by R.P. Burnham
Leighton Kimball was bored. He liked playing video games but not talking about them—which is what Dave Duffy and Willy Lindstrom had been doing for the last twenty minutes. They were hanging around Monument Square on the first warm day of spring after a morning of gaming and had just finished hotdogs bought from the old guy who wheeled his stand onto lower Congress Street each noon. Leighton stood leaning against the brick wall near the entrance to the gym where the middle-class office workers would go for their noon workout. He was absently smoking a cigarette and looking down at Dave, who was in his wheelchair, his arms waving as he replayed the game where he defeated the alien invaders. He could walk but just barely. He had suffered nerve damage to his spine when he was in the army and was injured in a helicopter crash at an army base in Texas. The result was that he could only partially control his legs and couldn’t tell his knees to bend when they needed to. Leighton, looking at those useless legs now, was filled with disgust. He saw in his mind’s eye Dave walking from the bathroom where he’d just peed, his arms outstretched for balance, looking like a walking crucifix and with his face screwed up in a look of intense concentration as if what he was doing was the most important thing in the world. And for what? So he could collapse into his stupid wheelchair with a sigh of relief. After that little display it was always Leighton’s job to take his lower legs and bend them. He was sick of it. It disgusted him just like Dave disgusted him. Of course a guy swinging himself into a chair and having his legs stick straight out like two poles could be seen as comic. That’s how Leighton used to think of it and chuckle inwardly while being helpful and kind in his role as helper. But the little song and dance was getting old. Only the benefits derived were still useful.
When he first met Dave at the same video arcade they’d played in this morning, what got his attention was the wad of bills in his wallet. In his usual indirect manner, he’d found out that Dave got a big disability check from the army each month by chatting him up and letting him reveal the things he was looking for. He’d played his cards right too, at first by getting to play video games free together with an occasional free lunch or snack, and then by always being friendly and helpful he had gained the real bonanza. Dave’s neighbor in an apartment building on the Western Prom, a do-gooder who helped Dave get around his apartment and town, was forced to move when he got a new job. With Dave having no family except a brother who lived in Massachusetts, a need was created that Leighton filled—he could fake the role of a do-gooder with the best of them. Last fall just before it started getting cold and making life on the streets unpleasant, he had moved in with Dave, getting free room and board and occasionally some spending money in exchange for rolling Dave around town, mostly to the video arcade since computer and video games were Dave’s principal interest in life. No more shoplifting, doing odd jobs, eating at the soup kitchen and generally surviving. He still had time to deliver drugs for Tim Longo at fifty bucks per delivery, picking them up at the soup kitchen and bringing them to Longo’s customers after eating, and plenty of time to hang out where he wanted. So life was good, and the two roomies got along fairly well, especially since Dave always pretended not to notice that Leighton would shortchange him when he went to get groceries and occasionally steal a ten spot from his wallet when he was in the shower. The first bad sign was when Dave started taking his wallet into the shower with him. Then one day when a momentary lapse in concentration on Leighton’s part had caused a humiliating accident where Dave fell out of his wheelchair on a hilly street, they had had their first squabble. Many more followed when Dave would question him carefully about the change after he’d gone out to get them beer or groceries. Leighton’s position was that he needed spending money for cigarettes and other stuff just like everyone else and thought Dave should pay him for his services with some money as well as room and board. Dave, in contrast, thought a job would be the best answer. At first Leighton ignored the suggestion, but in February when Longo blamed him for allowing one of his bitches to escape, he showed his displeasure by only occasionally using Leighton for drug deliveries. So he ended up surprising Dave by getting a job at McDonald’s. Unfortunately the job didn’t last long. Customer complaints about him being impolite didn’t help the cause, but he didn’t actually get dumped off the truck until the manager saw him pick up a hamburger he’d dropped on the floor and put it into a bun.
So he was feeling trapped and looking for a way out. One thing he had learned from his life on the streets was not to let a good thing go until something better showed up. To be forced to move on before you were ready was scary. You only took a chance like that when you had to, like when he left New York City last year after he was forced to sell himself to queers for money. It turned out that coming home to Maine hadn’t been too bad a move, but still you wanted to do things on your own terms. But now his mind, always working for him, had come up with a scheme. He’d heard from a guy at the soup kitchen that his parents were suing a rich guy because he’d poisoned his brother Markie. That bitch Donna, who told him every time she saw him that his mother wanted to see him, hadn’t told him about the money—and that was why he ignored her. But one day Honker, who was at his table when the goodie-two-shoes bitch was telling him about his mother’s longing for him and who had seen a story about the suit in the newspaper, told Leighton about it. He said that they were suing for a million bucks and that according to the paper the case was a strong one.
Leighton didn’t see any reason why he shouldn’t get a cut from that loot. According to Honker the money could be rolling in by the summer. There was, though, a need for caution. Having run away from home at sixteen and never talked to his family after that, there was a chance that only his mother would be glad to see him. If his father had grown to hate him even one-tenth as much as he hated his father, there could be trouble joining in on the big feed. In the meantime he was staying on Dave’s good side until he was sure he could tell that crippled asshole to go fuck himself. That’s why he laughed when Dave, pointing to a guy across the way who was drinking one of those fancy coffees with whipped cream and fruit, said, “I bet that guy has whipped cream on his scrambled eggs.”
“Look at the silk kerchief around his neck,” Willy said. “I bet he’s a fag.”
“Yeah, probably,” Leighton said, feeling uncomfortable as he remembered New York City.
“I hope he doesn’t spill his drink on it. It’s so exquisite.” Willy dragged out the word like a fag would: exquuuuuisite. He was a middle-class guy who liked to slum. His clothes reflected the rebellious role he was playing. He wore a black T-shirt with a skull on it, black pants and a black jacket. Until today a black leather jacket would have been his usual coat, but this was a black summer job.
“A guy like that wouldn’t last long in the army,” Dave said.
He and Willy kept talking, but Leighton concentrated on assuming a sad and woebegone expression like the weight of the world was crushing his tender soul.
It took a long time for the two assholes to notice it. He was about to give it up when Willy said, “Hey, Leighton, what’s bothering you?”
He shrugged. Nothing. It’s just that I was feeling a bit ashamed of myself.”
“About what?”
“I been in Maine since last June and still I haven’t gone home.”
“Really? How come?”
“He’s embarrassed,:” Dave said.
Willy looked at him, waiting for an explanation.
“I ran away when I was sixteen. I wouldn’t know what to say.”
Willy smacked him on the shoulder. “Man, you’re crazy. That’s the only reason stopping you? They’re your parents.” He paused and looked into Leighton’s eyes with deep concern. “They didn’t abuse you in any way, did they?”
He shook his head sadly. “No, nothing like that. They were just so poor and there was no future. I felt I had to escape or I’d explode.” He sighed wistfully.
“Then there’s no problem. Just go home. Things will work themselves out.”
“You think so?”
“I know so. I know people who ran away because they were sexually molested or abused. Them I wouldn’t expect to go home. But embarrassment? That’s no reason.”
Dave tapped him on the side of his leg. “Family is important, Leighton,” he said.
So there it was, his plan falling into place just as he wanted: first Dave insisting he go as a family duty followed immediately with Willy volunteering to get Dave home. After saying he would be back tonight, Leighton walked down Congress Street and began hitchhiking after he passed the bus station. The first guy to pick him up was only going to South Portland, but his second ride took him all the way to Waska. The driver was a college kid studying biology at the University of Southern Maine. He talked Leighton’s ear off about dissecting a live frog and never seemed to understand that Leighton was not interested in the topic in the least. The third ride from downtown Waska to upcountry was slower in coming. He had to walk a couple miles before a rusty, late-model car picked him up because, it turned out, he was recognized by the driver, the father of one of his old friends, Carl Nelson. “Ain’t seen you in these paarts faw a long time,” he said in his soft-spoken way that hid just how tough a man he was. Leighton remembered when Carl was hit by a car while riding his bicycle how old man Nelson had looked the man up who injured his son and beaten him up. So he was respectful though guarded in talking about the places he’d been. Mr. Nelson lived a half mile or so before their road, but he kindly drove Leighton to the shack. They drove past Hoot Berry, who nodded as he stood by his truck, from under which another pair of legs were sticking out, probably belonging to his son Luke, who was an auto mechanic.
The shack looked pretty much the same except for a newer red car parked in front that made Leighton frown. He had hoped to see his mother alone.
For a moment he stood gathering his thoughts before knocking on the door.
It was his mother who opened it. She looked at him with her eyes widening and then shrieked. “Leighton, you’ve come home!”
Before he could say anything, she had thrown herself at him and wrapped her arms around him tightly. And for a moment he knew for the first time in many years complete and utter peace. “My boy, my boy,” she kept murmuring.
Finally, she pulled back and looked into his face, her arms still around his waist. “Why didn’t you come home earlier? We heard you’ve been in Portland since last summer.”
He dropped his eyes. “I was embarrassed. I didn’t know how… I didn’t know what to say.”
“Donna talked to you, didn’t she? She told you you’d be welcome. That’s what I told her to say.”
He nodded. “I’ve almost come several times, but I chickened out.”
“You see it was unnecessary. You’re always welcome. Donna—”
Her face was shining, but he didn’t like the way she said that bitch’s name, like she was some kind of a saint or something. “Momma, don’t make a fuss, okay? I’m just here for a visit.”
Her face grew serious. In a calm voice she asked him why he ran away.
For that he had an answer ready—one that was actually the truth. “I felt trapped. We were so poor and there was no future. I couldn’t stand thinking of spending all my days just struggling to eat.”
“Your father thinks it was something else.”
He tensed, looking at her inquiringly.
“He thinks it was him.”
He took a deep breath. “Well, in a way he’s right. It sure wasn’t you, Momma.”
She kept the thought she was about to utter to herself. Instead she said, “Well, come on inside.”
Markie was sleeping on the couch. He’d heard that the boy wasn’t right, but sleeping he looked normal, though very thin and very pale. Last time he saw him he still had all his baby fat and was really nothing but a blob of meat.
He looked at his mother and sensed that she was waiting for him to say something fitting. Okay, then. “I heard that the poor little guy was very sick. How is he?”
She shook her head sadly. “No better, no worse. I pray to Jesus every day, but like your grandmother reminds me, the age of miracles has passed.”
There were tears in her eyes. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said, knowing it was the right thing to say. He made his face look sad and added, “I wish there was something I could do.”
Still gazing at the sleeping boy, she spoke very softly. “We all do. Malcolm plays the old games with him whenever he gets a chance. Sharon hugs him every chance she gets. Even Sissy takes him for walks sometimes, and she’s so boy crazy now that’s all she usually thinks about.”
“So everyone else is fine?”
Momma shrugged philosophically. “More or less. No one else was poisoned. Only poor Mark.”
“How’d it happen? I’ve heard different things.”
Momma went over and adjusted the blanket, then gently touched Markie’s cheek before backing up quietly. “It was the fish we ate from the pond,” she said in a whisper.
Leighton nodded gravely. “Yes, I heard that some evil guy dumped chemicals, right?”
She nodded. He was hoping she would mention the civil suit, but she didn’t, and he was wise enough to know he shouldn’t bring it up himself.
He sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. “Are you hungry?” Momma asked.
“A little.”
“Your father is working steadily now after another bad winter. So we have things in the house. I have ham and chips and pickles I’ve been using for his lunches. Would you like a ham sandwich?”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
While she busied herself preparing lunch, Markie was showing signs of waking. When he opened his eyes and stared at him, it was time to be the big brother. “Hi, Markie. I’m your brother.”
Then he looked at his mother, noticing that she was putting mayonnaise on his sandwich. She had remembered he didn’t like mustard. He turned back to his little brother, expecting to find a pleased grin on the little thing’s face, but instead Markie started wailing so loudly that Leighton had to stifle an impulse to go over and smack the little shit.
Momma abandoned the sandwich and hurried over to the couch. “He’s afraid of strangers,” she explained as she picked the boy up. Then she started cooing at him in baby talk. “It’s okay, sweetie-pooh. That’s your brother Leighton. He lovey-doves you very much.”
Leighton, still bristling from the hostile wails, winced. That little shit isn’t on my Valentine list, he thought, but he pulled himself together and said in a soothing voice in imitation of his mother, “Sorry I frightened you, Markie. You’re okay, little guy.”
Safely in his mother’s arms, Mark merely stared at him. But the second Momma went back to the counter to finish the sandwich, he started wailing louder than ever so that Leighton could hardly stand it. He clenched and unclenched his fists.
But it took the little shit a long time to calm down. Whenever Leighton looked up from eating his sandwich, Markie would begin fussing and crying, so after a while he kept his eyes to himself.
Finally Momma went over to turn on the TV and put him in front of it, and that did it. He started staring at it like a zombie. No doubt about it, that kid was giving him the creeps. But thank god for small miracles—he did shut up.
Momma returned to the table and sat across from him. She reached over and touched his hand as if convincing herself he was real. “I have a million questions. Mainly I want to know what did you do when you ran away and where did you go?”
“I hitchhiked and ended up in New York City. I worked at odd jobs and ate at soup kitchens.”
Her face showed concern. “It must have been hard. Every night I would pray to Jesus that you were safe.”
As if that did any good. He remembered the times he was beaten up, the nights sleeping outside in the cold where fear would not let him sleep, the times the fags paid him. A fat lot of good praying did. Maybe at best it took your mind off your problems for
a moment, that’s all.
She was watching him carefully and seemed puzzled. His face was giving too much away, he knew, and chastised himself. Changing the subject was the best thing to do. “I see Dad’s got a new car.”
“You mean the red car out front? No, that’s Malcolm’s car.”
“Malcolm’s?”
Momma smiled. “You’ve been gone five years now, you’ve got to remember. He’s sixteen now. He dropped out of school last fall and is working twenty-eight hours a week at the service station Luke Berry works at. He’s become quite an auto mechanic. Luke says he’s a natural. He has a girlfriend too. He’s doing all right. He gives me seventy-five dollars every week.”
Leighton didn’t like her tone of proud motherhood at all. He felt jealousy burning a hole inside him and couldn’t stop himself from saying something cruel. “I bet the girl’s a real dog.”
“Dog? You mean something bad? No, Alison is the sweetest girl in the world. She lives upcountry and her family, the Bentleys, are our kind of people.”
“I think I remember her brother. He was a jerk.”
Momma ignored the remark. “She paints beautifully too. See that picture of the sun coming up over the trees and that faded red barn?” She pointed to a watercolor taped to the refrigerator. “She painted it.”
“And see the birds on the shelf? The chickadee, blue jay and hawk? Malcolm carved and painted them.”
“Well, well, a couple artists…” But he stopped, seeing she didn’t like the sarcasm.
A worried look had been growing on her face. Now she looked sad as she asked, “Life’s been hard for you, hasn’t it?”
“No, I’m doing okay.” He shrugged, deflecting the pity. “It’s just he’s my little brother. I find it amusing he’s so grown up.”
“It’s more than that, Leighton. I can tell you’re bitter. Why?”
He looked at her, then looked down. Fumbling for a cigarette, he thought quickly. He reached into his pocket for the lighter he’d shoplifted from the drugstore on Congress Street and lit his cigarette. “Well, it’s just that I always knew Dad liked Malcolm better than me.”
“We loved all our children.”
“I know, I know,” he said with an artfully wistful sigh. “I felt that when I thought about Markie. The whole family was victims, all of us,” he added, hoping this would get him back on track to complete his mission.
But again she didn’t take the bait. Gazing sadly at Markie, she said, “But Mark was the one who was hurt. A sweet innocent boy.”
He felt a flash of anger that was difficult to suppress. He stood, deciding to leave and searching for some excuse. But his mind, usually so quick and dependable, failed him, and he slumped back into his chair. “Aren’t you getting revenge on that guy?”
Surprised at his sudden motion, she turned from watching Markie and frowned. She didn’t like the word, being a good Christian and all, but she was a mother too and chose not to comment. “I have to start getting supper ready. Malcolm will be home pretty soon. He’s helping Hoot Berry with his car right now, but I’m sure he’ll be glad to see you—you are staying for supper, of course?”
He shook his head. “I can’t, Momma. I’ve got an important engagement in Portland tonight. It’s about a job.”
She turned from filling a pot with water from the pump. “But you’ll wait to see your father, won’t you. He should be home a little after four o’clock. He’s clearing some land for a new house only a little over a mile from here.”
He nodded, trying to appear enthusiastic.
“And now that you’ve visited, you’ll come often, won’t you?”
“Yeah, I will. I won’t be embarrassed after today.”
She brought the pot to the stove and then reached into a sack of potatoes to choose four or five. “I wanted Malcolm and your father to go looking for you in Portland.”
“What did they say?”
“Malcolm wanted to, but your father said that you knew where we lived, and if you wanted to see us you’d come home.”
He snubbed his cigarette out. “So Dad didn’t care.”
“No, that’s not it. Your father is not himself. He caught the fish that poisoned Mark, and he blames himself. He hasn’t been himself since it happened. He never goes fishing or hunting anymore. He’s afraid whatever he killed or caught would have mercury in it.”
“Well, it was his fault, wasn’t it?”
“No!” She spoke sharply as she looked up from peeling the potatoes. “He did what he always did—he fished for food. It was that Ridlon who was at fault.”
Leighton leaned forward. Finally the reason for his visit was taking shape. Wisely he pretended ignorance. “Who’s he?”
“He was the man who dumped illegal stuff that had mercury in it in the pond. Your father couldn’t have known about it. It is not his fault. That’s what I keep trying to tell him.”
“I hope that this man is being punished. Is he?”
“Well, he deserves to go to jail, but in the meantime we are suing him for damages.”
“What does that mean?” he asked, proud of the naive way he asked the question.
“We’ll get money, that’s what it means. Maybe it can help Markie get better.”
He saw that the money bothered her, but that was a good sign. It meant the money was so certain she was already feeling guilt to be taking it for her son’s sake when she’d rather have her son healthy. That was how mothers thought, he supposed, but if she felt guilty he’d be glad to help her get rid of the guilt. So his mission was accomplished, and he lit another cigarette and relaxed.
With the spuds all peeled, Momma started putting them into the pot. Feeling comfortable and secure, he watched her; then suddenly the mood was broken by sounds of voices talking excitedly outside.
Momma turned to look at him over her right shoulder. “That’ll be Sharon and Malcolm. He must’ve met her bus. She was playing soccer today and took the late bus.”
Leighton looked at the door and waited. Nervous, he began drumming his left leg under the table.
“Hey, Momma, look who I found coming down the lane,” Malcolm said as he burst through the door. His voice was strangely jovial and nothing like what he remembered. In Leighton’s day Malcolm was always quiet and sad, the spitting image of their sour-pussed father. Seeing Leighton, though, Malcolm suddenly became his old self. He stopped and stared for a moment. “Hi, Leighton. You’ve come home.” He spoke guardedly.
Sharon, too young to remember much about him, was staring at him shyly.
“Just for a visit, little brother. I’m leaving shortly.”
“How are you getting back to Portland?”
“The same way I came. I’ll hitchhike.”
“I can give you a ride to Route 1. I leave for work at 5:30. I have the night shift tonight.”
“Okay. I heard you’ve got a job and a girlfriend.”
Malcolm nodded in a way that said he didn’t want to talk about it. Instead he asked a question. “Where have you been all these years?”
“Mostly New York City. I came back to Portland last June.”
“Yeah, we heard.”
Momma came over to Sharon, who was still staring in wide-eyed shyness at this strange brother. Putting her hand on the girl’s shoulder, she brought her to the table and introduced her to Leighton. Saying “Hi” in a quiet voice, she suddenly became brave. “Do you want to see my paper? I got a star on it, and my teacher said it was good.”
He couldn’t care less about her schoolwork, but Malcolm was giving him the creeps. Again the jealousy and envy he’d felt when he learned the red car was Malcolm’s simmered as a dull ache deep inside. He tried to think of a putdown as he looked over Sharon’s paper. It was simple sentences like “I live in a house,” “I go to school.” Pretty dumb stuff, but of course he pretended to be impressed. He remembered that unlike Malcolm he was good at school. He had his mother’s intelligence, while Malcolm was as stupid as their father.
<
br /> In the meantime Malcolm went into the bedroom and soon emerged wearing a dark green shirt and matching pants.
“I see you’ve joined the army.”
It was a pretty weak putdown and only brought a slight smile to Malcolm’s ugly face and a dismissive, “Yeah, right.”
Malcolm got out an old beat-up hockey game and played with Markie on the floor in front of the TV. The loud sound of the levers clacking made it hard to think. Leighton got the impression that Markie expected to do this every time Malcolm came home. Nobody but him seemed to think it was a distraction. Sharon worked at a drawing and asked Malcolm to help her draw a bird, which he did when the game was over. It was pretty obvious that Malcolm let his little brother win as much as possible, which was quite a trick since the little thing was not very coordinated. And of course he started wailing when Malcolm turned his attention to Sharon. Somehow that noise did not bother the rest of them either. They seemed to indulge Markie because he was sick.
His mother kept asking questions. She wanted to know if he got enough to eat, and he explained that he was taking care of a man in a wheelchair and had a nice place to live and ate all he wanted. Malcolm asked him about New York City. “Isn’t it scary? he asked. “On TV it was always filled with dangerous and bad men.”
Leighton shrugged it off and said people were people, to which Malcolm said, “Yeah, but you’ve got more guts than I do. I know I wouldn’t dare to go to that place alone.”
It was a compliment, and he sounded sincere, but you could never really tell if people were feeding you a line. Usually it was a song and dance so that they could get something off you. So he felt confused and uncomfortable because he wasn’t sure. Did he really think being a brother was special? Leighton remembered Dave’s stupid and sugary remark about family being important. He glanced at Markie, quiet now because Malcolm had started another game with him. If he was sick, would they all indulge him? He knew his mother would, but the others? And that feeling when she hugged him, it was dangerous. Love was dangerous. It made you put your guard down. That was why he only got high sniffing glue, smoking marijuana or doing cocaine or heroin when he felt completely safe. Usually that meant when he was alone where no one could find him. Laughing and joking, like others did when they were high—that wasn’t for him. He wanted to forget.
He was pretending to watch some stupid game show on the TV, but really he was trying to think, wondering if what he saw in Malcolm could have been him. And if it was, would he be happy? Malcolm, he knew, was his father’s favorite.
In high school boys would talk about their fathers. Not surprisingly, many of the richer kids thought their fathers, like their mothers, were impossibly stupid and didn’t understand what it was like to be young, but just as many were proud of their old man, even if they were a little embarrassed to admit it. It was the country folk especially that talked this way. One guy would say his father was the best electrician in Maine. Others would say his father was a great hunter and taught him everything about the woods. A third would say there was nothing about a car that his old man couldn’t fix. Leighton never took part in these conversations. Words like “best” and “most” didn’t apply to his father, not unless you were to say he was the best asshole in the world or the most ignorant idiot that ever lived. There came a point in his life when just to see his father filled him with loathing. He always acted as if he had to apologize for being alive, as if he had no right to want things and dream things. He acted guilty, as if he had done some unspeakably shameful thing. He had no courage and people scared him. He was a doormat and people wiped their shoes filled with dog shit on him.
That is why Leighton hated him. At a time in his life when he was struggling to fit into the world and desperate for someone to show him the way, his father failed him.
He looked up, aware Malcolm was asking him something. The question was repeated: “Were you in New York City when the twin towers were blown up?”
He liked Malcolm’s tone. The little hick brother was wondering what it was like to be a sophisticated traveler who had seen things that made history. For a moment he thought about lying, but then shrugged. “No, I was in southern New Jersey then picking tomatoes, but I was back in the city a few weeks later and watched some of the cleanup.”
“So was that the kinds of jobs you did?”
He noticed his mother was listening with great interest. He was enjoying this. “I did whatever came my way. I worked on the docks, I delivered messages on a bicycle, I painted apartments—you name it, I did it.”
“And did you meet all kinds of people?”
“Yeah, I suppose I did. Mostly it was spicks when I was picking tomatoes, but I worked for rich Jews and with African immigrants, copper-colored people from the Dominican Republic, blacks, Italians, Russians, some people who didn’t even speak English.”
“I think Maine is best,” Malcolm said, “I don’t think I’ll ever see New York City.”
“Then you’ll miss a lot. There ain’t much in Maine.”
“But you came home,” Momma said. “Maine is your home.”
He considered how to answer this and decided that he’d keep his real opinions to himself. “You’re my home, not the state.”
That went over well. Momma smiled happily. Sharon said that Maine had the most forest of any state in the union. “I learned that in school today,” she added.
“I think they mean in percentage of land, don’t they?” Momma asked, but Sharon didn’t know.
After looking perplexed for a minute, she asked, “Where’s Sissy?”
“She’s working tonight.”
They all turned and looked at the door at the same time. The grinding, crunching sound of tires going over gravel was heard. Leighton braced himself for the most difficult role in his career of role-playing.
There he was.
That hooked nose and pointed jaw, that ugly caveman protruding forehead, those beady eyes, the bad teeth, none of it had changed, only he was older now and his dark hair had gray on the sides. Yeah, definitely older. He was only a little over forty but he looked sixty-five. He hated every bit of that face, hated it even more because he saw it every time he looked into a mirror. He and Malcolm especially inherited their father’s ugliness, and yet Malcolm despite that—but he wasn’t going to go there.
Dad took in the room with Leighton in it and stopped short. He cast his eyes down, uncertain of what to do, then looked directly at Leighton and said, “Hi, Leighton. Good to see you.” He stood by the door, not moving, and watching Leighton’s face.
Leighton had a pretty good idea that his father saw through him and knew the hatred he felt. Still, for the sake of the others he tried his best to sound pleasant when he said, “Good to see you too, Dad.”
But he didn’t fool that ugly old bastard. He saw him stiffen, and he didn’t offer to shake his hand. He went over to the counter and put his lunch bucket down. “What’s for supper?” he asked Momma.
“Hamburger patties, potatoes and corn. Did you get a lot of work done today?”
He nodded, then looked at Leighton. “You know about Markie, I s’pect?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Then you know what the city folks are doin’ to us. Things have changed here since you left. Now they’re moving up here with their big fancy houses and big fancy cars, and I’m helping clear the land so more of ’em can come.”
“But they ain’t the ones who poisoned Markie,” Malcolm said. He seemed puzzled by what Dad was implying.
“No, but it’s all changed now. The poisoning was the worst of it, but our way of life will soon be gone. I s’pect you’re a city guy now. Is that so?”
Leighton saw his mother watching him closely. “I guess I am. The country life ain’t for me.”
“Even when you see what they do to us?”
His attitude was hostile and at the same time defeatist and abject. Leighton, feeling the anger growing, suddenly lost it and became enraged. “But what hav
e you done about it?”
“You mean about Markie? What am supposed to do? I ain’t a doctor.”
“No, but you’re a man, ain’t you? Letting lawyers do your work? What’s that good for?’
“It’s a legal matter now. But I know I’m at fault. You don’t have to tell me who brought that fish into the house. I did. It’s my fault.”
Momma gave Leighton a sharp look before turning to Dad. “It isn’t your fault, Luke. You couldn’t know. Don’t listen to Leighton. He’s angry. Maybe he’s got reasons, but it ain’t your fault Markie got sick.”
“But you could remedy it. You talk about country ways, and yet you use city ways. Some fancy woman talks you into a lawsuit, but you haven’t looked the man up. I mean the guy who dumped the poison.”
“Ridlon’s his name.”
“Yeah, him. Would Hoot Berry take it lying down.”
Momma stepped between them. “Stop it, Leighton! You don’t know what you’re saying. Stop it! Just stop it!”
It was too late for that. To hell with the money, to hell with it. His heart was pounding in his chest like an engine skipping a cylinder, and he couldn’t stop himself now. “Carl Nelson’s father gave me a ride up here from town. I remember when Carl got hit by a car and the man had no insurance and no money, Carl’s daddy did things the country way. He beat the shit out that guy. And you? You take it lying down.”
“Okay,” Momma said. “I’ve heard enough. I know you’re bitter. You’ve had a hard life, just like all of us have.” Her eyes flashed and she spoke in a very angry tone. “But you’re blaming your father for poverty and nothing more. It’s not his fault. It’s not the fault of any of us that we’re poor. Your father is the best man with a saw and a tree in the area, but the work is not steady. We come from farming folk and now you just can’t make a living farming. That’s why we’re poor and that’s why we could never give you the things others kids got. We wanted to, but we couldn’t. But to blame your father…”
Her anger stung him and he wanted to defend himself. “But Dad’s a—”
But she cut him off. “Your father’s a shy man. It’s his nature. You want him to be someone he isn’t, and that too isn’t fair. You should apologize to your father. Heaven knows I love you, but right now the way you’re behaving makes me ashamed of you. I know you’re better than that. I hope when you have time to think, you’ll be ashamed. Now what do you have to say for yourself?”
He thought for a moment. He’d been a fool and let his hatred get away from him. Maybe, even probably, he’d lost any chance to get a cut of the money. But he felt abused and strangely proud at the same time for saying what he felt. So he knew what he was doing when he said, “I can’t apologize for telling the truth. I think, then, I’d better leave.”
“Wait a minute, Leighton,” Malcolm said. “I can give you a ride after supper.”
“That’s okay, little brother. I’ll get home the same way I came without your help.”
Then he walked out of the house without looking back.
Alles Vergängliche Ist Nur ein Gleichnis