by Porter, Cat
Fuck no.
Chapter Fifty-Six
I drove home the long way. The I-don’t-want-to-go-home-yet way. I got on the roads that led through the sloping hills of evergreens reaching for the skies, the scent of resin strong. I ended up in Hot Springs, where Isi had taken me.
Bikes and cars stood at that curve in the road, a small crowd of people stood along the edge focused on the valley below. I climbed out of my truck and that familiar thump and thwomp filled the air, thundering toward us.
“Oh my God, no!” a woman shouted out.
A chopper drove overhead, swooping down, diving at a small group of wild horses who separated under their attack as they galloped hard over the earth. The chopper dove and rose, dove, and rose over the animals. My insides seized tight, my throat constricted, that familiar, hateful prickle of cold sweat beaded on my scalp. “What the fuck?” I muttered.
“Yep, that’s what they do,” the man next to me said, his voice hot with rage. The woman next to him looking through a pair of binoculars. “Fuckers!”
“Who the hell are they?” I asked.
“Government contractors. They round up the wild horses, sort ‘em, and send them to slaughterhouses for dog food and fertilizer.”
“Yeah, of course they do,” I said.
“Some end up dying in a feedlot, others go up for adoption, but it’s all the same in the end. The Bureau keeps blowing hot air that they’re some kind of uncontrollable pests that need to be got rid of, pests that destroy the environment. That’s all bullshit,” said the woman, lowering her binoculars. “They want the land open for hunters and ranchers and their cattle. They can feed that cattle here for next to nothing and don’t have to pay no taxes. Not to mention there’s oil in there somewhere. Publicly owned land, my ass.”
The mustangs separated into two, three groups, each wilder and more anxious with every pass of the helicopter. “Assholes,” said the man.
“Nothing short of terrorism,” said another man next to us. “They take the dominant mares, and the herd that gets left behind becomes even wilder, like teenagers running a school. These goddamn roundups are a fucking disaster.”
A dizzying ache spiraled in my head. I ground my heels in the dirt, my hands went to my waist in an attempt to steady myself. I gulped for air.
Wreck. Wreck.
My body flinched, my head jerked, a small moan escaped my lips at the voice.
Isi?
She called me in the pounding of their hooves, the rumble of their rough snorts and grunts. The horses did not give up. They bolted and galloped and fought over their own land. My heart, my dull, full, heavy heart, pounded along with their thunder. I wanted to run with them like my Isi wanted to run with them. I wanted to run free with her again, like we had, like we were always meant to do.
I want. I want…
Heat flared in my chest at the sight of land vehicles eating up stretches of valley, chasing the horses down. Nostrils flaring, the horses charged, running for their lives, for where they didn’t know. I didn’t know. Was there anywhere to go?
Isi wouldn’t be silenced or put down or made to disappear. Not ever. I wouldn’t disappear. I wouldn’t be silenced. She was gone like the dirt-filled wind that the mustangs left in their wake. A billow of it now before me. You couldn’t hold onto it. The mustangs eventually disappeared from view, but the dust remained in the air. And their thundering roar? That stayed with you long, long after.
* * *
I tore through my house to the back bedroom where there were still boxes stashed in a closet. I ripped one open.
I have to find it. I need to find it.
No. Another box. Another. Finally. The toy buffalo Miller had dropped in my trailer so long ago.
I squished the soft, furry little beast in my hands. What makes a boy come to such a heavy decision as to end his life? To make that choice, find a way, and go through with it? That was so fucking desolate. That was a place of doom and silence. No hope. No nothing.
That boy with the innocent smile and big dark eyes was too young to be heaving such desolation around in his soul, to choose to not want to feel any longer. To end his life when it was now beginning. He should be shooting for the stars, gunning down the fast lane, breaking the no passing rules and the speed limits, not switching off. Not silencing himself, his voice.
I brought the toy to my face. What kind of pain was he in? He needed help. Maybe that’s what that was, a cry for help, for recognition.
I was his brother, and I would give him that help, that recognition. The same blood ran through our veins. I could do something. I must. It was more than a responsibility, though. I needed him too. If I could be loyal to my club brothers, what kind of person was I if I couldn’t be loyal to my blood brother?
I called Dig’s beeper. He phoned back. “Wreck? How’s it going? Did you find him? Is he—”
“Yeah, I found him, and I’m bringing him home with me.”
“Whoa, all right—”
“Listen to me, I need you to go to a store and get shit—”
“Like what?”
“Whatever a teenage boy needs for his own room. The works—sheets, comforter, towels. Pens, pencils—”
“A football,” Dig said.
“Yeah, a football. And grab some basic clothes like T-shirts, underwear, socks. He’s tall and skinny for a fifteen-year-old. I’ve got cash in my kitchen drawer by the stove. You need more, take—”
“I got it. I know what to get,” Dig said, his tone low. “You doing this, huh?”
“I am,” I replied.
“The kid’s lucky to have a man like you in his life.”
“You think?”
“I know so.” He cleared his throat. “Go get your brother, Wreck. Bring him home, we’ll be waiting. We’ll get his room set up, and we’ll get some food too.”
“Good thinking.”
I put the phone down and placed the toy buffalo on the table next to it.
My dad had told me that in the old days, the government had gone so far as to drive horses off the reservations so the Indians couldn’t leave, so they’d be stuck where the government wanted them contained.
Stuck.
Fuck that.
I was going to go free Miller for good.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
I got back to Pine Ridge and made my way to Jason’s house. My boots stomped in the dirt, on the cracked wooden steps leading to the door. A door that was old, scraped up and worn, and yet once it opened, a new future was ahead for my brother and me. I didn’t know what I’d find, and I really didn’t care. I wanted the kid out of here.
I knocked on the door. No answer. I knocked harder. I looked through the windows. Nothing. I tried the front door. Bolted. I went to the back and twisted the old knob on the door, and it gave easily under my pressure. A musty odor filled my nostrils. An old, bent at the handle frying pan sat on an electric stove. Beer cans were still in their plastic bag on the small table. Snoring sounded loudly from deep in the room, and I carefully moved toward it. LeBeau was passed out on the sofa, his boots thrown to the floor. An almost empty bottle of no brand vodka stood as a silent witness to its power from a small, brightly painted, yellow, wood table. A soiled cowboy hat hung on a chair.
A door was ajar, so I entered the room. Small, dark with an unmade bed in it, an old dresser. Several duffel bags littered the floor. Where the hell was Miller?
I stood over LeBeau. He had shrunken some. Gritty around the edges. He was no longer the larger than life commando who’d swept my mother off on some wild illicit adventure I was no part of.
“Jason,” I said loudly. “Jason, wake up.”
Eyes rolled under his eyelids. One fluttered open, a dark eye tried to focus on me.
“Get up.”
His body jerked, a hand wiped at the drool sliding down the side of his mouth.
“Get up,” I repeated.
“What the—Who the fuck are you?” He jacked up on the sofa, eyes
wild, his long dark hair a mess.
“I’m Rich, Cindy’s son. Remember me?”
He gulped in air as he stared at me. “I remember you. What are you doing here?”
“I want to see Miller.”
He let out a short grunt, wiping a hand across his mouth again. “Why?”
“I want to see my brother. I heard about him trying to kill himself. I heard a lot of things. I saw him in your truck at Whiteclay.”
“You spying on me?”
“What the hell are you doing, Jason?”
“Getting by. What am I doin’, he says…” He stood up, staggered, a hand clutching the edge of the sofa. “How’d you get in my house?”
“Wasn’t hard. Back door was open. Where’s the boy?”
He pressed his lips together. “What do you want with him?”
“I want to see him. Then I’m going to take him home with me.”
“For what?”
“Where is he, Jason?”
“He ain’t here.”
“I’m not asking again.”
“Get out of my house! You stay away from him. You and your mother—”
“Me and my mother what? You’re the one who came and took her away. You’re the one who got her pregnant. You’re the one she blew off when she got bored like she did to me and my dad. I don’t give a shit about her. Right now, I want to see my brother.”
“Your brother…”
“Is he here, or did he take off?”
“Of course he’s here.” Jason staggered to the kitchen. “I’m keeping him safe. He got messed up hanging with these gang boys.” He scowled, the lines of his bronzed face taut. “Pine Ridge ain’t L.A.!” His one arm jerked around his body, he pointed, gestured, he was on a soapbox. “They were stealing, getting high off glue and shit, cutting school. And I didn’t even know it.”
“Were you even here?”
He pivoted, nearly falling, he braced himself against the wall. “I got to work, don’t I?” his voice screeched. “And I’m lucky with my job. Yes, I am.” He nodded forcefully as if he were convincing a crowd, himself. “Ain’t enough though, but it’s something.” He sniffed. “Everything was going good for me, then I busted my knee, and it all fell apart. No more rodeo career, no more nothing.
“When his grandma died, things got tough for the both of us. He wouldn’t listen to me. Didn’t give a shit about nothing. Then … then he took all those old pills my ma had lying around. And I came home and found him. I found him right here”— His finger jutted in the air, pointing at the kitchen table—“right here, doubled over on the table. So when he got back from the hospital, I knew I had to keep him safe somehow.”
“By punching him in the face? I saw his black eye,” I said. “Is that your idea of keeping his safe? Being a good dad?”
“I’m the one who keeps him safe!” he spit out, his lips trembling.
“How are you keeping him safe, Jason? Huh? How? Tell me.”
His red eyes widened. “I lock him up.”
I stilled, only my pulse drumming in my throat. “Lock him up? Where?”
“He’s safe there. Can’t get into no trouble. He can’t go killing himself. He’s just a boy. He’s a—”
“Where is he?” I roared, my hands fisting in Jason’s worn out T-shirt, shaking the fucker.
Jason’s eyes darted to a curtain of old calico fabric hanging in the kitchen. I released him and yanked the fabric aside. A few shelves with canned food were on the wall and at the end was a door. I rattled the knob, it was locked. I banged on the door. “Miller? Miller, you there?”
A groan came from behind the door.
“What is that? A closet?”
“Basement.”
“How could you do this to him, you fuck? He’s your kid, not some animal!”
“I was keeping him safe. I got to keep him safe. I don’t want him to die. Don’t want him to die like all the other boys … not my boy…”
All the rash decisions, no decisions, good intentions of my life exploded in my veins. My fist flew into Jason’s face, and he shot back against the wall and slid down to the floor in a groan. I kicked at the door by the lock and knob, and it splintered easily. I kicked again, and it caved. I tore at the pieces of door that were left.
A hand cuffed my leg. “Take him, Richie,” Jason mumbled. “Take my son. Be good to him. Help him. I can’t anymore, I can’t. I failed.”
And it was then that I felt sorry for Jason LeBeau. The man who’d once claimed his son out of a clear sense of responsibility and right from wrong. He’d stepped up—not knowing what his next move would be with a kid on his back—and gotten his boy out of a negative situation, and called the woman he’d been in love with on her shit, closing that door forever. The proud man who’d done all that had now been rendered powerless, mired in helplessness.
That would never be me.
That would never be Miller.
I’d make sure of it.
I leaned over him, grabbing him by the collar. “You’re not going to set the tribal police on me, your elders, the social workers, are you? You going to make this hard for me to keep him once you’re sober?”
“No, no. I promise. I’ll tell them that I sent him to you. For a better school, for a change since he tried to…” His face crumpled.
“You don’t moan and complain, you hear? You don’t tell anyone I forced you. You don’t come find him, and you don’t come to me for money. You stay the fuck away and let him be until the day he chooses to come to you. He’s got to choose, Jason. You hear? Only then. So help me—”
“Take him!” His breath hitched, his eyes rolled, he slumped in my hold. He’d passed out. Failure buzzed over him like a pack of flies on old meat.
“Miller?” I charged down the rickety steps in the darkness.
A mouse scurried past, its high pitched squeak echoing in the basement. “Miller?” I hit a dark form.
“Who is it? Who’s there?” came a voice. The form moved, I reached out in the murky shadows and grabbed. Grabbed onto the idea of my brother. Onto Isi’s last hope for me. Onto the roadkill my mother left behind. My last shred of sanity. Something of worth. Hope. Something real.
Miller.
A hand clasped my arm.
“Miller? It’s Richie. Your brother, Richie. You remember me?”
“Richie?” Two dark eyes glinted in the shadows.
Chapter Fifty-Eight
I took Miller’s hand in mine. “Come upstairs with me.”
“No.”
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about your dad.”
“Did you punch him?”
“Yeah. He’s out. We’re leaving.”
He stilled. “Leaving?”
“I’m taking you home with me. Come on, Miller. It’s okay. I got you.” I took hold of his bony hand and tugged, making our way up the stairs. We stepped over an unconscious Jason, and Miller let out a sound as we passed through the kitchen.
I took in my brother, standing there in this sad, broken kitchen that had probably never seen better days but was full of knickknacks that spoke of lives lived and personalities and memories. His black hair wiping at his shoulders was oily, stringy. His skin was pale, sallow. A faded Harley-Davidson T-shirt hung on his thin frame, jeans soiled and torn and getting short on his long legs. His sneakers muddy, badly frayed at the seams.
“There anything you want to take with you? Don’t worry about clothes and stuff, I’m getting you new stuff, whatever you need.”
“Yeah, hang on a sec.” He disappeared into that small bedroom and came out with a handful of small photographs and a couple of beaded necklaces. “My gran’s.” He stuffed them in his pockets.
“Let’s go.”
His gaze darted over to his father’s still body prone on the floor. A final look. A final memory of a father.
“He’s okay. Don’t worry,” I said. “Just got to sleep it off.”
I didn’t hate Jason. He’d tried, but his shit circumstance
s had gotten the best of him. I didn’t doubt that he loved Miller. He’d shown me that when he claimed him from my mother years ago, and he showed me that now in giving him to me. A flaming arrow of dread had gouged me when he’d said the words, “Take him, take my son,” and I was sure it must have killed him to say them.
All those years ago I’d witnessed Jason pulling Miller from the dark swamp of rejection and bringing him into the sunrise of a new life. Now here I was, doing the same, yet in reverse. Bringing him back. But no, we weren’t going back to anywhere. I was bringing him to the new life I’d forged for myself out of everyone’s dust, and I would help him do the same.
Miller stepped outside and filled his lungs with a deep breath of air.
He never returned to Pine Ridge.
Well, at least not in my lifetime.
* * *
We stopped for an early dinner at a coffee shop in Oelrichs. The kid was exhausted and starving. He dug into his french fries, ate the hamburger, drained the soda, ate the vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce.
“You been going to school?” I asked.
“Off and on. More off lately,” he said, wiping his mouth on another napkin. His small smirk got swallowed by a wide grin, and something pinched at my insides. Our mother’s grin. Like she was enjoying a private joke and feasting on it. You wanted to know what it was. She’d lured you in with that time and time again.
“We’ll sign you up for school in Meager. They got their own high school. You’re a sophomore, right?”
He nodded.
“You play any sports?”
He shrugged. “So you’re bringing me to our mom’s house, right? She waiting for us?”
My mouth dried, my pulse jammed in my throat. Fuck. “No, Miller. I’m taking you to my house. Our mother doesn’t live in South Dakota anymore. She lives in Oklahoma now.” Better get this out of the way. “She got married again and has a couple of new kids, plus that guy’s kids.”