We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  And then it was Walk’s turn, and his father had looked on, brown shirt, honest face. He was foreman at Tallow Construction, they had a factory that smoked away dreams two towns over. That same summer Walk had gone with him, for orientation. He’d stood in coveralls and watched, all the grays, the pipes and scaffold so intricate like bowels, a cathedral of metals.

  In that courtroom Walk met his father’s proud gaze and offered up the kind of unabridged truth that sealed his friend’s fate.

  “I don’t need to be looking back anymore,” Star said.

  He made coffee. They took it out to the deck, birds on the swing-set flapping lazy and high when Walk settled into an old chair.

  She fanned her face. “You going to get him?”

  “He said not to. I wrote him.”

  “But you’ll go anyway.”

  “I will.”

  “Don’t tell him … about me and all.” Her knee bounced, she tapped the chair with her finger. All energy before the real purge came.

  “He’ll ask.”

  “I don’t want him here. I don’t think I can, in my house.”

  “Okay.”

  She lit a cigarette and closed her eyes.

  “So, there’s a program, a new one, over in—”

  “Save it.” She held up a hand. “I told you. It’s behind me now.”

  They’d tried counseling, Walk had driven her to Blair Peak each month for a lifetime, the shrink seemed to get through, progress had been good. Walk would drop her, leave her and head to a diner to wait. Three hours, sometimes more before she called. Some days the kids would ride the hours with them, silent in the back, looking on as their innocence trailed the cruiser, slipping further behind.

  “It can’t … this can’t go on.”

  “Still popping pills, Walk?”

  He wanted to tell her it was different, but then he wondered how. They were the afflicted. Plain and simple.

  She reached over and squeezed his hand, no harm meant.

  “I think you’ve got cream on your shirt.”

  He glanced down and she laughed.

  “Look at us. You know, sometimes I still feel it.”

  “What?”

  “Fifteen, baby.”

  “We’re getting old.”

  She blew a perfect smoke ring. “Not me, Walk. You’re getting older and me, I’m just getting started.”

  He laughed hard, and then she laughed too. And that was them, Walk and Star, thirty years unwinding till all that was left was a couple of kids talking shit and making jokes.

  They passed another hour in easy silence, neither saying it but both knowing there was only one thing on their minds. Vincent King was coming home.

  4

  WALK DROVE WITH AN EYE on the water, on folding golds and roaring surf.

  A hundred miles east to Fairmont County Correctional Facility.

  Thunderheads formed like gathered mistakes, the men in the yard stopped and looked skyward.

  He pulled into a sprawling lot and killed the engine. The sound of buzzers, men hollering, the lonely wave of caged souls rolling out toward miles of godless plains.

  It was not a place for a fifteen-year-old boy, no matter the detail. The judge had sat stone-faced as he made that dazzling call to corrective, the harsh truth of reformation more than a world from that courthouse in Las Lomas. Walk sometimes wondered about the damage done that night, immeasurable, the spiderweb of hurt that shaded so many lives, replacing the new with the old, the fresh with decay. He saw it in Star and had seen it in her father, but none more so than Duchess, who carried that night long before she was born.

  A rap on the trunk, he got out and smiled at the warden, Cuddy, tall and lean and grinning. Forget the hardened silhouette, the man ground down and ruthless by the forced company, Cuddy had always been friendly and kind.

  “Vincent King,” Cuddy said with a smile. “You look after your own in Cape Haven, right? How is it over there, still a shade of heaven?”

  “It is.”

  “Got to say, I wish I had a hundred more like Vincent. Most days the boys say they forget he’s there.” Cuddy moved and Walk fell into step with him.

  They passed a gate, then another, then into a low, squat building painted a shade of green that Cuddy said they brightened every season. “Most restful color for the human eye. Speaks of forgiveness and personal transformation.”

  Walk watched a couple of guys with brushes, trailing the baseboard with care, mouths tight in concentration.

  Cuddy placed a hand on Walk’s shoulder. “Listen. Vincent King has served his time, but getting him to realize that won’t be easy. You need anything, you call me.”

  Walk stood in the waiting room and watched the wide views and the men that did circuits, heads high like Cuddy taught them the sin of shame. If it wasn’t for the wire that carved the landscape with such brutality it might have been a scene that stopped breath, Our Good Earth, men in jumpsuits nothing but the lost children they once were.

  It had been five years since Vincent stopped receiving visitors, so, if not for the eyes, still blue enough, Walk might have had trouble recognizing him. Tall, thin, close to gaunt, sallow cheeks, a long way from the cocksure fifteen-year-old that had walked in.

  But then Vincent saw him, and he smiled. It was a smile that had got him into and out of more trouble than Walk could remember. He was still in there, no matter the warnings, the way people said it changed you, his friend was still in there.

  Walk took a step forward, thought of opening his arms but then extended his hand slowly.

  Vincent looked at the hand like he’d forgotten it could hold a greeting and nothing more. He shook it lightly.

  “I told you not to come.” He spoke in a flat, quiet tone. “But, thank you.” There was something reverential in the way he moved.

  “It’s good to see you, Vin.”

  Vincent filled out the paperwork, a guard close and watching; a man freed after thirty years was not a sight that drew comment. Another day in the state of California.

  A half hour later and they were at the last gate, both turned when Cuddy came out.

  “It’ll be tough out there, Vincent.” He hugged him, quick and tight, something passing between them, maybe thirty years of decorous routine finally broken.

  “More than half.” Cuddy kept hold of Vincent for a moment. “That’s how many come back to me. Make sure you’re not one of them.”

  Walk wondered how many times Cuddy had spoken that weighted line over the years.

  They walked side by side, at the cruiser Vincent lay a hand on the hood and looked at Walk.

  “I never saw you in your uniform. I got the photo, passing out, but here, in the flesh, you’re a cop.”

  Walk smiled. “I am.”

  “Not sure I can be friends with a cop, man.”

  Walk laughed, the relief almost flooring him.

  He drove slow at first, Vincent with an eye on just about everything, window low and the breeze on them. Walk wanted to talk but they crawled those first miles in something like a dream.

  “I was thinking, that time we stowed on the Saint Rose,” Walk said, trying to sound casual, like he hadn’t practiced conversation starters on the way up.

  Vincent looked up, a half smile at the memory.

  They’d met up early, ten years old and first day of summer. They’d pedaled down to the water, hid their bikes and crept onto the trawler, breathing heavy beneath the tarp as the sun rose and light passed through to them. Walk still remembered it, the throb of the engine as Skip Douglas and his men aimed her at the endless ocean. He hadn’t even been pissed when they crawled out, instead radioed back and said he’d keep them the day. Walk hadn’t ever worked harder hours, scrubbed the wood and boxes, the smell of fish blood no match for the feeling, a taste of life beyond the borders.

  “You know Skip still works, guy named Andrew Wheeler runs a charter. Skip must be eighty now.”

  “My mother tore me a new one that
day.” Vincent cleared his throat. “Thanks. The funeral, doing all that.”

  Walk dropped the visor to the sun.

  “You gonna tell me about her then?” Vincent shifted in his seat, legs hunched, pants an inch long at the ankle.

  Walk slowed at a railroad, a freight crossed them, boxes of steel, rust red and whining.

  They rolled over the track and into the kind of town that had run when the mines had before Walk finally spoke. “She’s alright.”

  “She’s got kids now.”

  “Duchess and Robin. You remember that first time we saw Star?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You’ll head right back there when you see Duchess.”

  Vincent, lost then, Walk knew where his mind was. That first day Star’s father rolled his Riviera into the Cape. Vincent and Walk rode up, saw a life packed into the trunk, clothes and cases and boxes pressed the glass. Side by side, hands on their Stelbers, sun hot on their necks. The man got out first, he was big and broad and he’d eyed them like he knew their kind. They were kids, though, that’s what Walk remembered, concerns limited to finding the Willie Mays Pro card because Vincent’s Magic 8-Ball told them they were due some luck. Then he scooped out a little girl, still sleeping, her head on his shoulder as he looked up and down his new street. Sissy Radley. They were about to turn, to head back to Walk’s yard and the treehouse they’d been working on when the rear door opened to the longest legs Walk ever saw. Vincent had cursed, mouth open, eyes fixed on the girl, their age and Julie Newmar beautiful. She got out, chewing gum as she glanced at them. Holy shit, Vincent said again. And then her father ushered her into the Kleinmans’ old place, but not before she turned and cocked her head at them, no smile, just a look that burned its way into Vincent’s soul.

  “I missed you. I would’ve come, you know. If you’d let me. I would’ve come and visited every weekend.”

  Vincent’s eyes never left the scenes, the interest of a man that had lived life through a television set.

  On the Central Valley Highway they stopped at a diner by Hanford and ate burgers. Vincent finished half, his eyes fixed on the window as he watched a mother and her child, an old man that stooped like he was carrying each of his years on his back. Walk wondered what he saw. Cars he did not know the names of, stores he had only ever seen on screen. A lifetime missed, from 1975 through, turn of the millennium, 2005 had once looked like flying cars and robot maids, now here they were.

  “The house—”

  “I check on it. It needs work, the roof, the porch, half the boards are rotten.”

  “Alright.”

  “There’s a developer, Dickie Darke, he crawls over it each month before summer. If you did ever want to sell—”

  “I don’t.”

  “Alright.” Walk had said his piece, if Vincent wanted money he could sell the place, the last home on the front line, Sunset Road.

  “You ready to go home?”

  “I just left home, Walk.”

  “No, Vin, you didn’t.”

  There was no fanfare when they arrived back in Cape Haven, no friendly faces or party or fuss. Walk noticed the other man take a breath as they crested the Pacific, the endless water coming at them, the tops of pines and grand houses on the Cape and beyond.

  “They’ve built,” Vincent said.

  “They have.”

  There’d been resistance at first, just not enough because the promise of money was more than kept, business owners like Milton held the floor and said they were tiring of the struggle. Ed Tallow said his construction company was struggling to keep the lights on.

  Cape Haven was carved into the cliffs, tranquil and preserved, a town lifted from Anaheim. Walk felt it, each new brick laid right on top of his childhood, on the memories he so desperately needed to hold on to.

  Walk stole a look at his friend’s hands, at the legion of deep scars that crossed his knuckles. He’d always been tough.

  Finally, they rolled the slope onto Sunset Road, where the King house stood like unwelcome shadow on the brightest day.

  “The neighbors are gone.”

  “They fell. The cliffs are breaking, like Point Dume. Last one yesterday. Fairlawn. Your place is far enough back, and they put in the breakwater a couple of years ago.”

  Vincent looked at the scene, taped off like the crime it was. There were homes behind, near enough to keep the street from isolation, but far enough for the King house to command the most spectacular view.

  Vincent got out and stood before it, an eye on the rotting gables and fallen shutters.

  “I cut the grass.”

  “Thank you.”

  He followed Vincent up the winding path, the steps and then into the cool, dark hallway. Papered walls with flowers recalling the seventies and a million velvet memories.

  “I laid sheets.”

  “Thank you.”

  “And stocked the refrigerator. There’s chicken and some—”

  “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have to keep saying that.”

  Above the fireplace was a mirror and Vincent passed it without looking. Walk thought he moved differently now, each step a cautionary tale about placement and better judgment. He knew the first years had been rough, and not rough in a cry-and-can’t-sleep way, rough in the handsome-boy-amongst-the-darkest-kind-of-men way. They’d written letters, Walk and Gracie King, to the judge and the supreme court and even the house on Pennsylvania Avenue. They’d asked for segregation at least. They’d got nothing.

  “You want me to stick around?”

  “You get back, do what you do now.”

  “I’ll check in later.”

  Vincent walked him to the door and offered a hand.

  Walk pulled him into a hug, his friend, back now. He tried not to feel the flinch, the way Vincent tensed up.

  They both turned when they heard the engine. Walk watched the Escalade. Dickie Darke.

  Darke climbed out. He wore his size like an ill-fitting suit. Shoulders slumped, eyes down. He dressed in black each day, jacket, shirt, pants. Distracted, affected.

  “Vincent King.” His voice was deep, serious. “I’m Dickie Darke.” No smile. Never a smile.

  “I got your letters,” Vincent said.

  “The town must look different now.”

  “It does. The wishing tree is about the only thing I still recognize. You remember we used to stash cigarettes in the hole under there, Walk?”

  Walk laughed. “And a sixer of Sam Adams.”

  Darke finally looked up and met Walk’s eye with the kind of stare that chilled him. Then Darke eyed the house. “The last of the front line. You own the land behind as well.”

  Vincent looked at Walk.

  “I’ll pay a million. Current value is eight-fifty, the state it’s in. And the market is turning.”

  “It’s not for sale.”

  “You’ll have a price.”

  Walk smiled. “Come on, Darke. The man just got home.”

  Darke stared a little longer. And then he turned and left them, strolling, unhurried, so big his shadow cast far.

  Vincent watched him, his eyes locked on Darke like he could see something Walk could not.

  * * *

  Duchess had an arrangement with the kindergarten teacher, Miss Dolores; she would let Robin stick around for three long hours till Duchess finished class each day, mainly because Walk had stepped in and asked, and also because Robin was not even the slightest bother.

  When Robin saw her he tidied his things, picked up his bag and ran over. Duchess knelt and hugged him, then waved to Miss Dolores and they turned.

  She helped Robin slip the straps over his shoulders and then checked he had his storybook inside and his water bottle.

  “You didn’t eat your sandwich.” She glared.

  “Sorry.”

  The school bus passed, parents in SUVs, teachers out on the grass and chatting as kids tossed a football beside.

  “You need to eat, Robin.”


  “It’s just …”

  “What?”

  “You didn’t put anything inside,” he said reluctantly.

  “Bullshit.”

  He looked down at his shoes.

  Duchess unzipped his pack and took out the sandwich. “Fuck.”

  “It’s alright.”

  “It’s not.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll fix hotdogs when we get in.”

  He smiled at that.

  They kicked a stone together, kept it going till they got to the end of East Harney and Robin sent it into a drain.

  “Did the kids say things, about Mom?” he said, as she took his hand and they crossed the street.

  “No.”

  “Ricky Tallow did, he said his mom told him about our mom.”

  “What did she say?”

  They ducked beneath the limbs of a willow and cut down the track between Fordham and Dupont.

  “She said he couldn’t come to our house because Mom wouldn’t watch us right.”

  “You could go there.”

  “His mom and dad are always yelling at each other.”

  She mussed his hair. “You want me to talk to her, see if I can sort something?”

  “Yes.”

  Duchess knew Leah Tallow. Cape Haven PD, just her and Walk and an auxiliary named Louanne, who was old as shit. Duchess couldn’t imagine any of them working a real crime.

  “Ricky said he’ll move into his brother’s room when he leaves for college. He said his brother has an aquarium. Can we get one?”

  “You’ve got a mask. Go look at fish in the sea.”

  When they got to Main they saw a group of girls outside Rosie’s Diner, same group, always, drinking shakes and taking over two tables in the sun. Whispers and laughter as they passed.

  They went into the grocery store, Mrs. Adams at the counter.

  Duchess found a pack of frankfurters and Robin fetched the buns. She took out her purse and counted out three dollars in bills, all she had.

  Robin looked up. “Can we get French’s?”

  “No.”

  “We need ketchup at least. It’ll be dry.”

  Duchess took the can and the buns up.

  “How’s your mother doing?” Mrs. Adams looked down over her glasses.