom like an arboreal missile. Money made you value aesthetics over safety, he guessed. He parked on the curb and walked past a brick column with a plaque that proclaimed the House of Cook was established in 2005.

  The doorbell was a white button in the center of an arabesque series of swirls. He pushed it once and heard the theme from every old horror movie he had ever seen ring through the house. The door opened, and a slim, pale white woman greeted him. A sharp bob with razor-cut bangs framed her narrow face. She wore a long black sleeved shirt and black tights despite the heat. Beauregard felt a cool rush of air when she opened the door. A central air unit was working hard to keep the whole house at a comfortable temperature.

  “You must be Javon’s father. I’m Miranda.”

  “Yes. Nice to meet you.”

  “Well, come on in.” Beauregard didn’t move.

  “Actually, I’m kinda in a hurry. Could you just get Javon for me? Please.”

  Miranda smiled.

  “Of course. I must say my husband and I were so impressed with your son. He is a perfect young gentleman,” she said. She went back into the house through an expansive foyer. A few minutes later, Javon came down the stairs.

  “Thank you for letting me spend the night, Mrs. Cook,” he said as she slipped on his backpack.

  “Well, you’re welcome. Tre sure appreciated you hanging out with him. He was glad to have someone to talk to about Claude Monet,” she said with a smile.

  “Well, you take care now,” Beauregard said. He put his hand on Javon’s shoulder and half guided, half pulled Javon through the doorway. They walked to the truck in silence. Beauregard pulled out of Falmouth Acres. He turned right and headed deeper into the county.

  “Where we going?” Javon asked. Beauregard didn’t respond. He turned down Chain Ferry Road then down Ivy Lane. The lane ended at the old public landing for the Blackwater River. Once they reached the boat ramp Beauregard stopped the truck and killed the engine.

  “We need to talk,” he said.

  “About what?”

  Beauregard gripped the steering wheel. Then he relaxed his grip and turned to Javon. “I’m gonna ask you a question and I want the truth. Do you understand me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Don’t just say that because you think that’s what I want to hear. I want you to tell me the honest truth.”

  “Okay,” Javon said. He had his head down with his chin nearly touching his chest.

  Beauregard closed his eyes and ran a hand across his face. He left his hand over his eyes. “Did you set fire to Precision Auto?”

  Javon didn’t respond. Beauregard opened his eyes and caught a glimpse of the river. The sun was skipping across its surface like stones. The window was down so he could hear the water gently lapping against the riverbank. His grandfather used to take him here to fish for catfish and carp. He wasn’t that good at fishing, but it didn’t really matter. His Granddaddy James, his mother’s father, was a patient teacher. If he hadn’t gotten sent to juvie, then he might have gotten good at it. By the time he got out, his grandfather was dead.

  “I ain’t never heard you talk about this boy Tre Cook before. But his house is within walking distance of Precision Auto. So, I’m gonna ask you again. Did you do it?”

  Javon ran his hands over his face the same way his father had a few moments earlier. He turned and glared out the window. When he spoke, his voice didn’t crack or waver.

  “I was just trying to help. Mama told Aunt Jean we might lose the shop.”

  Beauregard punched the dashboard. The old leather split just like Butch Thompson’s scalp. Javon flinched and pressed himself against the door of the truck. Beauregard grabbed him by his arm and shook him.

  “What did I tell you? Didn’t I tell you that you didn’t have to worry about that? Jesus Christ, Javon, do you even know how much trouble you could get into? They could send you to juvie, and trust and believe you don’t want that! What if somebody had been in there working? Goddamn it, boy, what was you thinking?”

  Beauregard had never hit his boys. For that matter, he had never hit Ariel. His mother had slapped him around a few times and his father had gone ballistic. He didn’t let his kids walk all over him, though. He demanded their respect, and when he didn’t get it, he let them know accordingly. The desire to strike one of them for some transgression had never been stronger than his desire to assure them that they were loved.

  Until today. A part of him (the part that loved the thrill of driving, perhaps?) wanted to slap Javon right in the mouth.

  “I just wanted Mama to stop crying!” Javon yelled.

  “What?”

  “You don’t know because you always gone. She don’t cry in front of you. But whenever you ain’t home, by the time she puts us to bed she cries. She was telling Aunt Jean on the phone that every time you leave, she scared the next time she sees you it gonna be in a casket. She always talking to her about she don’t want you to do stuff that gonna get you in trouble!” Javon said. He was weeping now. Tears and words flowing freely in equal measure.

  Beauregard let go of his arm.

  “I thought if the other place was gone, you wouldn’t have to do the bad stuff. I thought things would get better. I don’t want you to die, Daddy,” he said. He grabbed the tail of his T-shirt and wiped his nose.

  Beauregard clenched his jaw. He moved his head around in a circle like he was taking in his surroundings for the first time. A nasty bubble of acid was trying to work its way up his esophagus.

  “Javon, I ain’t gonna die. Not no time soon. And even if I do, that still don’t mean you gotta try and take over. You ain’t the man of the house. You just a twelve-year-old boy. That’s all you need to be. That man of the house shit will get you hurt. Trust me,” he said finally.

  “Mama said you did when your Daddy left. She said you did what you had to do,” Javon said. His tears had slowed to a trickle. He sniffed, then let out a wet cough.

  “Don’t do what I did, Javon. I ain’t nobody you should be trying to be like. I made a lot of mistakes. Terrible mistakes. The only good things I’ve done is marrying your Mama and having you and Darren and your sister. The things I had to do hurt a lot more people than they helped. I was trying to be something I wasn’t ready to be. Just like you did,” Beauregard said.

  He could see himself in the driver’s seat of the Duster. Thirteen years old. His foot on the gas. The horrified faces of the three men that had been talkin
g to his Daddy.

  “Are you going to tell on me?” Javon asked.

  Beauregard snapped his head to the right. “No. No, I’m not going to tell on you. Was that Tre boy with you?”

  “No, I … I snuck out by myself. I told him I was meeting a girl.”

  “The only people that know is me and you. And that’s the way it’s gonna stay. But you gotta promise me something, and I mean you gotta swear to me, boy.”

  “Okay.”

  Beauregard studied the horn in the center of the steering wheel.

  “I ain’t gonna tell you it’s wrong, because you know it’s wrong. You gotta promise no matter how bad you think things are, you won’t never do anything like this again. You start down a road like this and before you know it you can’t find your way back. You lose yourself. One day you wake up and you’re just this thing that does shit and don’t feel nothing. And that’s the worst thing you can be. I can’t let that happen to you. I’m your Daddy and it’s my job to protect you. Even if that means protecting you from yourself. Promise me you won’t ever do anything like this again,” Beauregard said.

  “I promise.”

  Beauregard put his arm around Javon and pulled him close.

  “I love you, boy. As long as I got breath in my body, I’m gonna be there for you. My Daddy wasn’t always there for me. I ain’t gonna do that to you.” He hugged him tight then released him.

  “I love you too,” Javon said.

  Beauregard started the truck, but before he could put it in gear, Javon asked him a question that stopped him cold. It was a question he had expected him to ask one day. In some respects, it made sense he would ask the question now, after his Montage blood had made itself known in spectacular fashion.

  “What happened to your Daddy?” Javon asked.

  Beauregard sat back in the truck and let out a mirthless chuckle.

  “My Daddy? My Daddy was like a thunderstorm in a world of gentle breezes. That’s the way he tore through life. That’s the way he raised me,” Beauregard said.

  Javon opened his mouth like he was going to ask another question, but then he shut it and turned to the window.

  * * *

  Later that night, Beauregard sat on the porch drinking a beer. The crickets and the katydids were having a battle of the bands. The moonless sky was black as pitch. The temperature had dropped approximately one degree from a high of 97 earlier in the morning. Moths danced around the yellow porch light. Drawn to their death by the same thing that fascinated them.

  Kia came out and sat next to him in the other plastic Adirondack chair.

  “Javon is quieter than usual. He fell asleep with those ear phones on. He ain’t come out of his room since we finished eating.”

  “Uh huh,” Beauregard said as he took a sip of his beer.

  “Anything going on I should know about?” she asked. She touched his arm and he handed her the bottle. She took a long sip, then handed it back. Beauregard answered her question with a question.

  “You tell Jean I was doing a job?” he asked.

  Kia crinkled her brow. “No, why you ask that?”

  “Javon said he overheard you telling her I might have to do something bad to save the shop.”

  Kia bit her bottom lip. “I might have said something like that, but I didn’t say it was a job. Now I’ve answered your question. You gonna answer mine?”

  Beauregard took another sip. “Pat Thompson came by today. Accused me of burning his place down just like you said he would. We got into it.”

  “Did you hurt him?”

  “Nothing some iodine and bandages can’t fix.”

  Kia leaned back in the chair.

  “You think they gonna press charges?”

  “Nah. They was in the wrong. I know this ain’t the end of it, though.”

  “What’s that got to do with Javon? You know why he’s so quiet, don’t you?”

  Beauregard peered into the darkness. The light from the highway danced down the road like ball lightning.

  “Javon set fire to the Precision Auto,” he said.

  Kia shot up and headed for the door. Beauregard reached out and grabbed her wrist. He pulled her back down as gently as he could.

  “He thought he was helping. He’s heard us talking about how tight things are. Burning down the competition seemed like a solution,” he said.

  “Jesus, Bug, what are we gonna do?”

  “We gonna protect him, that’s what we gonna do. You know, I used to think I was a better man than my Daddy. I tried hard to be a better father. But it’s like I gave my boys a sickness. The counselor in juvie called it a ‘propensity for violent conflict resolution.’ That’s one way to put it,” Beauregard said.

  He finished his beer in one long gulp. He stood up and hurled the bottle into the woods. He heard it land somewhere in the brush.

  “It’s a fucking curse, is what it is,” he said. “Money can’t fix it and love can’t tame it. Push it down deep and it rots you from the inside out. Give in to it and you end up doing five years in some hellhole. I once saw my Daddy beat a man half to death with a bar stool over the man’s wife. What Javon did ain’t really his fault. Violence is a Montage family tradition.”

  Red Hill County

  August 1991

  * * *

  “It’s gonna storm, Bug. See them clouds over there? It’s coming hard and fast. Can’t you smell it in the air?” Anthony said.

  Bug leaned out the car window and let the wind slap him in the face. His Daddy was right, he could smell the rain in the air. It was a high sweet scent that suffused the atmosphere. In the distance a mass of dark clouds were gathering. They were full like overripe plums ready to burst.

  “After we get the shakes, maybe I should go get some neck bones. Take you home and make some soup for you and your Mama,” Anthony said.

  Bug knew what that meant. His Daddy was planning on spending the night. That meant an hour of laughing and two hours of arguing followed by two hours of hushed talking in his Mama’s bedroom. It also meant he got to spend more time with his Daddy.

  They pulled into the Tastee Freez and his Daddy put the car in neutral. He set the parking brake and hopped out with a deft agility that belied his size. He closed the door, then leaned through the open window.

  “Two shakes and a couple of greasy cheeseburgers. You want anything else?”

  “No. Can I get a chocolate shake instead of strawberry?”

  “Sure. You changing up on me,” Anthony said with a laugh. He jogged over to the sliding window to place his order. A few other customers were parked to the right of the building. Carhops made trips back and forth, ferrying food and drinks to families in minivans and the odd station wagon. Bug heard the high-pitched laughter of the girl taking the orders. He saw his Daddy trying to poke his head through the window and the girl giggling like a maniac. A few raindrops began to hit the windshield.

  He wished it could always be like this. Him and his Daddy riding the roads on a rocket with wheels. Watching the rolling hills blur as they flew past. The smell of gasoline and burning rubber soaking into their clothes. Just him and his Daddy surfing the blacktop. No destination in mind, just enjoying the drive. But he knew that was a daydream. Things would never be that way and he was learning to accept that. The truth was his Daddy was always a better father in his daydreams than he was in real life. That didn’t stop him from loving him so completely it felt as inherent as the color of his skin.

  Screeching tires made him turn around. A white IROC-Z skidded into the parking lot and stopped just inches from the Duster’s rear bumper. Bug saw three white men get out and start stalking toward his Daddy as he came over to the Duster carrying the shakes and the burgers. The men walked past the window and Bug caught a whiff of liquor. It was bitter and mean like the green rubbing alcohol his grandmother used on her knees. Bug sat straight up in the passenger seat as the men surrounded his father. The biggest man was wearing a light blue tank top that showed off his multi
ple tattoos. The blurry edges and the pale black-gone-green ink made the tats look like the scribblings of a child. A bright, wine-colored birthmark stood out against the pale skin on the man’s neck. His black hair was slick backed and thinning.

  “Ant,” the man said.

  Bug watched his Daddy give the man a once-over.

  “Red,” he said finally.

  “Get in the car, Ant,” Red said.

  “What this about Red? Huh? We done. We quits,” Anthony said. There was a tone to his Daddy’s voice that disturbed Bug. He sounded like a different person. He spoke in a flat, robotic way that seemed in direct contrast to his usual jovialness.

  “We ain’t done, you motherfucker. We ain’t done by a long shot. My brother got picked up Tuesday,” Red said. He spoke with a restrained ferocity that was frightening. Bug thought he sounded like a rabid dog growling through a fence.

  “And what that got to do with me? White went out and got a Corvette and dropping c-notes at Danny’s Bar a week after we did what we did. Sheriff ain’t gotta be Matlock to figure that out,” Anthony said.

  “You the only one that could put any of us at the scene. He called me last night saying the cops told him they got a witness that put him at the payroll robbery. Now I know it ain’t me. And it ain’t Blue. So, who the fuck you think that leaves? Now get in the goddamn car,” Red said.

  Bug saw him pull up his tank top. He caught a glimpse of a wooden handle. He had a gun. The man had a gun and was telling his Daddy to go with him.

  “Red. We can talk about this but not now. Not in front my boy,” Anthony said. Bug watched as his eyes narrowed to slits. He knew what that meant too. That was the same way his father had looked last night in the bar. A man had told his Daddy to stay away from the man’s wife or he was gonna catch a bullet. His Daddy had finished his beer, then picked up the bar stool and beat the man half to death with it. They’d left Sharkey’s shortly thereafter. His Daddy had made him promise not to tell his Mama they had been in a bar and Bug had agreed that was something his Mama definitely did not need to know.