by Fredrick, MJ
“I was heading to Las Vegas, but yeah, I decided to take a detour, make sure she’s managing.”
“She will be managing, when she sees you. Managing your life.”
“That’s not going to happen anymore.” He was a grown-ass man, a veteran. He was done with people telling him how to live his life. That was why he was a mechanical engineer for NASCAR. He was his own boss now.
“Yeah, I’d like to be a fly on that wall when you walk in.”
“I bet you would.”
“If she even lets you in.”
He hadn’t considered that, but maybe his sister was right. Maybe his mother wouldn't want him in the house, and he’d be making this detour for nothing.
“Does anything look different?” Sara asked. “I mean, I know there’s the boom in the Permian Basin, but has it trickled down to Broken Wheel?”
“I haven’t actually gotten to town yet, but the road is pretty nice, so maybe we’ve gotten some improvements out of it.”
We. When was the last time he’d thought of himself as being from Broken Wheel?
She grunted, and went on to carry the conversation as he drove, bringing him up to date on his niece and nephew. How was he an uncle to a kid about to go into high school?
“Holy shit,” he said, interrupting her stream of conversation as he turned onto the road leading into town.
“What is it?”
“There actually have been some changes here since we left. You remember the old garage?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s collapsed. Like, completely. The roof’s caved in, doors and windows gone, looks like it’s been this way for a while, and there’s mesquite and cactus growing through the debris. I wonder why no one finishes it off.”
“You know people in Broken Wheel like to mind their own business.”
“Bull.”
“The grocery store has seen better days. There’s a new Methodist church. Stands out like a sore thumb. Movie theater’s playing movies that came out on demand last month.”
“I wonder if Mr. Fraser still owns it. He was always so damn cheap, but still charged five bucks for popcorn."
“Feed store is the only place that looks...hey, there’s a brand new elementary school, it looks like, since it has a playground. Right behind the hardware store. And hey, looks like the Aguilars renovated the motel.”
“Almost makes me want to come back and see the place,” Sara said in a droll tone.
“Not sure it’s worth that.”
“Well, take some pictures before you leave.”
“Yeah, okay. Turning on the road to Mom’s now.”
“God, Beck, you have me so nervous.”
“Why?”
“Because you know she’s not going to be happy to see you.”
His mother was never happy, so, no. “Don't worry about it. I can deal with her. I’ll call you back on my way out.” Though he didn't know when that would be.
“You’d better,” she said, and disconnected.
Damn, the road was terrible, but his mother didn't drive. He felt a pang of guilt about that. She didn't drive, was stuck in that house all the time. The church used to send people out to collect the elderly for services, but he wasn't sure if that was still a thing.
He drove over the built-up road with the drain beneath, that had been the low-water crossing twelve years ago, the one that had swept the bus away as it came to collect the Conover family. Beck shuddered as he drove over it.
Damn, the house looked bad. West Texas wind and heat had done the paint no favors. The raw wood was showing through, and was grayed and saggy. He was going to have to go to town to look for a handyman.
Slowly he opened the car door, only to slam it shut again when the sound of a shotgun blast ripped the air, kicking up dirt near the front of his truck. He ducked below the dash, but kicked open the driver’s side door.
“Mom! It’s me, Beck! Jesus!”
Another shotgun blast, and he braced for the shattering of glass, or the sound of buckshot tearing through his truck. Damn, could she even hear him? He hadn’t spoken to her in a long time, maybe she was hard of hearing now, especially after sending that blast his direction. He grabbed a piece of paper from the floor and stuck it out the door, a makeshift flag of surrender.
“Mom! It’s me! Beck! Your son!” He chanced raising his head, and saw her standing there in the shadow of the porch, shotgun by her side, no longer aimed in his direction. She wasn't reloading, so maybe she’d heard him.
Hands raised, he slid out of the seat and stood behind the door.
“Beck?” she called, her voice sharp but cautious.
“Yeah, Mom. I was in the area and wanted to stop by. I should have called.”
She still held onto the gun when he closed the truck door and approached the house, so he kept his hands elevated. Weird way to greet his mother, he was aware, but that was the kind of relationship they had, he supposed.
“What do you mean, you were in the area?”
“I was driving down I-10 to a new job site and thought I’d come see how you were doing.”
Finally she set the gun behind her, leaning it against the wall near the door, and he felt he could lower his hands as he stopped at the bottom step. Man, the house looked even worse up close. Pretty soon it would be going the way of the old garage he’d seen in town. He needed to get someone out here, someone his mother wouldn't scare off with her shotgun.
“Can I come in, maybe have a glass of water, see how you’re doing?” Her face was still shadowed, so he couldn't read her expression. Her hands, though, were old, and her body thicker. How had she changed so much in the two years he’d been away?
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“Like I said, I was in the area and just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.” He put one foot on the lower step.
“You’re too skinny,” she said, and abruptly turned into the house, slamming the screen door behind her.
Well, for his mother, that was as good as an invitation, he supposed. He gingerly picked up the shotgun and set it behind the door inside the house. If he recalled, there was a rack here somewhere, but he couldn't see in the dimly lit, and messy, house.
“Hasn’t the woman from Helping Hearts come out here?”
“She was out here day before yesterday. Late. Had to go into town for errands.”
That steamed Beck. He paid good money for her to come out here three times a week, make sure his mother was eating and bathing, check on her health and make sure she wasn't living in filth. This mess hadn’t accumulated in a few days. He was going to have to call the company and get a replacement, if this one couldn't get the job done.
“What kind of errands?”
“She had to go to the grocery store. She didn't like what I had in the pantry.”
He walked past her to the kitchen, stepping on a creaking board along the way. He’d have to give that a look, too. He opened the refrigerator and saw an assortment of plastic containers inside. At least the woman prepared meals for his mother. But he was going to have a nice long conversation with the service.
He flipped on the kitchen light, since the house always was dark in the afternoon because it stood in the shadow of the ridge.
And he had to physically mask his reaction to seeing his mother.
She’d always looked old, to him. Always had lines on her face, caused mostly by her own misery. She’d never dyed her hair or really styled it. But now her hair was thin, showing splotches of scalp. Her wrinkles had deepened, and a few age spots had darkened on her cheek and temple. The change was enough to be startling. And she had gained weight, her hips straining against the thin fabric of her house dress.
The sight weighed on his heart. Yes, he wasn't close to his mother, but the image of her mortality in front of him, well, that was hard to see. And she lived out here alone, with no one checking on her except a couple of times a week.
“The church ladies still taking you in
to town on Sunday?”
“When they remember,” she grumped.
“How long has it been?” he asked before he thought maybe her attitude might have something to do with their failing memories. After all, there was only so much even a church lady could handle, right?
“I’ve been a couple times since Christmas.”
“Is there someone you can call to remind them to come pick you up?”
“I don't want to be a burden. On anyone,” she added pointedly. “You going to get your water or what?”
Feeling twelve years old again, he got a glass from the cabinet and filled it with the water. He’d forgotten how good well water tasted, and filled it again. Then he leaned against the sink to face her.
“So what is it you do all day? The chickens are gone, I see. Do you even go outside anymore?” He wondered if he, Sara and Conrad could convince her to sell and move closer to town, to civilization. If she didn't have anything keeping her out here, they could sell the land and set her up for the rest of her life in comfort.
“I watch TV, and I do some crochet. I earned it,” she said, lifting her chin. “I worked hard all my life and I earned sitting on my ass for the end of it.”
“Sitting on your ass may mean the end of it,” he countered. “How’s the diabetes?”
“What do you care, Beck? When was the last time you were here? Now you’re worried about me?”
He tried to work out how old she was. He didn't think he’d ever known. His brother Conrad was the youngest, and he was twenty eight. His oldest brother was thirty five. He didn't think his mother had been young when Marcus was born, so...maybe seventy? “I’m always worried about you, Mom, but I just can’t deal with your attitude. I’m sorry, but it’s true.”
She scowled. “Well, you’ve seen me. Now you can move on to wherever you were going.”
“No, ma’am, I can’t, not until you’re better situated. I don't want this house falling down around you, so I’m going into town to see if I can get a handyman or someone to come out and get things taken care of.”
“You absolutely will not. I don't want some stranger in my house, on my property.”
“I got that.” He wondered, briefly, if she’d greeted the church ladies with her shotgun. “But you can’t be falling through those bad floorboards, or through the rotten railing.” And those were just the things he’d noticed on his way in. The living room had been dark, and he hadn’t made his way back to the bathroom or bedrooms yet.
“I know where the bad spots are to avoid them.”
“You shouldn’t have to. Like you said, you worked hard all your life, and you earned living in a house that’s not falling around your ears. If you have trouble with someone being in here to fix it for you, well, I don't know what to tell you. Do you have a friend you can stay with?” Okay, so he already knew the answer to that. “Maybe you could stay at the motel in town for a week or so.”
“That’s ridiculous. Who would want to stay there?”
He thought about offering to take her with him to Las Vegas, but he knew they’d kill each other by the time they got out of Texas.
“Then, Mom, you’re going to have to deal with someone in your house.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You want to sell this place. That’s why you want it fixed up.”
“Eventually, yeah, we’re going to sell this place, and it’s easier to get it under repair now than if we let it get worse.”
“You’re just waiting for me to die.”
“Mom, that’s not true. But you’re being really difficult right now. The house needs work. Who do you want to do it?”
“You do it.”
“Mom, I’m not a handyman.” And he needed to be in Las Vegas for Riley’s race by next week. Hell, he’d wanted to get there this week for some R and R. He just had to stop home, hadn’t he? Mistake.
“I do not want a stranger in my house. It’s you, or it’s nobody.”
Well, then. Nobody. But when he walked back into the living room and flicked on a light, he could see damage to the ceiling from a leak in the roof, and when he continued down the hall, more floor damage, what looked like water eating at the wood plank flooring. Maybe there was a leak in the bathroom wall. He peeked inside, and yes. Pretty sure water was getting into the sheetrock from the cracked bathroom tiles. He’d be stunned if this house wasn't infested with mold.
And the toilet didn't sit right on the floor. He wasn't sure if that was a plumbing issue or a foundation issue. Hell, it might be easier to just tear this place down and start over.
This job was going to take way longer than a week, and way more knowledge than he had. And that wasn't even including the barn and the fencing.
Shit.
Part of him was mad at himself for taking this detour. What he didn't know didn't hurt him, right? And his mother was a grown woman who could make these decisions herself to get the house taken care of, not have it falling down around her ears.
But she probably didn't have the money, probably had alienated half the town, which didn't leave all that many people, to be honest.
He was going to have to go into town to find someone who was willing to do the work.
He turned to her, where she stood defensively in the middle of the cluttered living room. “Let’s go get dinner in town.” She would probably be happy to get out of the house for a while, yeah?
“I have dinner here,” she said, taking a step back when he took one toward her.
“Yeah, sure, but how long has it been since you’ve gone to the diner? Or, I think I saw a new Mexican food place when I was driving through.”
She scoffed. “There’s always a new Mexican food place. They all taste the same.”
“Well, I haven’t had any good Mexican food for a while, and you haven’t been in town in a while, so let’s go.” He debated advising her to change out of the housedress. But that would just give her more time to come up with excuses not to go. He didn't want to give her the chance, and the housedress was clean, anyway, if ill-fitting.
God. He made buckets of money and he was taking his mom to a Mexican food restaurant while she was wearing a housedress, so he could find someone to repair her house that was falling down around her ears.
Some son he was.
“Let me get my purse,” she said finally, and she went into her bedroom, returning with the oversized bag.
He didn't ask what was in it, or what she expected to do with it. He led her to his truck, and had to give her a boost onto the running board, touching her for the first time since he arrived. Damn, what were they going to talk about on the ride into town? What were they going to talk about during dinner?
He had not thought this through.
“This is a big truck,” she said, settling into the leather seat. “How much did you pay for it?”
“I paid cash, don't worry,” he said, not wanting to name the exorbitant sum.
“And it’s good on gas? With you driving all over the country?”
“Not particularly, but I do okay.”
She made a sound of doubt in her throat. “You won’t always have that fancy job. What if your friend gets in an accident and is killed?”
“That’s why I have savings and investments,” he assured her. He did think about that possibility every time Riley got behind the wheel. He had seen some pretty terrible accidents in his time on the circuit. But his job was to make sure Riley’s car was as safe as he could make it.
“You could always go work in the oil fields, but then you’d have to work for a living.”
He wouldn't rise to the bait. He’d heard the argument often enough, how his dad was a hard working man and he and his siblings never appreciated the sacrifices he made for them.
Sacrifices, sure. Along with a backhand every now and then, a whipping more often, for things that were minor in the whole scheme of things. Sometimes Beck found himself wondering how his dad would react when Beck saw the way some kids behaved today. Then Beck chided
himself for being too much like his old man, something he swore he would never ever become.
They drove the rest of the way to town in silence.
“Where do you want to go?” he asked once the tires hit actual asphalt. “The diner, the Mexican food place? I thought I saw another restaurant but I couldn’t tell what it was.”
“The diner is fine.”
They probably had more of a selection. He parked the truck up front. He was grateful because he wasn't sure how mobile his mom was. She had approached his truck with a weird rolling gait that made him think walking was hard for her.
He walked around the front of the truck and helped her out, ignoring the fact that she flinched at his touch. Weird. He kept his hand at her elbow as he escorted her inside.
He glanced from the chalkboard offering the day’s specials to the counter of waiters and waitresses clustered around the drink station near the kitchen window. Right. Janine Tippler owned this place, and local kids didn't have a lot of options to make money. So Janine hired them to wait tables, since she didn't have to pay them much because they received tips.
The result was that the townspeople paid their wages, but because there were so many waitstaff, no one made much. And since there weren’t a lot of people in Broken Wheel, there wasn't a lot of business anyway. And the kids just congregated and talked, which led to lower tips, less money.
Vicious cycle.
He let his mom pick the table, and she positioned herself so she could glare at those very waiters and waitresses. One broke away from the group, her body language saying all he needed to know about her willingness to wait on them.
“What can I get y’all to drink?” asked without enthusiasm, passing out place settings and menus.
They placed their order, and Beck retreated behind the menu. He was pretty hungry, since he hadn’t stopped for lunch, and breakfast had just been coffee and a protein bar. Maybe a chicken fried steak.
“What are you going to get?” he asked his mother, wondering if he should monitor what she ate because of her diabetes, or if she would do it. Or if would really be so terrible if she ate something she wanted, since she didn't get to go out to eat often.