“Just paying my respects, Jackie. Your grandma was a good lady.” She clicked her pen. “Anyway, what can I get you boys?”
They placed their orders, and she left without a remark. When she was gone, Chuck shrugged. “What was that about?”
Jack watched her drop off the order at the kitchen window and walk out to a rusted Ford pickup. He’d never been close to Susan, not like they were when they were little kids. Not since what happened in the woods. Growing up, she was always the quiet one, commanding respect from their peers out of sheer will. Most kids of that sort always skittered through the halls like mice, afraid of being seen and singled out, but not Susan. She was a contradiction, a clique of one, who stood out by not standing out at all. Wherever she went, she went alone.
“I’m not sure,” he said, finally. “Probably nothing.”
Only he wasn’t so sure, and he didn’t understand why. Watching her take another order, Jack thought back to the morning. One mystery begets another.
4
Across the street, while Jack and Chuck waited for their food, another sort of mystery was unfolding in the spartan office of Stauford High School’s assistant principal, Dave Myers.
“Mr. Tate.” A bluish vein bulged from his forehead like a buried worm. “Are you ready to tell me what the hell you were thinking?”
Riley Tate sat in the hot seat across from Mr. Myers, picking at a crudely painted thumbnail he’d done himself. To be honest, Riley was trying to figure out the answer to that question himself. He frowned at the dirt on his ripped jeans.
“Mr. Tate?”
The fifteen-year-old looked up, dusting off the legs of his jeans. “Yes, Mr. Myers?”
“I asked you a question.”
“And I heard you. I’m still thinking of the answer.”
Assistant Principal Myers leaned back in his seat and scoffed. “Let me make sure I understand, Mr. Tate. You don’t know why you attacked Jimmy Cord? You don’t know why you blindsided him and broke his nose?”
Riley’s eyes lit up. “I broke his nose?”
“Oh yes, Mr. Tate. You certainly broke his nose. He’s at the hospital right now, having it reset.”
Riley bit his cheeks and fought a smile. “Oh,” he said. “Too bad.”
“Oh yeah,” Mr. Myers said, “it is too bad. It’s too bad for him, because he’ll probably have to miss tonight’s game against Layne Camp. It’s too bad for the Stauford Bulldogs because their quarterback was benched on account of a random attack by another student. It’s too bad for all the folks in Stauford who bought tickets to tonight’s game to see Jimmy Cord run sixty yards to the goal line.”
Riley leaned back in his seat, fighting the smirk building in his face. The vein in Mr. Myers’s forehead bulged with each subsequent word, and for a time, Riley secretly hoped an aneurysm would save him from another minute of this guy’s bullshit.
“And it’s too bad for you, Mr. Tate, because I have to make a decision here, today, in this office. Before I can do that, I need you to tell me what the hell you were thinking. So, please, Mr. Tate, enlighten me.”
One of his father’s axioms sprung from the cloudy tumult of Riley’s mind: Every man’s got a choice, and every man is judged by the choices he makes.
Riley couldn’t remember from which one of the good Reverend Tate’s sermons he’d heard that line. After a while, his father’s Sunday morning monologues blended together into a buzzing mess of repentance, hellfire, and damnation. Still, Riley found his father’s words particularly prescient at this moment, and he struggled with whether to tell the truth or not.
The easy way out would be to tell the lie burning on his tongue, the lie he’d made up before approaching Jimmy Cord. The lie was easy and convenient and didn’t require a whole lot of explanation: Jimmy Cord was an asshole, and Riley didn’t like him. Two statements which, on their own and out of context of his situation, weren’t lies at all.
Jimmy Cord was, in fact, a complete and total asshole. Jimmy’s reputation was established in the annals of Stauford lore, having slammed Mike Henly’s head into a locker during Riley’s freshman year. Mike Henly went to the hospital for a concussion and Jimmy went to varsity football practice. Even to a kid his age, Riley could see which direction the wind blew in Stauford, which made his lie so easy to tell.
But what about the hard way out? The truth of the matter? Riley struggled with the choice to tell Mr. Myers something he wouldn’t believe.
Reputation was everything to a boy his age, especially in a town where one’s roster of friends, vocation, and pedigree determined the pecking order. Riley had long ago established his own modus operandi, choosing to be the loner who sat alone at lunch, wore black T-shirts sporting logos of bands no one had ever heard of, and painted his nails with a color called “Satan’s Heart.” He’d done everything in his power to rebel against the status quo while terrifying his father and embracing the bitter irony of defying Stauford’s many stereotypes by becoming one. Everyone around the high school knew Riley Tate cared for no one.
Except that wasn’t true. He did care, in his own way, and when he saw Jimmy cornering Ben Taswell in the courtyard between second and third bell, something snapped.
Ben was the closest thing Riley had to a best friend. They’d grown up together in First Baptist’s youth group. That is, their parents forced them to participate in it, and they hated having to do so. Otherwise, Riley and Ben had little else in common, but their tacit alliance over their shared hatred of the youth group was enough to warrant a bond of friendship which grew over the years.
The last thing Riley could abide was watching a kid twice Ben’s size and half the intelligence beat his friend to a pulp. Jimmy had a fistful of Ben’s collar, his other fist hovering above the poor kid’s face like a hammer, and while other students crowded around to watch, Riley experienced a moment of clarity. He broke free of his social status, defied his reputation, and took hold of an empty lunch tray from a nearby table. No one saw him coming, especially Jimmy Cord.
“Hey, shithead.”
Jimmy turned to look as Riley slammed the tray into his face. Blood gushed from the quarterback’s nose. An instant later, Jimmy fell backward, landing on his ass with a dazed look on his face. Twin trails of dark red rolled out of his swollen nostrils like thick paint, staining the popped collar of his white polo. Riley stood over him, clenching his fists, ready for the bastard to climb to his feet, only Jimmy didn’t. He sat on the ground, blinking.
“Thanks,” Ben whispered.
“Don’t mention it,” Riley said, looking up as the lunch monitor, Mrs. Viars, pushed open the cafeteria doors and ran into the courtyard.
Half an hour later, Riley was in Mr. Myers’s office, struggling to decide if he should betray his reputation by telling the truth. Would Mr. Myers believe him? Since when did Riley Tate have feelings? Or friends, for that matter? And what would the greater populace of Stauford High think of this recent revelation?
The possibilities turned his stomach.
“Well, Mr. Tate?”
Riley blinked and looked up at Mr. Myers. He smiled. “I felt like it.”
“You felt like it?”
“Mmhmm,” he said, nodding. “Can I go now?”
Exasperated, Assistant Principal Myers clenched his jaw and pinched the bridge of his nose. He shook his head. “You’re suspended. One week. I’ll call your father. Get the hell out of my office.”
Riley Tate rose to his feet and opened the door. He tried not to smile as he walked out. After all, he had a reputation to keep.
5
Had Riley remained in Mr. Myers’s office, he would’ve seen a rusted pickup truck pull into the parking lot of the Burger Stand across the street. The truck had seen better days, its surface once a bright banana yellow, but now all that remained was a shoddy husk of metal, duct tape, and Bondo. Its engine backfired as the truck drove over the curb and into the lot, coughing a plume of dark exhaust over the other customers.
The driver, a man by the name of Waylon Parks, brought the truck to a sputtering stop at the far end of the lot and shut off the engine. His passenger, Zeke Billings, rolled down the window. Another cloud of smoke just as odious rolled out of the open airway. He finished off his joint and ground the roach into the dashboard ashtray.
Waylon slammed his fist on the steering wheel and gave the horn three short honks. Zeke turned his head and winced at each shrill whine.
“Give that a rest, man. My fuckin’ head hurts.”
“I’m starving here. We got a schedule to keep.” Waylon honked twice more. “Y’all hurry it up now.”
Zeke leaned back and closed his eyes. He was awake until nearly dawn, poring over old chemistry books he’d checked out from the Stauford Library. Waylon was up just as late, searching for a cook site to prepare their first batch. Neither of them knew what the hell they were doing, but Zeke had enough sense to hit up the Stauford Library’s computers for a little internet research first.
Saying no to their number one customer was out of the question. Zeke supposed having dirt on the town’s chief of police was advantageous, assuming he ever had to do something with the information. Everyone had their vice of choice, and Ozzie Bell was no different, but their unique relationship allowed for more freedom than usual. Ozzie got his kicks, and Waylon and Zeke got to stay in business.
“Keep a low profile,” Ozzie told him, “and we can keep this goin’ until I retire. Hell, until after I retire, if you play your cards right. I get what I want, you get what you want, and everybody’s happy.”
Provided, of course, they could supply him with what he wanted, when he wanted it. Yesterday afternoon, when Chief Bell dropped by Waylon’s trailer on the other side of Moore Hill, Zeke figured it was for the usual kinks.
“Y’all got any of that methamphetamine?”
Waylon spoke before Zeke could reply. “No, sir, but we can cook up a batch for ya right quick.”
“How quick?”
“How’s Sunday work for ya? Just in time for your Sunday schoolin’.”
“That’ll work,” Ozzie agreed. “Anything to get through Tate’s ramblin’ sermons.”
They all shook hands, even though Zeke didn’t understand why. The deal was something Zeke’s grandfather, Roger, used to call a “one-sided agreement.” Truth was, Ozzie had them by the balls, and they all knew it. Ozzie Bell could’ve asked for the moon and Waylon would’ve promised it to him. That’s why they were up so goddamn late, why they slept through Waylon’s alarm, why they were late getting started, and why Zeke found himself wondering how in the hell they were going to get out of this deal.
“Hey, Ezekiel.”
He opened his eyes and found Susan Prewitt leaning against the truck. “You know that ain’t my name, Susie.”
“Neither’s Susie for me.” She nudged his arm. “You’ll never guess who’s in town.”
“Who’s that? The President?”
“Even better. Our long-lost half-brother, the artist.”
Zeke sat up, the stoner haze suddenly gone from his bloodshot eyes. “No shit?”
“No shit,” Waylon said, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. “Are you gonna take our order or not?”
“Give her a minute,” Zeke snapped. “You’re serious?” He studied Susan’s face, trying to find the lie somewhere. You don’t trust a snake, his grandpa Roger always told him, they’ll always bite when your back’s turned. She stared at him with the same blank mask she always wore. Resting bitch face.
She nodded, clicking her pen against the passenger door. “Talked to him ten minutes ago. He’s down at the other end, if you can believe it. Saw him this morning at the cemetery, paying his respects.”
“Kind of cold, not going to your own grandma’s funeral.”
“That’s how all those big shots are. Then again, he probably didn’t want nobody knowing he’s related to a witch.”
Zeke smirked. “Damn right about that, sis. She’s lucky the town didn’t burn her at the stake.”
They shared a laugh, and for a moment Zeke felt at home with her again, like when they were kids. The shadows of their past hadn’t seemed as terrifying when they could hold hands and face it together, but those days were long behind them.
Waylon cleared his throat. “Zeke, I hate to break up this here reunion, but we got a job to do.”
“He’s right,” Zeke sighed.
Susan shrugged. “That’s all right.” She took out her notepad and glared at Waylon. “What’ll it be?”
They gave their orders and watched her saunter back to the pickup window. Waylon let out a low whistle as she walked away, following the sway of her hips like a puppy on a leash.
“Damn shame she’s your sister, man. I’d hit that faster ‘n anything.”
“Half-sister, but still blood. That makes her off limits.” Zeke took a swing and punched Waylon’s shoulder. “Goes for you too, you sick shit. I seen what you do to the girls you bring to the trailer.”
Waylon slicked back his greasy hair and sniffed his fingers. “I got fond memories of Rhonda. You wouldn’t believe the nasty shit she gets up to in the sack.”
“Save it,” Zeke said, grimacing. “And keep away from my sister.”
“You ain’t got nothin’ to worry about there, brother. She ain’t my type. Too stuck-up for my taste. I like ‘em a little more plump, a little more broken on the inside.”
Zeke rolled his eyes. Waylon’s choice of partners was the emotionally scarred type, desperate enough to get with white trash like him, and willing enough not to say no. Susan Prewitt, on the other hand, was an entirely different breed of beast, more likely to gut a man for looking at her the wrong way than to submit. Waylon knew better than to catcall her, even in Zeke’s absence.
“Besides,” Waylon went on, “I don’t know why you talk to that stuck-up bitch anyway.”
“Because she’s family,” Zeke mumbled, leaning back in his seat. He closed his eyes and relaxed. He was closer to Susan Prewitt than he was the rest of his half-siblings, but that wasn’t saying much. After his grandfather passed away from lung cancer, he went to live with Susan and her grandfather, Hank, until he turned eighteen. Even then, Susan was hard to read, his friend one minute and a stranger the next, and she always avoided him when they were at school. They had more in common now that he was into dealing—she liked to smoke from time to time, with the occasional blotter of acid on the side—but he still didn’t trust her.
How could he, after that night in his bedroom.
Zeke opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling of the truck, charting a course between bald spots in the upholstery. Put it out of your head, he told himself. It was a million years ago, and she still ain’t worth the trouble.
His heart, though, told him something different. He still got a fluttery feeling in his gut when she spoke to him, regardless of which mask she was wearing on a given day.
“Waylon,” he said, sitting up. “Put on some music, would you?”
His friend obliged, pushing a mixtape into the console cassette deck. A moment later, the opening notes of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Simple Man” filled his ears. He hummed along, taking the words to heart.
A few minutes passed, and Susan returned with their food. Zeke handed her a twenty and told her to keep the change.
“Thanks,” she said, looking at the ruffled tarp stretched over the truck bed. “You going out to the woods?”
Waylon stopped unwrapping his burger and looked up, stunned. “How’d you know that?”
“Lucky guess,” she said, smiling. “It’s a full moon tonight, you know.”
“So?”
“No reason. You boys enjoy yourselves.” Susan tapped the roof of the truck and winked at Zeke. They watched her leave a second time. Waylon shook his head.
“Your sister’s fuckin’ weird, man.”
“Yeah,” Zeke said, watching her walk away. “Runs in the family.”
“Ain’t that the fuckin�
�� truth!” Waylon laughed and nearly choked on a mouthful of food. He coughed up a chewed piece of burger and spat it out his window. He cleared his throat and wiped his mouth. “You ready to get to work?”
Zeke shoved a handful of fries into his mouth. “Let’s do it.”
“Right on.” Waylon started the truck. A minute later, they squealed tires out of the parking lot and onto Cumberland Falls Highway. The sun hung above them at its zenith, the sky was clear except for a few clouds, and traffic was light. With Skynyrd blaring through the speakers and a full tank of gas, life couldn’t get any better.
And it wouldn’t. Waylon would be dead before the sun rose again.
6
Jack returned to his grandmother’s house two hours later with a full belly. He stopped at a hardware store along the way and bought some plastic sheeting to cover the broken windows, along with a bucket, sponges, and enough liquid soap to clear up the graffiti. Chuck had handed over the house keys when they got back to his office, but Jack kept them in his pocket. Staring up at the old house, he realized he wasn’t ready to return to its halls and the memories awaiting him inside. Not yet.
Instead, he busied himself with cleaning up the mess left by the vandals. He found an old broom hanging inside the door of the garden shed and used it to sweep the porch. Ruth called up to him from the foot of the driveway, asking if he wanted any help, but he waved her off and thanked her anyway.
“Maybe tomorrow,” he told her, and went back to work. Normally he wouldn’t mind the company or the help, but right now he needed time to clear his head. Mamaw Genie used to call him a nervous worker. Working with his hands busied his mind with something other than the problem. He couldn’t work on his art while preoccupied with such matters. The trivialities of real life poisoned his creative well. Besides, he preferred to leave his art to the realm of his nightmares, something which had served him well so far.
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