by Aaron Saylor
“Boone?” He struggled for clarity. “What is this? What’s goin’ on?“
“Welcome back, beautiful,” Boone growled, in a voice that had been aged by too many cheap cigarettes and too much cheap whiskey. “You really fucked up this time, didncha?”
Jimmy said nothing.
Boone tried again. “Guess you know where we’re goin’, huh?”
Still, Jimmy said nothing. He rolled his head over and watched the steady pour of water down the truck’s window. He didn’t know where the two of them were going, but didn’t feel the need to know, either. He knew what was going to happen when they got there. That was enough.
RAIN
When they got to Coppers Creek, the storm kicked up. Rain broke through the opaque surface of the muddy water like buckshot.
It was a miserable rain, pounding at the core of Jimmy’s soul. He hated few things in more than a cold steady rain. He thought it the worst weather imaginable. Worse than a hail storm, worse than a blizzard, worse than a tornado, worse than a hurricane. He’d never experienced a hurricane but he imagined no hurricane could be worse than the chill rains that often drenched Kentucky in October.
Boone pulled the truck down to the water’s muddy, storm–broiled edge. The vehicle’s front tires sank two inches into the soft gravel bank. He opened the door, grabbed Jimmy by the jacket collar, and tossed him out on the wet ground. Jimmy never said a word, nothing, as he flopped to the ground with his bound hands unable to steady him. His face landed in the shallows of the creek.
Rank water flooded Jimmy’s nose and throat. A heavy pain thumped in his temple; he saw blood mixing into the creek, and knew it belonged to him.
From the bank, Boone stared down the cold barrel of his thirty–ought–six rifle, one hand at the trigger, the other firm under the stock. He kept the gun pointed at the back of Jimmy’s head and watched water and yellow muck foam around his brother’s earlobes.
“So, now what?” he asked.
“Don’t know,” said Jimmy, raising his head. He spit out water, and also something not entirely water. “You tell me.”
“I guess you know, Walt sent me after you.”
“Sure he did. Course he did. Mother fuck. How about you let me on up from here?”
“Can’t do that.”
“Sure you can.”
Boone tightened his grip on the rifle. “Jimmy, I’m sorry, but you know what’s gotta happen,” he said.
“No. No, fuck no!” Jimmy screamed.
Jimmy struggled to sit up, fought the duct tape. He flopped over on his back, in the water again. “Maybe we oughtta talk about this a little more, the two of us,” he stammered. “Maybe you could let me up from here and we could figure out a better way to take care of this. Ain’t nobody here but us.”
“There’s nothin’ to talk about, Jimmy.”
Boone’s stillness gave Jimmy pause. Neither man moved for a long moment.
“Okay, fine, we don’t have to talk about nothin’,” Jimmy said finally. “You just let me up and I’ll be out of here, and nobody has to know a goddamn thing.”
“I can’t do that. You know I can’t do that.”
Jimmy stared at Boone. “Sure you can, you can let me up!” said Jimmy. His voice heightened, wavering. He talked faster, words tumbling out of his mouth, not fully formed and barely more than thought. It was how Jimmy spoke when cornered, too scared to think things through.
He said, “You can let me on up and then both of us get the hell out of here. You can tell ‘em I got the drop on you, knocked you in the creek, ran off before you could get out of the storm. They’ll believe that.”
“Ain’t nobody gonna believe that,” said Boone.
“It’s a helluva storm,” said Jimmy. “They’ll believe that! Shit, anything could happen in a storm like this, you know? Then after a couple of weeks, they’ll forget about me.”
Boone tightened his left hand around the rifle’s stock. “These ain’t forgetful people, Jimmy,” he said. “Walt Slone don’t forget nothin’ or nobody. You know that.”
“He’ll forget me.”
Boone spit in the creek. “You really believe that?”
“Yeah.”
“Goddammit. You know better.”
Jimmy took a deep breath and swallowed some more of his own blood. Of course he knew better. He considered the weight of his predicament for a good three minutes. The rain pelted the back of his neck, down his shirt, into the waist of his pants, but he barely felt it.
“Oh well,” he finally whispered. “Fuck it, then.”
They stayed there, wondering what came next.
Rain fell, and memories rolled in for both of them.
1984. Summer. Bright hot inviting thrilling summer. No rain in the forecast, just sunshine, warm air, and still water.
The dark blue Folger’s coffee can sits on the ground next to the stillness of Coppers Creek, filled with dirt and a few dozen nightcrawlers. Jimmy, in the sunshine of boyhood, reaches into the can, sifts through the dirt and finally pulls out a nice fat one.
Put this on your hook, he says.
You do it, Boone says.
Jimmy laughs. You’re seven years old. Seven years old! Plenty old enough to put a worm on a hook. Come on now, it ain’t gonna hurt.
I don’t wanna, Boone says. I hate worms. You know that, Jimmy.
Put the damn worm on the damn hook, Jimmy says.
Boone looks in the coffee can and sees nothing but gray parched earth, but he knows that underneath it, there must be at least one worm in there somewhere. And he hates worms.
His stomach knots. Sweat gilds his fingertips. He pushes his tongue between the teeth and upper lip, and finds his mouth as arid as the dirt in the can. Boone changes his mind, wonders, how can any nightcrawler possibly live in that can? He imagines what it must look like beneath the dead dirt: the rusty can bottom must be covered with a hundred dead worms, piled on top of each other in a shriveled dead mass. Dead worms in dead dirt in a dead coffee can.
Jimmy says Boone has to put the damn worm on the damn hook. Jimmy is five years older, Jimmy always knows what’s right. Always. Jimmy always knows what’s right because Jimmy is the older brother, and older brothers always look out for younger brothers. That’s why they call them older brothers, right?
Boone takes a deep breath and reaches into the coffee can.
He digs in the dirt.
It surprises him to find that beneath the sun–baked surface, the dirt in the can is not dead, but cool and moist, alive. He finds a fat nightcrawler, slick and also alive, not shriveled at all. As it slimes across Boone’s seven–year–old fingers, his seven–year–old stomach tightens up again.
I hate worms, Boone says.
Bait the hook, Jimmy says.
Boone closes his grip around the nightcrawler, pulls it out of the dirt, threads the hook through what he guesses is the head and pushes the fat worm up until it sticks firm on the metal barb.
As Boone does that, Jimmy chuckles out loud. He says, Atta boy, I knew you could do it.
Boone feels his older brother’s hand smack him gently, playfully on the back of the head, like he always does when Boone makes him proud. Boone likes to make his older brother proud.
Brothers. Cut–off jeans and tank top shirts. The sunshine of their youth.
Still water.
Dead worms.
Digging in the dirt.
Knew you could do it.
The rain poured now, as the storm became a real gully–washer.
Jimmy held his eyes shut tight. Water crashed around him; blood thundered in his head. He didn’t move.
Boone said, “I guess you need to be gettin’ up now.”
Jimmy didn’t move. He just lay there in the mud. He knew the inevitable would come, but he would not go to it.
Aggravated, Boone picked his brother up by the shirt collar, slung Jimmy a good six feet out into Coppers Creek, and waded in after.
Jimmy staggered into the
swirling, filthy water. His arms were no use, tied behind him. He quickly lost his balance and went down to his knees for several seconds before he could finally get back up again.
“Hang on, little brother!” he shouted over the creek’s roar. “Hang on just a goddamn minute now. You don’t really want to do this, do you? Kill me like this?”
Boone raised the rifle to his shoulder again. This time, he sighted in towards the center of Jimmy’s face. “Wantin’ don’t come into this, Jimmy,” he said. “I wasn’t the one that put you here. You put you here. I’m just the one pullin’ the trigger.”
“You doin’ what Walt Slone told you to do, is that what this is?” Jimmy shot back. “Fuck Walt Slone. Fuck him. Fuck him, you hear me?”
I only do what I’m told, Boone thought. The earth might split open and the trailers and shotgun shacks of Sewardville, Kentucky might eventually tumble into the fires of Hell, but that wouldn’t be Boone’s fault. He just drove his truck around. Pick up and delivery.
Besides, this was Jimmy’s fault. Jimmy couldn’t leave well enough alone, Jimmy wasted plenty of chances and now all his chances were gone. Boone didn’t put Jimmy here, Jimmy put Jimmy here. Boone was just the one pulling the trigger.
Boone said, “I’m sorry, Jimmy. Walt Slone says you got to disappear.”
“I can disappear! I can disappear just fine!” said Jimmy. “I can go up to Gallatin and disappear just fine. We can take care of it that way. Won’t nobody ever know any different.”
For a moment, Boone listened. He wanted to believe his older sibling. He looked at Jimmy’s face – the hair that went gray too soon, the deep–set eyes that fell empty too early, the craggy face, wrinkled and pockmarked. He wanted to believe him more than he had ever wanted to believe anything else in the whole shitty world. Maybe Jimmy could run away. Maybe Boone could let him go. Maybe Walt Slone would forget. Maybe everyone could just pretend that the whole nightmare had never happened. Maybe maybe maybe maybe maybe.
“I can disappear, Boone.”
“You can’t just disappear, Jimmy!” Boone snapped, suddenly angry at both Jimmy for talking, and himself for listening. “If they catch wind you’re still around, it’s all over for both of us. They’ll find you later, then they’ll kill you, and then they’ll kill me, too.”
“No. No! They won’t catch wind of shit,” answered Jimmy. “And even if they do catch wind, it’ll be so long that they won’t care no more. I’m tellin’ you, they won’t care!”
“They’ll always care.”
“Fuck ‘em Boone. Both of us can get out of this. They’ll forget, they always forget.”
The bitter rain poured down in thick wet drops that hammered the land harder than ever.
With one soggy sleeve, Jimmy cleared his vision as best he could. He was soaked; Boone was soaked; they were soaked; every goddamn thing was soaked. The creek filled quickly. Soon the water lashed at its banks, sometimes over them, mocking the land that could not hold its fury.
Let us bow our heads, says Mama.
Mama bows her head and thanks the Lord for their daily bread. Jimmy and Boone just look at each other. They try not to laugh. Boone steadies a load of mashed potatoes on his fork, pulls it back as if he might launch at any moment. Jimmy picks up a bread roll and cocks his hand back like Nolan Ryan, ready to unleash a bread–roll fastball at a moment’s notice. If Boone launches the potatoes, Jimmy will respond. Boone does not launch the mashed potatoes.
Mama finishes the prayer. The boys lower their weapons.
How was your day at school? she asks.
Fine, they answer together.
Are those boys still giving you trouble, Boone?
Boone gazes at the mashed potatoes on his fork.
Are these boys still giving you trouble, Boone?
Not anymore, Mama, says Jimmy.
What happened?
Jimmy shrugs. We took care of ‘em.
Took care of them how? asks Mama.
Jimmy doesn’t say. He looks at Boone, narrows his eyes, and nods, slowly, like he always does when Boone makes him proud. Jimmy slaps his hand on the table and breaks into long, loud laughter. Mama slices him with a razor stare. Yeah, yeah, that stare draws blood.
Boone wants no part of that stare. Instead, he watches the mashed potatoes for a few more seconds, then takes a long drink of milk, winks at his brother and does his best not to laugh in front of Mama.
Jimmy stumbled backwards, the creek water swirling up past his knees now. Boone waded in with him, holding the rifle above his head, well aware that if he dropped his gun he’d lose it for sure in the increasingly swift currents.
“No! No! Fuck this! I’m gettin’ out of here!” Jimmy cried. He turned his back, tried to run away, as if there were somewhere else he might go.
No sooner had Jimmy spun away than Boone caught him. Boone grabbed his older brother by the back of the shirt – the shirt was heavy with rain water, and slick, but not so heavy and not so slick that Boone couldn’t get a firm handful of cloth – and slung him down.
“The hell with you, Boone! Goddamn you!” Jimmy screamed, his mouth filled with creek water. He struggled to regain his footing, kept screaming, “Goddamn you, goddamn Walt Slone, goddamn this whole place!”
“Goddamn you, Jimmy!” Boone exploded. “I don’t wanna hear another word about it!”
Jimmy went silent.
Boone watched him.
It rained.
Jimmy’s shoulders moved up, down, up, down as he heaved for air. Rain cascaded around his chin and shoulders. Again, Boone lifted the rifle to his shoulders, wrapped his right hand around the wooden stock. He fingered the trigger, sighted his shot straight into Jimmy’s head.
The only sounds were the sounds around them: the machine–gun fire of the rain, the thunder of the creek. It seemed that way for twenty years, but in fact it was that way for just three minutes.
Finally, Jimmy sloshed forward two steps. He bent down and pressed the top of his head firmly against the end of Boone’s rifle barrel.
“Go ahead and do it then,” he said. “Let’s get this over with.”
“You know I never wanted it to be this way,” said Boone.
“You’re my brother, dammit. You’re family.”
Jimmy stood still. “I guess family don’t matter anymore, huh, Boone?”
“It ain’t like that. You know it ain’t like that.”
“It’s like that,” Jimmy said. “If family mattered, I wouldn’t be here in this creek with your gun in my face, now would I?”
Another long silence came between them. Jimmy looked up, first into the certain death of the rifle’s black barrel, and then past the cold steel, directly into Boone’s eyes.
“Time’s a–wastin’, Boone,” he said. “Get it over with.”
“I’m sorry, brother,” Boone said. “You know I don’t want it this way.”
“There ain’t no time for wantin’. Do what you have to do.”
One more time, Jimmy looked down. One more time, he pressed the top of his head against the cold steel and waited for the end of everything.
He began singing, an old Merle Haggard song they’d known since childhood. “Mama tried to raise me better, but her pleading, I denied. That leaves only me to blame 'cause Mama tried...”
Boone felt a pull in his throat as his brother looked up at him with the cold, hurting eyes.
“Well now, Boone,” Jimmy said. “Here we are. Mama always said we were her pride and joy. So which one do you think I was?”
Boone didn’t answer.
Jimmy closed his eyes and gave up. “Come on. Let’s do this.”
A chill shimmied up Boone’s spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn rain or the angry floodwaters in which he stood.
He wished Jimmy would look at him one more time. Just one more time. It didn’t happen. In the weeks and months to come, Boone would actually be glad that his older brother refused to look up in his final moments, but now,
he just wanted to look into Jimmy’s face one last time, only to apologize to him, to say he was sorry one last time, he wished it didn’t have to be this way, he was only doing what he was told, if there was anything else he could do he would do it, he would do it, he would do it, he would do it.
But there was nothing else to do.
Jimmy pressed his skull harder against the rifle barrel.
Thunder and lightning ripped the dark sky above, as the uncommonly strong autumnal storm bloomed. Underneath the atmosphere, a few feet out into Coppers Creek, a loud, sharp crack ripped through the October air, blasted from an unforgiving metal barrel. A quick flame burst in the night, followed by a soft splash. Jimmy fell into the creek and sank beneath the surface of the waters. And then, nothing else but the rain.
Hey Boone, Jimmy says. I came by your house last night. You weren’t home. Were you out with Karen again?
Yeah, we were out, says Boone.
Jimmy smiles and says, Walt Slone’s got somethin’ he wants us to do.
Will he pay? asks Boone.
You know Walt Slone always pays, says Jimmy. He runs everything. He’s got the money.
How much?
Two thousand.
Two thousand! What’s he want? asks Boone.
Get your pistol and we can talk about it in the truck, says Jimmy.
Boone’s heart sinks. He could use the money, but not that badly. He doubted he would ever need Walt Slone’s dirty money that badly. But, then again, two thousand dollars was a lot of money for an eighteen–year–old. Two thousand dollars was a lot of money for just about anybody in Sewerville. A man could do a lot with two thousand dollars. And besides, they could do just this one thing, Jimmy and he could do just this one thing and then get the hell out and never have to worry about Walt Slone or his gang again.
Just this one thing, Boone tells himself. How bad could it be? Two thousand dollars is a lot of money. A man could do a lot with two thousand dollars. And it’s just this one thing…