We Begin at the End

by Chris Whitaker

  An hour and she was on Main Street. She left the bike out front of Jackson Hollis Funeral Parlor and stepped inside, the central air hitting her so hard her skin pricked.

  “Duchess,” Magda said with a smile. “Nice to see you again.”

  Magda ran the place with her husband, Kurt, a man that shared pallor with his clientele. He must have been with someone because the drape was pulled, the coffins hid.

  “I wanted to collect my grandfather’s ashes.”

  “I wondered when you’d come. Shelly said she’d bring you one day.”

  “She’s in the car.” Duchess nodded toward a Nissan across the street, parked at an angle that blocked the view.

  Magda headed out back and returned a minute later with a small urn.

  Duchess took it, turned to leave as the drapes parted and Dolly came out, Kurt behind. Duchess slipped out and onto the sidewalk, made it almost to Cherry’s before Dolly caught up with her.

  “Duchess.”

  Dolly led her inside and sat her down in the corner. She went to the counter and ordered for them.

  Dolly had aged, makeup not quite so perfect, hair not curled so neat. She still wore the names, Chanel bag and shoes.

  “I’d say it’s nice to see you back here.”

  “But.”

  Dolly smiled.

  “I’m sorry about Bill. I didn’t know.”

  “He was ready. Turned out I was not.”

  Duchess’s bag lay open, the clothes, the cans. She pulled it closed and zipped it.

  Dolly looked at her with sadness.

  “What will you do now?” Duchess asked.

  “Bury my husband. Beyond that I haven’t given it much thought. There were trips, places we wanted to see. I don’t know if I’ll do it alone. But he had a good life, that’s all we can ask, right?”

  “Thomas Noble talks about fair.”

  Dolly smiled. “I get that.”

  “Fair means someone is in control.”

  “I heard about the man. It was on the news. I thought of you, and of Robin. Maybe that’s what Thomas Noble meant. About how someone goes through life causing pain to others, and some people just try and get on. The two always seem to collide.”

  Duchess thought of Dolly, her life, her father, impression cast. “Hal said that man was the cancer of our family. His reach is far, to me and Robin. To my brother. I can’t …”

  Dolly reached over and closed a hand over hers. “Maybe you don’t choose who you get to be. Maybe it’s predefined. Some of us are outlaws. Maybe we find each other.”

  “And maybe it’s all nothing. No one in control but the person willing to go out and take what they want.”

  “Do you know about justice, Duchess?”

  “Three-Fingered Jack. He rode five hundred miles to avenge the death of his partner, Frank Stiles.”

  “But what do you think it means? And I don’t mean defined, I mean what do you think it means for the people that get hurt.”

  “An end. I could take it back to breathing. But I know that’s not enough.”

  “And for Robin? What do you think he wants?”

  “He’s six. He does not know what he wants. He does not know a world beyond the immediate.”

  “And you?”

  “I know too much.”

  The waitress came over with two cocoas and a small cupcake with a single candle in it. She placed them down, winked at Duchess and then returned to the counter.

  “Happy birthday, Duchess.”

  Duchess stared at the cake. “You didn’t need to—”

  “Hush, now. It’s not every day a girl turns fourteen. You need to make a wish.”

  When she realized Dolly would not quit she leaned forward, closed her eyes and blew.

  Outside they walked the shaded side of the street. When they got to the parlor Duchess picked up the bicycle and wheeled it along.

  Dolly stopped beside her truck. “There’s a lot I should say here.”

  “But nothing I don’t already know.”

  “Will you come back to the house? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

  “I can’t. I have to get on.”

  “Another time.”

  “Sure.”

  Dolly took her hand. “Promise me you’ll stop by one day.”

  “I will.”

  “And I know you’ll make good on that. An outlaw is only as good as her word.” Dolly looked frail then, written with concern, like Duchess was even close to being her problem.

  “I can check on Robin.”

  Duchess nodded, a slight tremble in her lower lip. She would have to get tougher for what would come.

  “You stay safe, Duchess.”

  And then Dolly reached into her bag and took out her purse. As she began counting bills Duchess got on the bicycle and rode.

  She turned at the end of Main.

  She waved and Dolly raised a hand.

  Duchess made it to Radley land an hour off noon, legs burning, T-shirt damp through, hair slicked down. She buried the bike in grassland by the gates and walked slowly up the winding driveway, beneath the praying trees, beside the dead water.

  She thought of Robin, if he was at school now, if Shelly was with him. It took all she had not to break from her path, return and fall to her knees and take him in her arms. She’d kept one photograph, him smiling, a year back when his hair was longer. She took it from her bag as she climbed the old porch steps and sat on the swinging seat.

  There was a board back on the gates, SULLIVAN REALTY, there would be an auction one day in the future and someone else would move in, take care of the land, run the same tired circle.

  In the distance Duchess watched elk, clustered like always at the foot of the hills. The fields needed tending. She thought of Hal out there, a lifetime alone.

  At the red barn she opened the door and saw his tools still where they were, nothing of value to anyone. She crossed into the shade and walked to the rug and dragged it back.

  She pulled up the door in the floor, it was heavy. Sweat dripped from her chin. She propped it and walked down the steps.

  A low store. Guns on shelves, a rifle rack.

  An old leather chair, Hal’s place where he could be alone. Beside was a small table, and on it a thick stack of letters. She thumbed them, settled on the last and opened it, and as she did, two papers fluttered to the ground. She picked them up, two halves of a check. She pressed them together, swallowed dry, a million dollars. Post-dated, a couple months after the trial was due to start. The signature was simple, more like print. Richard Darke. On the back she saw Vincent had endorsed it, signed straight over to Hal.

  She placed it all back, thought of the cost of atonement, warmed by the thought of her grandfather ripping it in two.

  She stood.

  Across she saw boxes.

  She walked over, took a knee when she saw the colored wrapping paper. Gifts. She checked the tags, saw her own name scrawled, and then her brother’s. There were dates on each, going back each of her years. She sat back on the low rung and tore one open. A doll. Then another. A puzzle. She did not open any of Robin’s.

  She stalled at the last one, dated that day. She opened it with care, took the lid from it and swallowed when she saw what was inside.

  She lifted the hat out and admired it. Leather studs on the band, vented crown and four-inch brim. She thumbed the tag, the intricate gold.

  John B. Stetson.

  And then, slowly, she placed it on her head, the fit perfect.

  She took two guns, hers and one of his. She took a box of bullets, the kind he’d shown her.

  When she was done she placed everything back, loaded her bag and felt the weight.

  His ashes drifted away by the water, in the spot they sometimes sat.

  She steeled herself and dipped her hat. “So long, Grandpa.”

  41

  WALK SPENT A DAY DODGING calls from above.

  News traveled quick, he would be summoned to
Governor Hopkins’s office where they’d talk over his replacement, no doubt offer him a desk job. Three calls so far that day, like they ran with the assumption he was nowhere near fit to serve.

  He sat at his desk, the file spread out, Milton’s bloated face staring at him. The man had no family to speak of, a distant aunt that lived in a care facility in Jackson. He’d called, she’d claimed she did not know a Milton.

  He looked up when he saw her at the door, tried a smile but it was hard.

  Martha closed the door behind.

  “You been dodging my calls, Chief?” She said it with a smile.

  “Sorry, I’ve been busy here.”

  She sat, tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “Truth?”

  “I haven’t been able to face you.”

  “You hustled.”

  “But I didn’t want to hustle you.”

  She crossed her legs. “I’ll get over it. We both went into this with our eyes open, right.”

  “I think me more than you.”

  “I’ve got business coming in now. Fuckers on death row want me to run their appeals. Forget it. Give me deadbeat men and broken-down women. They’re my bread and butter.” She ran a hand through her hair and he watched every move.

  She reached over, tried to take his hand but he drew it back.

  “Talk to me,” she said.

  “When we started this, I only saw the end. I saw Vincent walking free and the clock rolling back. That was enough for me. That was my end game. I’m sick, Martha. My cells, they’re dying. What’s happening, this is the early stage, it’s just the start.”

  “I know that.”

  “Do you? I’ve read up, spoken to the doctor, seen others in the waiting room further down the line than me.”

  “So what are you saying?”

  “I don’t want you to be a carer. I want more for you. I always did.”

  She stood. “You sound like my father. Like I’m some little girl that doesn’t get a say in her own life. I choose … you’re my choice. And I thought I was yours.”

  “You are.”

  “Bullshit. You choose yourself, your fucking noble, dependable self.”

  He looked down.

  She wiped her eyes. “I’m not sad, I’m mad. You’re a coward, Walk. That’s why you left it all this time.”

  “I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

  “Well, I did.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t fucking say that. All these years you could’ve reached out, come seen me, shit, even picked up the phone. It was Vincent that made you, like he always did.”

  “That’s not—”

  “When I asked you about the Vincent you remembered, you highlighted the good, and didn’t say shit about all the times he fucked Star over. All the girls, all the times she cried on my shoulder. You used to cover for him, even lied to me. You always covered for him.”

  “It didn’t mean anything.”

  “I know that. I’m just saying, you’ve lived the past thirty years for someone else. Isn’t it time you stopped?” She strode to the door, then stopped and turned and jabbed a finger toward him. “When you’re done, when the pity party is over and you find your balls again, you call me.”

  The door opened and Martha brushed past Leah Tallow, who turned and watched her leave.

  “Is she alright?”

  He stood, closed the door and ushered Leah into the chair opposite. She wore no makeup, hair pulled up, face drawn.

  He took his seat.

  “Are you sure you want to do this, Walk?”

  “Yes.”

  He watched as she dialed from a burner cell.

  Darke did not answer. Leah waited for the mechanical voicemail.

  “I know where they are. Call me.” Leah’s voice caught as she spoke. Tears fell as she cut the connection.

  “When he calls back you give him this address. You tell him the kid is friends with Duchess and might know where to find her.” Walk slipped her a piece of paper, the handwriting just about legible.

  “Don’t do this, Walk. I’ll speak to Boyd, I’ll tell him everything.”

  He watched her, what was left, and he tried to hate her but could not.

  * * *

  She knew to head south, to the bigger town, Fort Pryor, where there was a bus station. She did not know how far fifty bucks would get her, she guessed not far enough. Maybe Idaho, Nevada if she was lucky. She decided right off to look no further than the day ahead, any more and the task at hand reared up and pushed her back.

  She rode single tracks, kept her pace slow, when the climbs began she got off and pushed, when they dropped she went with them, hand pulling the brake, cautious.

  Montesse, Comet Park, areas of outstanding beauty all hidden by enveloping trees and shadow. Pretty houses spaced far apart, yellow signs calling for votes on Keystone pipelines that would pump life into stalling towns, the few trucks outside a grocery store nothing more than the twitch of death.

  Two miles from anywhere she got a flat. A blow that brought her close to tears. She tried to move onward, the bike slow now, each pedal double the effort.

  She cursed as she dumped Thomas Noble’s bicycle in the woodland beside Jackson Creek.

  She sat on a fallen tree, ate bread already turning hard, drank the rest of her water, then moved off on foot, her sneakers not up to the land, the skin pulled from both heels.

  She passed farmhouses and patchwork fields, every shade of green and brown, Trinity churches that still had bells and people to ring them. For a mile she trailed an old couple, rambling gear, long sticks and easy smiles. She listened to each of their steps, though she kept off the trail she at least had some sense of direction. They would be heading somewhere. She was still sure it was south.

  She lost them, cursed again, feeling weak and thrown.

  She came to a road so big and long and empty that she stopped beside and tilted her head toward the sky.

  And then the old couple reappeared. Hank and Busy from Calgary. Retired, vacation, staying at motels and hiking trails, looking through old eyes at new sights.

  She fell into step with them, gave them half a story, how her mother was sick and she was heading into the hospital in Fort Pryor to see her. They gave her water and a candy bar.

  Busy spoke about her grandchildren, seven of them scattered, a banker far east, a doctor in Chicago. Hank walked in front like he was scouting the land, moving branches for the ladies, his neck red from the sun.

  Hank noticed her limp, soon had her on the grass while he fished through his bag and found pads that he taped to her heels.

  “Poor girl.”

  They moved again. Hank had a map and he pointed out Lake Tethan.

  “Another lake,” Busy said, and made eyes at Duchess.

  “I used to live in a town called Cape Haven. When I was small.”

  “That’s a pretty name,” Busy said. She had powerful calves, hiking legs. A broad face, handsome not soft. “Do you remember it well?”

  Duchess batted blackfly from her face as they emerged on another trail. “No.”

  They crossed Route 75 and took a road not wider than a truck. She did not question as Hank moved with such purpose. They were staying half a mile out of Fort Pryor and would get her there safely. She was due luck. Long due.

  “Do you have any siblings?” Busy asked.

  “Yes.”

  Duchess saw Busy wanted to ask more, saw it in the sad smile and watery eyes. She let it go and the moment drifted high above them.

  An hour of walking and they came to a set of gates at the curve of a road that climbed so far its end could not be seen. Beside honeysuckle and flowers that were dying they pushed through because Hank said they should stop for a little bit.

  The house emerged large and stately. They walked to the front and looked up at the stone, blocks bigger than her head, windows ornate and pretty.

  Hank looked around and Duchess watched him, clutching her bag tigh
t and checking her guns.

  “The house is Attaway, Hank likes architecture.”

  Hank pulled out a camera and snapped off a dozen shots.

  They circled to the back and saw neat and long bodies of water that stretched to woodlands.

  “Smoke,” Busy said and pointed.

  It rose from a fire by the clearing. Another couple, same age, same look in their eyes. Like they’d found heaven a decade before they were due. Introductions were made, Nancy and Tom from North Dakota, had an RV back at Hartson Dam but wanted to see the Attaway house.

  They ate grilled hamburgers. Duchess thought of Robin, checked her watch and saw he would be eating now, alone. He would not eat without her. She got a pain in her stomach so bad she clutched it.

  At sunset they made it to the motel. Fort Pryor was a ten-minute walk. Hank filled her hands with candy bars and another bottle of water. Busy hugged her tight and told her she’d pray for her mother.

  Duchess walked downtown, her feet aching a little less. Dark fell on the mountain behind, a couple of lights, a diner, Stockman and Bob’s Outdoor.

  She found the bus station on the corner, across from a body shop, shiny cars lined as streetlight bounced from their hoods. Inside was a black lady at the counter, not busy enough for Duchess’s liking. She guessed Shelly would have called the cops and maybe they would’ve taken a look at the farm, spoke to Thomas Noble, she doubted they’d have put anything more together.

  “How far can I get with fifty bucks?”

  The lady peered over her glasses. “Which way you heading?”

  “South. California.”

  “You alone? You don’t look old enough to—”

  “My mother is sick. I have to get home.”

  She watched Duchess, tracing her features for something, the lie maybe. Decided she didn’t care enough so turned to her computer.

  “Buffalo, it’ll set you back forty.”

  There was a map behind plexiglass. Duchess found Buffalo. It looked a long way but nowhere near far enough.

  “It doesn’t leave till morning. You want to think on it?”

  Duchess shook her head, pushed her money over the counter.

  “We’re closing up soon,” she said, as Duchess eyed the cushioned bench. “You got somewhere to go?”