We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  “You and Robin can stay with me tonight.”

  To Walk’s cruiser, Robin holding her hand tight. Neighbors stared on, a TV camera lit them up, Duchess did not have the strength to glare. She saw Milton at his window, met his eye before he turned and moved back into the shadow.

  She’d picked up the bag from the yard, inside she saw the cakes, the doll and the candles.

  They sat there a long time, till the hours lay so heavy on Robin he fell into a troubled sleep beside her, moaning out and calling as she stroked his hair.

  Walk drove slow out of their street, Duchess watching the bright light that was her home, the dimming scene that was her life.

  Part Two

  Big Sky

  11

  WALK DROVE WITH AN ARM in the sun as endless plains rose and fell from prairie to steppe and grasslands beyond. East was the river that slithered four states before emptying into the Pacific.

  He left the radio off. Miles of nothing but the call of crickets and the occasional pass of beaten trucks with bare-chested drivers. Some dipped their heads, others looked right ahead like they had plenty to hide. Walk kept his speed low, he had not slept in a long time. They’d spent a night in a motel, their rooms joined by a door Walk left cracked all night. He’d offered to fly with them but the boy was afraid. Walk was glad, he’d never liked flying.

  They sat in the back, each staring out, watching the land like it was something all foreign. Robin had not told anything of that night, not to Walk or his sister, or the special cops that came down. Armed with compassion, they’d settled him into a room of pastel colors and murals and animals with smiling faces. They gave him pens and paper, talked around him with looks of finality, like he was fragile pieces so far from one whole. His sister watched on, unimpressed, arms folded, nose wrinkled like she didn’t much care for the bullshit they were peddling.

  “You alright back there?”

  He got nothing.

  They passed towns, water towers, rusting scaffold. For fifty miles the railroad accompanied, brown weed grown over burned slats like the last train had left the station a lifetime before.

  He slowed by a Methodist chapel, white boards and lightest green slate, the steeple an arrow that pointed to more.

  “You hungry?” He knew they would not answer. It was a long trip, a thousand miles. The scorched stretch of Nevada, Route 80 without end, the dirt as dry as the air. It took an age for the world to change, orange to green, Idaho upon them, Yellowstone and Wyoming just beyond. Duchess took an interest for a while.

  At the Twin River Mills they stopped at a diner.

  In a torn booth Walk ordered hamburgers and milkshakes and they watched a gas station across the way. A young family, U-Haul, moving between shells, the little girl a sticky mess of chocolate and her mother fussing after her with a wet-wipe and a smile.

  Robin stopped eating and watched. Walk placed a hand on his shoulder and the boy stared back down into his shake.

  “It’ll be alright.”

  “How’d you figure that?” Duchess fired back, quick like she’d been expecting something.

  “I remember your grandfather, when I was small. He’s a good man. I heard he’s in a hundred acres, maybe you’ll like it. Clear air and all that.” He didn’t know what he was saying, just that he wished he could stop. “Fertile soil.” He’d worsened it.

  Duchess rolled her eyes.

  “You talked to Vincent King?” She did not look up.

  Walk dabbed his lips with a napkin. “I’m … I’ll assist the state police.”

  They’d bumped Walk from the case the morning after, left him to arrange the safeguarding of the scene till they were done. Two days, tech vans and busy people, Walk liaised with locals, closed half the road. They moved on to the King house. Again, Walk was left to safeguard. They deemed him too small town, Cape Haven PD too small to cope. He had not argued.

  “They’ll put him to death.”

  Robin looked over at his sister, his eyes tired but intense, the last flares of a dying fire.

  “Duchess—”

  “It’s what they’ll do. A man like that, there’s no coming back. Shooting a woman, unarmed. You believe in an eye for eye, Walk?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Duchess fished a fry in her ketchup and shook her head like she was disappointed in him. She spoke of Vincent often, the man that shot her mother dead and left her brother hiding in the closet.

  “Eat your burger,” Duchess said to Robin, and he ate. “And the green.”

  “But—”

  She stared.

  He picked up a piece of lettuce and nibbled the corner.

  Another hour and Walk saw the sign for Dearman. Razor wire ran a quarter mile, keeping people in and out of fractious lives. A guard in a tower, eyes beneath a wide-brim hat and one hand on a rifle. In the mirror Walk was tailed by dust, like he’d stirred the calm.

  Robin slept in his seat, face tight like his dreams were keeping pace with his days.

  “That’s a prison,” Duchess said.

  “It is.”

  “Like the kind they got Vincent King in.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will he get beaten in there?”

  “Prison’s not nice.”

  “Maybe he’ll get all raped.”

  “You shouldn’t talk like that.”

  “Fuck off, Walk.”

  He more than understood the hate, but he worried what it would do to her, those cinders, the lightest breeze and they’d flare.

  “I hope he gets beaten so bad. I see it, you know, when I’m lying down at night. I see his face. I hope he gets beaten till there’s nothing left.”

  He pushed back in his seat, aching bones, tremoring hands. That morning he’d lain so helpless he worried it wouldn’t pass, that the girl would have to fetch help. He thought back to the start, a pain in his shoulder, just a pain in his shoulder.

  “I worry I won’t remember Cape Haven.” She spoke to the views they passed.

  “I can write you. I can send photos.”

  “It’s not home now. Where we’re going, that’s not home either. He took it all.”

  “It’ll be …” He stopped himself, the words catching.

  She turned and watched Dearman till it smoked to nothing, then closed her eyes to Walk and the changing world.

  An hour off the hottest part of the day, heat rose in calling waves while both children slept. Duchess, her eyes sunken, swollen from the strain because she didn’t cry. She wore shorts. He saw grazed knees and pale thighs.

  For a hundred miles the land had pitched and fallen, the arid now lush, the thirst quenched by westerlies that blew relief from the water. Montana arrived with little fanfare, just a sign, a blue, red and yellow welcome. Walk rubbed his neck and yawned, then itched at the stubble on his cheeks. He had not eaten much since. He had dropped five pounds.

  Another hour and he turned by the Missouri River. Helena behind, the sky a canvas so big not even God’s work could distract from the blues that afternoon. The roads and a track, the farm appeared like it belonged, painted into the landscape with delicate strokes, mud red barns white topped, three in total, and two silos that nested with cedars. The house was wide, the porch wrapped it with seats and a swing and timber that was gnarled and beautiful. Walk saw her watching now, wanting to ask but keeping her mouth tight.

  “That’s it,” he offered.

  “Is there people anywhere?”

  “Copper Falls, only a few miles. They have a movie theater.” He’d checked it all the night before.

  Gum trees tangled from both sides and shaded them, white picket needed painting. He followed the curve and saw Hal, standing still and watching, no smile or wave or anything at all.

  Duchess craned, her head over Walk’s shoulder as she slipped her belt off.

  When they stopped Walk climbed out and Duchess did not.

  “Hal,” he said, walked over and extended a hand.

  Hal shook it
firmly, his tough and calloused. He had blue eyes that shone with more than age but no smile, not till his granddaughter emerged from the cruiser and stood just as still, a vision of her mother.

  Walk watched the two, eyeing each other, exchanging judgment. He tried to beckon her but Hal shook his head once. She’ll come when she’s ready.

  “Long drive. Robin is sleeping, I didn’t know whether to wake him.”

  “He’ll be up early enough tomorrow. The farm has its hours.”

  Walk followed Hal up to the house.

  The old man was tall, muscled, unforgiveness in every step. He walked with his head high, chin up a little; this is my land.

  Behind, Duchess wandered, looking at the long stretch of world, a new life already growing old. She bent and touched the grass, made her way to a barn and peered into cool dark. The smell was strong, animals and shit but she did not turn away.

  Hal brought beer so cold Walk didn’t turn it down. He wore his uniform and they settled onto hard wooden chairs.

  “It’s been a long time,” Walk said.

  “It has.”

  Montana, portrait to landscape, the kind of open that was almost too much to breathe in.

  “What a mess,” Hal said. He wore a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled over muscled forearms.

  Mess was the wrong word, but as close a fit as any.

  “Did she see?”

  Walk looked at Hal but the old man kept his gaze on the acres. “I think so. After. She ran at the cops and made it into the living room.”

  Hal cracked a knuckle, scarred hands, grizzled voice. “The boy?”

  “No. Maybe he heard something, screams, gunshot, he won’t speak about it. He was locked in his bedroom. He’s seen someone a couple times, a doctor. He’ll have to see someone here, I can put you in touch, he needs it. Maybe he’ll remember, maybe it’s best he doesn’t.”

  Hal drank, half the bottle in one sip. He wore a simple watch on a thick wrist, tan from years working beneath the open sky. “I haven’t seen them, Duchess … she was a baby, when I last saw my daughter. And then Robin …” He trailed away.

  “They’re both good kids.” The words sounded trite, empty when they were not, like there was another kind of child in the world.

  “I wanted to come, for the burial. But I made a promise.” Hal offered no further explanation.

  “It happened fast. As soon as they released the … as soon as they released Star. Small service at Little Brook. Beside her sister.” Duchess had held her brother’s hand. She did not cry, just watched the coffin like the great equalizer it was.

  They watched as Duchess came out of the barn, a chicken trailed her. She glanced back, as if it were following her.

  “She looks like her mother.”

  “Yes.”

  “I made up a room. They’ll share. The boy, he like baseball?”

  Walk smiled but did not know.

  “I bought a ball and glove.”

  They saw Duchess peer into the cruiser, check on Robin and then head back toward the barn, still eyeing the chicken.

  Hal cleared his throat. “Vincent King. I haven’t said that name in a long time. I hoped I’d never have to again.”

  “He hasn’t spoken a word yet. I found him there, in the kitchen, he was the one that called it in. I have my doubts.” Walk said it with a conviction he wondered if Hal could see through, that he was so far out of his depth that the state cops would barely keep him in the loop.

  “They’re holding him.”

  “No official charge yet. They’ve got him on a bail condition. Broken curfew.”

  “But, Vincent King.”

  “I don’t know. What Vincent did, and what this is.”

  “I go to church but I don’t believe in God. He goes to prison but is not a criminal.”

  Hal’s face, etched lines so deep they told a story that began thirty years before.

  Hal cracked his knuckles again. “The minister said we begin at the end. It would have made for easier years, if I thought for one second Sissy was somewhere better than a small wooden box. I try though, every Sunday I try.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It wasn’t your—”

  “Not just Sissy. Your wife. I never got to say it, after.”

  It made the local news. The first time any of them saw Star’s mother was the first day of the trial. Maggie Day rolled into the courtroom. She had the hair and the eyes and drew looks, but an air of fallen glamour chased the beauty from her.

  “She was sad for Vincent. Said watching a child draw a man’s sentence just about broke her all over again.” Hal drained the last of his beer. “When Star found her, that night. We had a painting, a print, Temeraire, you know it?”

  “The boat.”

  “She was sitting beneath it, head tipped back. All that haunted sky, like she was part of it.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She wanted to be with Sissy.” He said it simply, like there could be anything simple about the suicide of a wife and mother. “Vincent King is the cancer of my family.”

  Walk held the cold bottle to his forehead. “Listen, Hal. There was a man, Dickie Darke. He was … him and Star. He was rough with her.” He watched the old man, his mouth tight. “And, I don’t know what happened with Duchess, someone burned his place down. Strip joint.”

  Hal looked out at his granddaughter, standing small on the endless acres.

  “I don’t think he’ll try and find you, not after all that’s happened.”

  “He might come here?”

  “I don’t think so, but Duchess thinks he will.”

  “She said that?”

  “She doesn’t really say anything. She just asked, if Darke could find them up here. She won’t say exactly why. I can’t rule it out, that he had something to do with Star.”

  “And if he did?”

  Walk took a breath as he watched the car, where the boy slept. Maybe the only witness.

  “He won’t find us here. I’m not listed, and the land … there’s a lien. I had some bad years. I can keep her safe. And the boy. That’s the one thing I’m sure I can do.”

  Walk followed the line of the house, then down to the picket. There was water, too big for a pond and too small for a lake. He saw mirrors, sky and trees and the ripples of his own drawn face.

  “I don’t want to stay here.”

  He turned to Duchess.

  “That man is old. I don’t even know who the fuck he is.”

  “There’s nowhere else. It’s here or Social, that’s … can you do it for Robin?”

  He wanted to reach out and take her hand and tell her soft lies.

  “Don’t call here, Walk. You can write, maybe. Robin, that shrink said he needs to forget. Maybe just for a while. It’s too bad for him. Too much for a child.”

  He wanted to tell her she was a child too.

  After, he knelt in the dirt, ruffled Robin’s hair and met his frightened eyes. Robin looked past, at Hal and the old house. And then Walk stood, faced Duchess and searched for words.

  “I’m an outlaw,” she said.

  He took a breath, sadness washed over him.

  “And you’re a lawman.”

  He nodded. “I am.”

  “So fuck off now.”

  He climbed into the cruiser and edged from them.

  The sun died, he slowed by the water, beneath the gum trees, he watched her, a hand on her brother’s shoulder as they walked toward the old man, slowly, cautiously.

  12

  DUCHESS DID NOT EAT THAT first night on the farm.

  Instead she watched Robin and made sure he finished his bowl. It was some kind of stew and he looked at her with those eyes that told her he wanted to cry. She fed him the last mouthfuls herself.

  Hal stood awkward, watched a while then moved to the sink and looked out over the land. He was big to Duchess, broad and powerful and imposing. To Robin he must have looked like a giant.

  Duchess took their bowls over.
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  “You need to eat,” he said.

  “You don’t know what I need.” She dumped her food into the trash, then led her brother from the kitchen and out onto the porch.

  Sunset. Burned haze that washed the rolling acres and cannoned from the water. Animals gathered far out, a cluster of elk that faced the falling light.

  “Go run around.” She gave him a push.

  Robin left her, walked the low hill, found a stick and dragged it in the dirt. In his other hand he clutched Captain America. He had not let it from his sight since he woke that morning at Walk’s house.

  She’d already asked him, when it was late and Walk slept, she asked about that night and told him it was alright to tell if he’d heard something. He told her nothing at all, the place where the memory might have been lay in total darkness.

  She had yet to process the death of her mother, the funeral, the new grave that stood beside Sissy’s on the Little Brook cliff. She wanted to cry, though knew if she did the grief would settle right there in her chest, not let her breathe when she needed strength most. She would be there for her brother. It was the two of them. The outlaw and her brother.

  “I have a ball for him.”

  She did not turn and did not acknowledge Hal. To think of him as family, his blood to hers. Not there when he was needed, which was too often. She spit in the dirt.

  “I know it’s been difficult.”

  “You don’t know shit.” She let it hang long in the dusk air, the dark sprinting at them so fast it was as if she had blinked away the color.

  “I don’t like cursing in my house.”

  “My house. Walk said it was our home.”

  He looked pained then. She was glad.

  “Tomorrow will be different in all kinds of ways. Some you might like and some you might not.”

  “You don’t know what I like and what I don’t. Same for my brother.”

  Hal sat on the swing seat, motioned for her to join him but she would not. The chains pulled on the cedar like they might wrench the soul from the old farmhouse. Her mother had told her about souls, vegetative to rational. She wondered what could be rational about the most base form of life.

  He smoked a cigar and it carried to her, she wanted to move but wouldn’t, her sandals rooted. Her instinct was to ask him, about her mother, about her aunt and Vincent King. About where the fuck they were in the world, the land so different and the sky too vast. She got he would enjoy that, to talk to his granddaughter like a bond would form. She spit in the dirt again.