by S. P. Shane
Chapter 23
Friday, September 24
No knock on my bedroom door this morning. For the first time that I can remember, Dad's not at my door, telling me that I'm going to be late.
My life has that morning-after-car-accident feel to it, where all the passengers live, but not without damage, not without pain.
Dishes clang in the sink, but there are no voices. “Is Dad even here?”
Panic ruptures inside of me and overtakes everything else. Flailing and kicking, I fight my covers off of me and sit up on the edge of the bed, desperately listening for his voice.
Dad's involved with all the wrong people now, and I don't think he realizes how dangerous these people are. This can all end badly.
I slide into the jeans and hoodie that I wore last night, hurry down to the kitchen.
Mom leans against the sink, scrubbing a skillet. She faces away from me as she scrubs. Something inside of me starts to break loose and I have to fight back tears. She's been the preacher's wife for so long that it's hard to think of her as separate from him. Either she's in the dark about his money games, or she's in on it.
I want to believe that she's innocent, that she knows nothing, but there's a sick feeling in my gut that she's bound to get hurt either way. As she scrubs at the skillet, I see her, perhaps for the first time as not only separate from him but alone. Something tells me that Dad's luck is wearing thin. If he's found out, it's jail time, but there are worse things. There are men out there in the woods with machine guns. It's not a game to them.
“Mom?”
She spins around, gasping, nearly falling, but when she sees me, she snorts and lets out a little laugh. “Good morning, Caleb.”
She's a tough read. It's possible that I simply startled her, that she didn't hear me on the stairs. It's also possible that she's nervous, that she's been worried all morning. She may know more than I care to realize.
"Where's Dad?"
"He had some work he needed to get done at the office. Left early." I follow her eyes, as she glances out the window, as if to check the weather. She's not a good liar, because she's clearly not checking the weather; she's looking at Dad. He's sitting on the top step of the church's stairs—staring off into nothing, like a man who's got the whole world on his shoulders.
Something in her tone that keeps me on guard. She's hurried, edgy. “Is everything okay, Mom?”
She leans back against the counter, reaches blindly for the dish towel. Her eyes are a mix of innocence and concern, but there's something theatrical about her demeanor. She holds out her hands, like she's in a badly-scripted car commercial. “What do you mean?”
I step closer to her, keeping my eyes fixed on her, while I grab my knapsack from the nook and sling it over my shoulder. “Are we okay?”
"You worry too much, Caleb. We're fine."
"Would ya tell me if we weren't?"
She lowers her brow. "Of course. Is there something I should know?"
I want to tell her everything. I want to throw it all down right here and now and tell her that my idiot father wasn't fired without reason. I want to tell her about men in the woods with machine guns; about meetings in the middle of the night and briefcases filled with money; about drug-runners and Colonel Sanders. I want to tell her everything, but then I remember how she sat so quietly as we left Immanuel. If it was so unjust of them, she had a funny way of showing her outrage. She may not be on it, but she has to know. She's too smart not to know.
“Caleb?” Concern has grown to skepticism.
“I don't guess it's anything, Mom.” Adjusting my knapsack, I head out the door.
“You're going to eat breakfast?” She calls after me.
“I'll grab something at Broad Strokes.”
Chapter 24
The drawbridge rattles beneath my feet and Josh perks up behind the counter. He looks at me like a dog, sensing pain—unable to rest until he's found a way to draw it out of me. I'm careful not to make eye contact with him, because there's a lot of things I'd rather not say; there are things I'd prefer not to explain.
I'm painfully aware that Grant's right: I am being watched. There are thousands of little eyes, keeping trained on me. Rooster, Colonel Sanders, Deputy Hayes, and maybe even the man with the camera—the black sedan—are all watching. What's more—the part that nearly kills me—is that we're not the “good guys” anymore. We never were. Knowing that, it's hard to look anyone in the eyes, even Josh.
“Caleb? You alright, man?”
“Huh?”
“Sit down before ya fall down. I'll get ya some coffee.” He grabs a white ceramic mug that's about as big as my head and starts filling it.
Marilyn pokes her head out from the backroom, as if to check on customers. There are none, just me. “Good morning, Caleb.”
I reply with a nod, quietly mouthing, but not actually saying the words “Good morning.”
At a table near the window, I let my knapsack fall into a chair. From now on, I have to be careful where I go and what I say.
Tired, having slept little, I just kind of stare at the table, zoning out. Josh shoves a big mug of black coffee in front of me, and I stare into my black and white reflection. A kid stares back at me with a pale face and squinting eyes. A shady kid from the worst kind of people. A shady family that works so hard to present the appearance that they're something other than dirty.
"You alright, Caleb?" Josh sits across from me. His shadow draws away from the table as he leans back in his chair.
My head stays down. Staring into my coffee reflection, "I'm fine."
"Uh, huh. You sure look 'fine'."
"Uh, what d'ya want me to say... really?"
“You can tell me what's goin' on.”
I want to tell him everything, but I can't. I'm now the kind of guy who has secrets. Keeping up this image of the preacher's son seems more important than ever. This image is the only thing protecting us from countless watching eyes. “Nothin'. Nothin's goin' on, man.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you know that I went to six different shrinks after Elliot died? And every last one of them asked me the same thing: 'Are you okay, Josh?' Of course, the answer is always 'fine'. I know a thing or two about being 'fine'. I know what 'fine' looks like. I've been on every type of antidepressant there is."
For the first time this morning, I look at him. "Why are you telling me this?"
"Because after all these head doctors and a cabinet full of prescriptions, I've learned exactly two things."
"Yeah? What's that?”
"That you can't fix your life with a pill... and there's absolutely nothing that this life can give you that can't be taken away." He turns to the window, as if to watch people passing by on the sidewalk. Silence, but not because of a lack of things to say. There's everything to say, so much to say that I can't even put it into words.
“Well?” He finally says, holding up his hands, as if to say “what is it?”
"My Dad's not who I thought he was."
"Yeah, I know. Neither's mine."
"Well, I didn't know. That's why we're here. Isn't it? In Crenshaw's Creek?"
Josh raises up from his seat, peering across the counter to make sure Marilyn isn't listening. "Calvary Hill's been cleanin' money for years."
"Cleanin' money?"
He crosses his arms, leans against the table. He has this look on his face, like he's trying to explain to a child for the first time that reality is so much scarier than the nursery rhymes. "When you're runnin' dope, ya tend to pile up large amounts of cash. Ya can't exactly walk into a bank and say 'I need to make a deposit'. That's how ya get caught."
"So, Calvary Hill puts the money in the bank and says 'here, this is our offering money'?"
"Somethin' like that. I don't really know how the rinse cycle works, if ya know what I mean, or how everything gets funneled out to the right accounts, but it does."
"Jesus...It's... uh..."
>
He relaxes again, leans back in his chair. "Yeah. It's a lot to take in."
"I grew up tellin' myself this story that we're—I don't know—good people."
"You're not your dad, Caleb."
"Yeah? Well, neither are you."
A sick grin comes across his face as he looks away. "That's why I wanna get outta here so bad. If I stay here, I'm gonna be just like him."
"Then, get the hell outta here. Whatever it takes..."
Josh slips on his evil genius face. The shadowy edges of a plan takes root. “There's something I want you to do for me.”
"Anything."
"There's a field party this Saturday, kind of a hush-hush type thing.”
My whole body seems to shrug into this big "So?" I mean the football game didn't work out so well for us. Neither of us are on such good terms with the goons. I don't really care that they're having a field party.
"And you're going," he says, without the slightest hint of a question.
"I don't think..."
"You're going, Caleb... Even if I have to hog tie ya."
I laugh, holding up my hands in surrender. "Alright then. I'm going."
“And you're gonna have the time of your life.”
“Don't press your luck.”
Chapter 25
I'm not sure how long I've been running. It's darker now, orange light hangs on the horizon, and my shadow stretches out before me, like I'm twenty feet tall. There's no longer any sense of meter to my step. I'm just staggering forward.
I'm not really trying to get anywhere. If this was my big break—if I were really running away—I'd take something with me—pack a bag and I'd be more coy about it. But right now, I just have to keep moving. If I stop, even for a second, all the things swimming around in my head might come down on top of me. I might just have to face something—reality.
The Goldenrod Highway slopes down toward the landing and the scent of fresh water carries on the breeze. I'm just about to sit down for a rest on the guardrail when a diesel engine snores behind me on the highway.
"Jesus! Just what I need!" I'm half in mind to take a leap over the guardrail—certain that I'm an easy target for goons. I'm a scene from Deliverance waiting to happen.
The engine gears down. Tires crackle in the gravel behind me. I turn and hoist my foot atop the guardrail—ready to jump it.
“Caleb?”
I stagger around to the sound of her voice. Lindsey's behind the wheel of a white pick-up truck, hanging her head out the window. Bob Dylan's Mr. Tambourine Man blares from her stereo.
“Lindsey? What are you doing... out here?”
A wide smile lights up her face. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“I... needed to get out...for a while.” I'm suddenly aware that I'm speaking in a tone typically reserved for prisoners. It's as if there's this big wall around me and more than anything I need to climb over it—break free.
“I just finished up a run for my dad." She gestures toward the passenger seat with her chin. "Lemme give ya a ride.”
It's not that I don't trust her. It's more that I don't think I trust anyone anymore. “What kind of run were ya making?” I stagger toward the truck.
“For my dad. The Farmer's Supply. Tractor parts."
“Lindsey, there aren't any farms in Crenshaw's Creek.” A conspiratorial tone overtakes my voice, but who can blame me? I wanna know that she's not leading a double life—that she really is the sweet y'all girl and that she really is crazy enough to feel something for a guy like me.
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, I know that. But there are farms out on Barrel Road and over in Ferry's Port and a half dozen other places between hither and yon. You should get out more.”
A grin creeps across my face. "You should too. Hither and yon? Is this Romeo and Juliet?" I stagger around to the passenger door. The door sings a sour note as I sling it open. The seat sits kind of high—above my hip—so that I have to hop and twist to get into the truck. My right grips the door above the window and my left grabs the dashboard. I heave myself into the truck.
A scent like citrus collides with a stink like rotting cabbage. I'm a puddle of sweat . A pool of sour sewage. "Uh, thanks for stopping." My hand finds its way to the window crank. Rolls down the window.
"Like I'm gonna just leave you out here." She puts the truck back into drive and rolls along the shoulder of road. “Were you going to the landing?” A tinge of surprise in her voice. Her eyes narrow. It's as if the landing is the last place she'd ever expect to find someone like me.
“Just out for a run, Jess. Not really goin' anywhere.”
Ahead, the highway levels out beside a broad expanse of water. A gravel lot meets the edge of the road and slopes down a boardwalk that crawls along the bank. The boardwalk makes an L-turn in front of a building with neon lights and beer advertisements.
“What is this place?”
“Grant's Landing. It's why I'm surprised to see you here."
She glances at her watch and shifts her gaze out into the backwaters. “Ya know, I'm done with my runs. We can go out for a while if ya want."
The sour smell drifting up from the pits and crotch isn't the most inviting smell in the world. I'm not exactly dressed for a date—if that's what she means. That is what 'goes out' means, right? "Uh... out where?"
"I don't know...take a ride."
“Uh, sure."
The tires squeal, as she swings the truck off the pavement onto the gravel lot, and the shocks squeak as I bounce in the seat. She steers the truck in an 'S' across the lot. For a moment, it looks like we're gonna drive down to the boats, but Lindsey swerves. The truck goes off the gravel and into the grass. "Lindsey!"
"It's cool." She laughs. "Guess a city kid like you's never gone off-roading before."
She shifts gears, as the truck speeds up a knoll that blocks out the sight of anything beyond it. She could be driving us off the end of the earth for all I know. Near the top of the kill, she lets off the gas. The shocks squeak as the truck goes airborne—One... two...smack! The truck slams down on the ground so hard that it takes a little of the wind out of me.
In front of us, the hill bends down toward the backwaters and Grant's Landing appears on the opposite bank—its neon lights glimmering on the waves. The truck barrels toward the water. Lindsey stands on the brake, but the hill's so steep that the tires slip in the mud and grass. She's gripped the steering wheel in two clenched fists, but it seems to be driving her instead—yanking her arms one way, then the other. The rear of the truck slides around toward the driver's side and for a moment it feels like the truck's about to roll over. The bank appears through the window beside Lindsey. She takes her foot off the brake, shifts gears, and guns it.
"Whew whoa!" She she shouts, as the tires find level ground by the water's edge. Instead of plunging nose first into the backwaters, we are coasting along a strip of sand and gravel that runs parallel to it.
"Holy shit..." just kind of slips out. I'm looking at her like she just shot Kennedy.
She shrugs and giggles. "Never saw a girl with a little 'whew whoa' in her?"
"I met a Pentecostal girl who caught the Holy Ghost at church camp. But that was... a lot different."
Lindsey kills the engine, as the truck continues to coast around a bend. She flips on the headlights, as sand and gravel gives way to tall grass and cattails. The tires roll to a stop, the shocks give one last squeak, and we're sitting in the middle of death-like silence.
I turn toward Lindsey—partially to see if she's alright, partially wanting to choke the shit out of her. "Lindsey... What the hell? You trying to scare me?"
"Goodness, no!"
“Why did ya bring me here?”
“So we can clear our heads for a while. And the stars will be out soon.”
One nice thing about living in the sticks is the stars. It's not like you can't see the stars in Cleveland, but they're not as bright—starlight's drowned out by city lights.
"Where ya going?" I ask, as she walks around and stands in front of the truck, staring down at the weeds. She glances back at me, makes a come-here with her shoulder.
I climb down from the truck and come around to where she's standing. She raises her hand and points down the bank a little ways. “See that?”
“See what?” She grabs my chin and points it in the right direction. A jon boat sits on the bank with weeds growing around it. Faded yellow ribbon wraps around it and a circle of rocks holds it in place. “The boat?”
She nods. "It's Harlan's boat."
“What's it doing there?”
She reaches over and grabs my hand. "It's where search and rescue left it, after they recovered it."
“That's the boat that sank?” My voice skips up an octave. It's a mixture of all sorts of things. Just knowing that that's the boat changes the vibe of everything. It's no longer just a drive along the bank or a view of the backwaters. It's no longer about star-gazing. Someone died here. Not just any someone. It was Josh's little brother.
“Ya have a hell of a way of clearing your head.” I get a bit of an attitude with her, because it just seems demented that she'd bring me her.
She starts forward, tugs at my hand, and I go with her, but it feels like we're walking through a cemetery. Tears have been shed here and prayers have been said—the worst kind of prayers.
When we're just a few yards from the boat, she stops. I follow her gaze to a pancake-sized hole in the side of it. She doesn't really say anything—just studies it carefully. But she's been here before. She knew just how to handle the truck along the bank and she knew just where to park so that the headlights would fall upon the boat. Sadness spreads in her eyes—a tinge of horror—but it's been numbed. She's seen this boat a thousand times before.