Shiner

by Amy Jo Burns

  “Briar,” Flynn whispered. “What is it?”

  Briar turned. He looked feral and unchurched in the low light.

  “Something happened to Ruby.” His voice chafed the mountain’s still air.

  “Tell me.” Flynn could barely manage the words. The last time he’d seen Ruby, she’d been striding down his hill in the dark.

  “An outsider found her walking the mountain road alone after sundown.”

  “You know him?” Flynn asked.

  Briar shook his head. “Ruby had never seen him before. Said he had a bloody earlobe, split in two.”

  Flynn crossed his arms to keep himself from shaking. “He put his hands on her?” he asked.

  “He tried.” Briar hesitated, then kept on. “Ran her off the road in his Silverado and clocked her with the driver’s-side door. Somehow Ruby managed to get away into the woods and wait him out.”

  Flynn felt a pang deep in his chest, something akin to the meeting place between dread and relief. Briar shared that he’d found Ruby hunched outside his mama’s cabin, quaking in the dirt, her dress torn up the back. Gently, Briar had walked her home and slipped her through her bedroom window so her daddy wouldn’t see. Promised he’d meet her in a few hours at the end of the aisle when she walked down it in her white dress. Then he ran to find Flynn.

  “The one thing I can’t figure,” Briar said, his eyes fastening to Flynn’s, “is what she was doing out at night.”

  Flynn groaned, scratched the stubble on his jaw. “She came to see me. Wanted me to stand up with you today.”

  Briar whipped a pebble against the Chevy’s tire. “You’re a selfish son of a bitch, Flynn.”

  “Seems we’re a good match, then.” Flynn hopped out of the truck and turned his back to Briar.

  “That’s why you’re gonna help me fix this,” he said, grabbing Flynn’s elbow. “Now.”

  Flynn didn’t believe in the magic of Briar’s touch, and he never would. But the pulse he felt from Briar’s hand, its ardor and sincerity, caused Flynn to turn. The thought of Ruby alone in the woods, in danger, stormed in his mind. Part of him wanted to head back to the still, where Sherrod’s temper was sure to be brewing as hot as his shine. Part of him ached to run after Ruby. All of him longed for a day when Ruby would run after him. He didn’t know what else to do with such a violent undertow of emotion, so he agreed to help Briar one last time.

  Together they choreographed their revenge against the stranger who had come after Ruby, and the dance had the haunted melancholy of a final duet. This was their scheme’s brilliance as well as its defect—it would only appear to ease any pain, the same way whiskey pretends to keep a body warm on a cold night.

  REFRAIN

  The man with the torn earlobe was driving a white Silverado with two fishing poles hanging off the back, Ruby told Briar as he walked her home. She’d tried to pierce one of the Silverado’s tires with her switchblade. It barely pricked the outer layer of rubber flesh before the outsider took it and threw the knife into the back of his truck. Briar pressed for an explanation of the bruise above her collarbone, but Ruby wouldn’t give one.

  “We’ll search every fishing hole on the mountain until we find him,” Briar said to Flynn, climbing into the passenger seat of Sherrod’s truck.

  The Chevy’s engine turned over, and Flynn realized why Briar had come to him. Briar had readied himself for a hunt. Just as he was with his serpents, he’d swear that no mountain was too high or stream too fast to conquer for his spoils. Briar set his sights high but never had the means to see them through. He left it to Flynn to find the better way, the smart way.

  “That could take hours,” Flynn countered. “Let’s start with the motel.”

  So Flynn and Briar drove to town as the sun came up, not a word between them. The Princess Saw-Whet was the only motel in Trap, and it sat next to Teddy’s Tavern, right beneath a large wooden billboard of Princess Saw-Whet herself, her dark eyes a double eclipse that cut through the dawn.

  The town streets were bare when Flynn drove in, a set of paltry streetlamps casting a soft glow onto the billboard princess’s bare shoulders. Flynn could see an Impala and a Silverado stopped in front of the single-story motel. He parked across the road near the barbershop and waited while Briar prowled his way along the shadowed storefronts. The Silverado looked gray in the dimness.

  Briar hopped into the bed of the truck, pawed around until he shoved something small and luminescent into his pocket. When he returned to Flynn’s Chevy, he tossed the item into a cup holder by the gearshift. Flynn saw its sheen. It was Ruby’s switchblade.

  Flynn and Briar watched the row of motel rooms for signs of life. At half past six, a brawny silhouette left room 4B.

  “Look at that,” Briar whispered, as if the man could hear. “His ear is bandaged.”

  Flynn nodded, grave. “It’s him.”

  The Silverado growled to life and pulled onto Trap’s main road. Flynn trailed ten seconds behind as the truck left town, headed for the upper gorges, where water pooled from the highest streams into a deep fishing hole. Flynn knew the spot well. He and his daddy had used it for a season of shine a few years back, before it became popular for its trout. The Silverado exited the asphalt and skidded to a stop on a dirt road. The man stepped out, blew a tunnel of smoke before stamping his cigarette in the dust. He was nothing but a shadow on their mountain, a stain. Flynn cut the engine and hid his truck in the thatched grass. Then he and Briar waited.

  Here was the scheme they’d hatched: Once the man disappeared down the towpath, Flynn and Briar would slash the Silverado’s tires. Puncture his gas tank with the knife Flynn’s daddy kept in the bed of his truck. Strand him twenty miles from town, with no way back but on foot.

  That was the plan, at least.

  Flynn slid beneath the tailpipe, stabbed the fuel tank, and watched as gas leaked to the ground. But when he emerged, Briar had disappeared.

  Flynn didn’t need to yell Briar’s name to find him. He knew where he’d gone.

  By the time Flynn reached the fishing hole, Briar had already entered the water. Blue-lipped and snake silent, he crept behind the man with the bandaged ear, who stood waist-deep in the creek. Before Flynn could stop him, Briar took the outsider by the neck and squeezed. The laces of the man’s boots slapped against the water—tsk, tsk—as he tried to free himself. Flynn sprinted toward the creek, but he was too late. The passing water skinned the rocks, and even the crows didn’t dare call out while Briar held fast until the body went limp beneath his grasp.

  Flynn clung to the trunk of a sycamore, stunned. This was a Briar that Flynn did not know—and yet it was the kind of man Briar had always been. Only now did Flynn have the eyes to see.

  * * *

  Flynn couldn’t remember the last time he’d cried. He didn’t bother to wipe his face. His oldest friend had murdered someone, and Flynn hadn’t stopped him. Barely eighteen, Flynn had thought they were waging the kind of boys’ battle often fought by men: You took something of mine, and now you’ll pay. A slashed tire, a half day’s walk. Why wasn’t that enough to quell Briar’s rage? This kind of revenge would do nothing for Ruby. Flynn could see that now. She’d be filled with guilt if she ever learned what Briar had done. They’d found no mercy that day, no vengeance. What they’d done, they’d done for themselves.

  “We’re fucked, Briar,” Flynn finally said as the two of them sat side by side on the bank beneath the sycamore. “And we’re shits. The both of us.”

  “At least we’re in it together, then.”

  “You killed that man out there. You.”

  “An eye for an eye.” Briar bounced his knee, shook his head until his face blotched. “Doesn’t that make it fair?”

  “It doesn’t.”

  Briar grabbed a handful of stones and threw them into the waves. “You don’t love Ruby. Not like I do.”


  “Shut your mouth,” Flynn grunted.

  Briar leaned back against the dirt. His skin was spotted and gray.

  “She told me you kissed her down by the hardwoods.” Briar laughed. “That wasn’t nothing but pity.”

  Flynn flinched. Briar already seemed to have forgotten he’d just strangled a man. He still thought only of his own jealousy, prized his own impulses above all else.

  “You’re a coward, Briar. You see that?” Flynn pointed to the body. “That’s what a coward does. Get up.”

  Briar shook his head. “I don’t want to fight you, Flynn.”

  “We ain’t gonna fight. We’re gonna get rid of that body.”

  Briar glanced at the corpse wafting in the creek. “We can’t just leave him?”

  “Shiners use this water. If the law comes up here to poke around, we ain’t gonna pay for your sins.”

  Briar wrung water from his sleeve. “So what do we do?”

  “You killed him,” Flynn spit. “You decide.”

  Briar nodded slowly. “The ravine.” He pointed beyond the water. “The stream pools down there. It’ll look like he slipped and drowned, if anyone ever finds him at all.”

  Flynn swallowed. Briar had gone cold—beyond even Ruby’s ability to warm him.

  “It’ll work,” Flynn said.

  With not a little effort, they hefted the corpse and started to hike. It was a tough climb, even without a body to bear. The ground had gone soft in all the rain. Flynn bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself from crying out. They dropped the body, then they dropped it again.

  “Shit,” Briar said, wiping his brow. “Let’s leave him.”

  “The farther we take him,” Flynn panted, “the better off we’ll be. You want Ruby to find out what you did?”

  They continued on. An hour passed, then another. Flynn grew dizzy. He hadn’t slept in two days. By the time they reached the ravine, Flynn worried he might spill over the edge.

  “We have to toss him,” Briar said.

  Flynn shook his head. “That ain’t right.”

  “We’re far past being right.”

  “No shit.” Flynn put his hands on his knees and breathed. “What I mean is, we need to make it look like he slipped. So we drop him, feet first.”

  Briar grimaced. “Those rocks are gonna tear him up good.”

  “I know.”

  They knelt and let the man go without ceremony, so exhausted were the two of them. Briar didn’t look, but Flynn watched the corpse skid all the way down and plunge into the rapids, and then he stood.

  “Well,” Briar said. “It’s done.”

  They headed away from the ravine, faster and lighter now, until they reached the thatched grass by the road and hopped into Flynn’s truck. They took the short route toward the gas station, where Ruby was waiting to be wed.

  Flynn pulled to a stop by the downed hardwoods. Briar fidgeted in his seat.

  “Promise me,” he said. “You won’t turn me in.”

  Flynn had spent his life dodging men in squad cars—a very basic fact of his life that Briar couldn’t recall.

  “You did the deed, now it’s yours to bear,” Flynn said. “The law ain’t gonna hear it from me.” He paused. “Thing is, though, that body’s gonna wash up somewhere, someday. And that man’s kin is gonna come, so you best be on your guard.”

  Briar nodded, the closest estimation to gratitude he could muster. “And Ruby?” he whispered.

  Flynn itched to tell Ruby what Briar had done, to prove he’d been the better man from the start. But Flynn also began to worry over what the truth would do. Until today he’d believed that Briar, the spiritual show-off, was a real danger to their mountain. Now he saw that without the guise of his religion Briar was far worse.

  “It ain’t my place.” Flynn sighed. “Tell her yourself.”

  Briar nodded like he would. Flynn figured he wouldn’t. But maybe the illusion of himself as a holy man was what Briar needed to keep his dark side restrained.

  “I don’t want to see you again,” Flynn said.

  Briar opened the truck’s passenger door, nodded in accord, and did not look back as he went to meet his bride.

  * * *

  The afternoon of the wedding was coppery and jaundiced. They’d seen the last of the rain, and the leaves skittered, lifeless, across the fields in the wind. After leaving Briar at the gas station, Flynn headed to Sherrod’s empty still site. The shine season had ended, a man was dead, and Flynn didn’t want to think of Ruby in that wedding dress. He didn’t want to think of Briar taking it off her. And yet he thought of nothing else.

  He remained at the still site until dark. When he made it home, he spotted in the shaft of his headlights a wispy figure sitting on the ground against the dark side of the house, knees drawn to her chest. Ruby, he thought, and his body went weak.

  He shook as he walked toward her. But when she turned her head and her profile caught the moonlight, he saw that it wasn’t his Ruby but her only friend. Ivy waited for him in the night, still in her best dress and barefoot.

  She was pretty, Flynn knew. She’d fastened her blond hair up with two pearl barrettes, and her delicate collarbones peeked out above the floral scoop of her neckline.

  “Ivy,” Flynn said by way of greeting.

  “Flynn,” she returned. “I got a letter for you.”

  Flynn steadied his hand as he lit a match, opened the letter, and began to read.

  Dear Flynn—

  I know it ain’t right for me to write to you on my wedding day, but I figure it’s no less wrong than your absence. Today I packed all my things from my daddy’s house, and they only numbered two: my King James Bible and my daddy’s empty shine jars. I took them to remind me to stand by the choices I’ve made.

  I got so close to stopping time with your lips on mine and your shine in my mouth that it made me afraid of what’s coming. A wedding, a marriage, a baby, another. I’m only known to the rest of the world through the men I belong to. I’m Hasil Day’s daughter, I’m Briar Bird’s girl. You think I can’t understand what it feels like for a man’s heart to get split in two. But it’s worse than that for women.

  This is how I save myself, Flynn. And don’t tell me you’re sorry. All I get from men are apologies, and I don’t have any use for them.

  Yours—

  Ruby

  Flynn pocketed the letter and snuffed the match. He turned to Ivy, who looked ready to lasso the night. Flynn didn’t want to hear about the wedding. He didn’t want to think about the body he’d left in the rapids. He didn’t want to be alone, either.

  “Let’s fish,” he said.

  Down at the creek, they did more drinking than fishing. Over the summer Flynn had used a pulley to stretch a clothesline across the deepest part of the current, half the line sunk underwater with fruit jars of moonshine clipped to it. They took turns sipping from a cold jar on a cold night.

  “Christ on the cross,” Ivy said. “That’s strong.”

  Flynn laughed. “You don’t drink often?”

  “I ain’t got much occasion to drink, but I got plenty of reasons.”

  Their twin poles perched between two rocks by their feet. One tugged against the swell. Neither of them rose to tend it.

  “You gonna get married soon, too?” Flynn asked.

  Ivy’s green eyes were lifeless. “Next month.”

  “Here.” Flynn unclipped a fresh jar. “Drink your fill.”

  Ivy held up the liquor but didn’t drink it. Flynn could see her freckles through the glass. She stood and waded knee-deep into the rushing creek.

  “Careful,” Flynn called. “Your dress.”

  She glanced back at him. “I don’t care about my dresses the way Ruby does.”

  “Go on, then.”

  Ivy sipped from the jar and didn’t
bristle. “Folks asked after you today.”

  “They can add two and two, I suppose.”

  Ivy nodded. “It was sad.”

  Flynn couldn’t help himself. “What was?”

  “All of it.”

  Ivy passed off the jar and bent to run her fingers against the drift.

  “We stood in the gas-station bathroom while I put blush on her cheeks, and she started to cry. She ain’t never cried like that, Flynn.”

  She broke for a moment and looked up at him. In that half second when Ivy bared herself, Flynn could see that Ruby’s love for Briar had injured Ivy, just as it had him. The same arrow, two hearts.

  “I started crying,” Ivy continued. “And we couldn’t stop.”

  Flynn clenched the jar and spit into the water. “Why’d she insist on marrying Briar?”

  Ivy shook her head. “She just can’t see that Briar will be no better.”

  She took the barrettes out of her hair and tossed them onto the ground.

  “Don’t you want to belong to someone?” Flynn asked.

  “Belonging’s the same as being owned.”

  Her eyes fired, even in the dark. Nearby, the water moiled. Flynn was coming to see something he’d already known deep down. From that night on, he was going to spend much of his life alone.

  Flynn leaned into Ivy and closed his eyes. His lips found hers, one mouth sought the comfort of another. He searched for the taste of his whiskey on her tongue. She ran her fingers through his black hair and gently pulled. Flynn felt himself falling, being led. He reveled in her ferocity, her cynicism, her nerve.

  He knew he ought to head back to the house.

  Flynn undid the front of her dress, clasp by clasp. So many buttons, each of them a clue on her treasure map. Ivy held him close, and that night she was deep enough to harbor all of his hurt, so he fell into her again and again and again. The two of them said nothing in the waning moonlight, not even when the sun told them it was morning.