Coal Run

by Tawni O'Dell

  I thought better of it, and now, standing here face-to-face with Reese, I’m glad the boy isn’t anywhere near here. He should be back to school by now, safe and sound in his dorm room or apartment, maybe hanging out with some friends, maybe studying. I didn’t ask him if he has a girlfriend. He probably has a girlfriend. He probably has a bunch. He’s a good-looking kid. No, he could have a bunch, but I got the impression he’s a little on the shy side. He’s probably trying to get up the nerve to ask out a girl he’s crazy about, but every time he’s around her, he makes an idiot of himself.

  “Jess told me you just moved back here last year,” Reese says to me while he bends down and picks up the lid off the floor and puts it back on top of the barrel of chips. “That makes you kind of fucked up, don’t you think? Far as I know, people leave here and people stay here, but they never do both.”

  Does he know? I wonder. Did he marry Crystal thinking John was his son, or did he always know he was someone else’s?

  Jess knew, or had he only previously suspected? I didn’t ask him. By the time I finished watching John walk to his car and finished watching the car pull safely out of the parking lot onto the road and drive away in the direction it should have been going, Jess and Danny were gone, too.

  If Jess always knew, did he send the clipping?

  One thing I’m sure of: If Reese does know he wasn’t John’s real father, he doesn’t suspect that I am. That’s the kind of history between two men that he would feel compelled to address.

  “So you’ve seen Jess today?”

  “Yeah, I’m supposed to be staying there.” He snorts something close to a laugh. “But I’m reconsidering. Things were calmer in prison. More quiet and less violent.”

  He snorts again. I get a sick feeling in my stomach. I can’t believe it. I can’t believe Jess is at it again.

  “He’s your brother,” I say coldly.

  “Yeah, I know he’s my brother. What do you want me to do about it? He’s crazy about her. She’s got a nice ass and nice rusty brown hair but, shit, so do his beagles. He can’t see how fucked up she is.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What the hell have we been talking about? The way she smacked her kid. The little guy. You know him? I think she broke his little nose. It’s all swollen up, and his whole fucking face is one big bruise.”

  The sick feeling remains, but the reason behind it changes.

  “What makes you think Bobbie did it?”

  “I heard them talking about it. Her and Jess. Something about him telling someone he hit the kid so people wouldn’t think she did it and her thinking he was a great guy for doing that, but she didn’t want people to think something bad about him. It started out nice, then she was crying, then they got in a whup-ass fight, and the little guy went and hid in the truck.”

  He begins stacking as many barrels of chips as possible on the one he already has.

  “I don’t suppose you’d help me carry some of these out to my car?”

  “No,” I answer him.

  “Hey, Mom,” he calls out to Edna. “Come help me take some of these out to my car.”

  She blinks at the absurdity of his request.

  “In case you didn’t notice,” she says back to him, shooting a stern look over the long line of heading-home-after-work customers waiting to pay for their gas, snack cakes, and cigarettes, “I’m working.”

  The fact that he beat his wife into a coma, murdered a man, spent most of his adult life in jail, and is about to walk out of a store with a bunch of stolen foodstuffs that she’ll end up paying for out of her meager paycheck are things she apparently just accepts in her son, but his disrespect for an honest job is something she won’t.

  “All right, then,” he says to her. “Good seeing ya again, Mom. Shame you’re not a widow yet, but don’t give up hope. It’ll happen someday.”

  He turns his back to me and starts heading toward the door, the stack of chip barrels leaning against his chest and reaching to the top of his head. He’s having a hard time seeing around them, so he’s moving at a shuffle. A little kid breaks ranks with his mother and sister waiting in line and runs over to open the door for him. It’s hard to be afraid of him right now.

  “He never forgave Chimp for not going to work that day,” Edna says to me when I finally arrive in front of her cash register.

  It takes me a moment to understand what inspired her comment, until I remember what Reese said on his way out.

  “Chimp hated him for thinking that way, even though he knew he was right. Things were never the same between them after that. They were always at each other.”

  She rings up my charge at the pump outside and my can of root beer.

  “I’ve often thought if Chimp had died with his shift like he was supposed to, both my boys would’ve turned out fine. That’s twenty-three fifty-four.”

  I think I understand what she means: A dead father you respect can be better than a living one you don’t.

  I pull out my wallet and hand her three tens.

  “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for what you did for Rick and Bethany the other day,” she says as she pops open her cash drawer.

  “I didn’t really do anything, unless you mean I didn’t arrest him. He was having a bad day. That’s all. No reason to ruin the rest of his life because he had a moment of poor judgment.”

  “I meant signing the football. He built it a little stand and they put it on top of their TV. They’re real proud of it.”

  She gives me my change, pats my hand, and slips me a couple free Slim Jims.

  17

  I DON’T LIKE TO PLAN GETTING DRUNK. PLANNING TO PARTY IS perfectly fine. Planning on meeting someone for a drink is great. Looking forward to a nip after a hard day’s work or a beer after a good hard mow is okay, too. But scheduling and setting aside a time to simply put as much alcohol into your system as you possibly can, with the sole intent of forgetting everything about yourself and your life so you can eventually arrive at a point where you pass out so completely you won’t even dream, is not a good thing.

  Even those of us who do it understand that we shouldn’t do it. We don’t want to do it. We know how we’re going to feel the next day. We know how we’re going to piss off, sadden, hurt, and worry people we care about. We know that the drinking won’t solve any of the problems that have led us to drink in the first place; it will only make us more incapable of solving them.

  I think back to Bobbie’s definition of hard drinkers and drunks. I’m not either. I don’t drink to help myself cope, and I don’t drink because I can’t cope. I drink because I need an addiction to replace the loss of my old one. It would have been nice if my new addiction could have been fly-fishing or stamp collecting, but the easiest, most familiar thing to reach for at the time was a bottle.

  My old addiction still plagues me. It’s been eighteen years, and I still wake up every morning with the smell of a wet practice field in my nose and the echo of a coach’s instructions in my ears. I still feel the initial anticipation of knowing I will get to play ball today. It’s what used to get me out of bed.

  People can’t seem to understand that the habit of playing football isn’t any easier to break than the habit of gambling on it. Addictions are not always to bad things.

  For the most part, people are sympathetic when they’re around someone who’s trying to kick an addiction. They will go out of their way not to smoke in front of someone who’s trying to quit smoking. To drink in front of an ex-alcoholic would be cruel. If someone is dieting, most people would never dream of sitting down in front of him and eating a hot fudge sundae. But no one thinks twice about constantly reminding an ex–football player about football.

  One of the main reasons I went to Florida and stayed there is because there was nothing there that reminded me of football. My kind of football. The only kind of football. Pennsylvania football.

  The thrill of a crisp, clear Saturday afternoon. Stepping out onto the bright gre
en field underneath a pure blue sky with the sun glinting off the silver bleacher seats before they begin to fill up with fans. The hills beyond, surrounding and keeping us, wearing their riot of fall colors, like they’ve dressed up in party clothes for the occasion. Just enough chill in the air to make you want to run. The feel of your cleats gripping the packed black earth. The rich smell of the dirt and the fragrance of the grass.

  Fans cheering, pennants whipping, brassy battle calls from the marching band, coaches bellowing, the thuds and grunts of bodies slamming. The salty taste of blood in your mouth, the gritty taste of dirt when you go down too hard. The adrenaline rush when the ball is yours. The pounding of your heart when you see the opening. The feeling in your legs that you can run forever. That you will be young forever. That no one and nothing can touch you. That you are yours and yours alone, yet you belong to all these others. The satisfaction of being good at something. The pride of having a purpose. The joy of breaking free.

  My intent is to get drunk tonight. Stinking drunk. I go straight to the State Store after the Kwik-Fill and buy two bottles of whiskey and one of rum.

  I’m on my way out the door and heading back to my truck when I hear a woman shouting. I can tell she’s not in any danger even though she’s calling for help.

  I spot her easily. She’s standing outside the entrance to the Dollar General store gesturing wildly with her arms, two full plastic bags of dollar items hanging from two fat clenched fists. She’s short and pear-shaped, with long, stringy, margarine-colored hair.

  I begin to make out what she’s squawking about. Someone stole her car.

  Ironically, I’d be more tempted to help her if I weren’t a deputy. I look back and forth between my bottles in their brown bags and the distraught woman, knowing if I walk over there wearing my uniform, I could end up spending most of the rest of the evening dealing with her and a stolen auto report, or maybe even dealing with the person who stole the car.

  I’m contemplating escape when I notice she has two kids with her. Probably around eight and five years old.

  I walk over.

  “Good evening, ma’am,” I say. “What seems to be the problem?”

  The words barely leave my mouth before she comes rushing at me. She stops right in front of me, and I take a step back. She smells the way I’m planning on smelling a couple hours from now. She starts to shout at me, and my eyes tear up from the fumes coming out of her.

  “He stole my car! That son of a bitch! Thinks he knows goddamned everything. He stole my car. I want him arrested.”

  “Who stole your car?”

  “He did.”

  She points to the nearest row of parked cars. Dr. Ed is leaning against his Impala talking on his cell phone. He acknowledges me with a wave.

  “Dr. Ed stole your car?” I ask her.

  “Yeah. And it was premeditated, too. He should go to jail longer for that, right?”

  “No one’s going to jail.”

  “I want him to go to jail!” she shouts.

  “Don’t make Dr. Ed go to jail,” her little girl says from behind her.

  “Yeah,” her little brother echoes.

  The mother turns around and snaps, “Shut up!” at them.

  Dr. Ed comes walking over.

  The sight of him coming our way makes the woman livid.

  “There he is! Arrest him!” she starts shrieking. “He stole my car!”

  “I didn’t steal it,” Dr. Ed replies calmly as he joins us. “I moved it.”

  “Same thing if I don’t know where you moved it to. That’s what stealing is. Taking something of someone else’s and moving it somewhere where they can’t find it.”

  “Did you move her car and now you won’t tell her where it is?” I ask him.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you please tell her where it is?”

  “No.”

  “See, he’s a car thief.” She sticks a finger in his face and shakes it at him. “And what’s more, he planned it. I mean, really planned it. He probably followed me into Lowe’s just to do it.”

  “I was already there when you came in,” he tells her.

  “I was in Lowe’s buying some paint,” she starts to explain to me.

  “She was in Lowe’s staggering down the paint aisle, screaming at her kids,” Dr. Ed interrupts.

  I look down at them. The girl is staring at her feet, but the little boy is nodding.

  “He sees me and comes over and starts talking to me nice as can be,” the woman starts up again. “Asking me about the kids and all. Then he asks me if he can help me check out and take the stuff to the car for me, since it’s so heavy, and then I could go ahead and take the kids and start my other shopping, and he said he’d bring the car keys back to me at the dollar store. Well, I said sure. I thought he was being nice. Never would’ve occurred to me to think my own kids’ doctor was a car thief.

  “So I give him my keys and the stuff, and then we come over here to the dollar store. He finds me and gives me my keys back. Then, when I go to get in my car, it’s gone. Just plain gone, but all the stuff we bought is sitting in the parking space.”

  “Is that what happened?” I ask Dr. Ed.

  “Are you entertaining tonight?” he asks me, glancing at my bottles.

  “Don’t try and change the subject. Is that what happened?”

  He scratches at his white crew cut.

  “Sounds like a fair description.”

  “Where’s her car?”

  “I’m not letting her drive with her kids in the car. She can barely stand up.”

  “It’s none of your goddamned business!” the woman screams at him.

  I motion him away from her, and we talk in private for a moment.

  “Why don’t you just bring her car back. Then, when she starts to drive, I’ll arrest her for DUI.”

  “I don’t want her arrested in front of her children.”

  “What the hell? Either you think this woman should be held responsible for her behavior or not.”

  “She should be held responsible, but my way is better.”

  “You being arrested instead of her is better?”

  “I called her sister. She’s a great gal. Very reliable. She’s coming to get her. What are the bottles for?” he asks me.

  I don’t answer him. I walk back to the woman.

  “Ma’am, I’ve been told that your sister is on her way here to pick up you and your children. Why don’t you just go home and have a good evening, and I’m sure Dr. Ed will return your car to you tomorrow—”

  “Tomorrow?” she cries. “I want him arrested now!”

  Dr. Ed comes up beside me.

  “You better arrest me.”

  “No,” I bark at him. “I’m not going to arrest you. I’m off duty. I have things to do.”

  “I think you have to arrest me, even if you are off duty.”

  The woman puts her hands on her hips and fixes me with a glassy, drunken stare.

  “He stole my car, and I want him arrested. And if you don’t do it, I’m gonna call the sheriff.”

  Dr. Ed shrugs.

  “You better arrest me.”

  ———

  He insists on getting his doctor’s tackle box out of his car and taking it with us. We drive away together in my truck for appearance’s sake. Then I drive him to his home first and then his office and beg him to go away. He won’t budge. He talks about how that kind of woman is exactly the kind of woman who is going to show up at the station tomorrow to make sure I did what I promised I was going to do, and if it turns out that I didn’t, then she’s going to try to get me fired.

  I tell him I don’t care about being fired, but he says he won’t have it on his conscience, and that’s the end of any further arguing.

  I’m so pissed at him that I decide not to tell him what I found out about Jess and Bobbie. I don’t tell him I saw Reese either. Or that I tracked down Val. I’m punishing him for making me postpone drinking until I’m sick by not
sharing interesting information with him that he doesn’t know I have. It makes sense to me at the time.

  Pregnant Chad is the only one working when we arrive at the station. He isn’t on duty either; he’s just looking for a way to avoid his wife, who has just entered her second week of being overdue with her fourth baby.

  He doesn’t seem at all surprised or upset by the facts I lay out for him. He puts on a fresh pot of coffee, finds Dr. Ed a clean blanket, and starts pumping him for free medical advice regarding his kids’ latest coughs and earaches. I try to make my escape, but Dr. Ed insists I stay and have a cup of coffee with them before I go. Chad agrees with him. He says it’s the least I can do after arresting my own pediatrician for grand theft auto.

  “You better watch it, or you’re going to get into big trouble one of these days,” I warn Dr. Ed while he’s standing with his broad back to me, pouring coffee and digging around for some aspirin in his tackle box.

  “What kind of trouble?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Somebody’s finally going to sue you or kill you or leave a bag of flaming dog shit on your front porch.”

  He brings me a mug of coffee.

  “Drink this,” he says.

  I take it from him. It’s really shitty coffee.

  “I need to go,” I tell him.

  “Sit,” he commands, “and drink your coffee while we reminisce.”

  “Reminisce?” I groan.

  “You never got to see Ivan play, did you, Chad?”

  I start to get up.

  “Sit down,” Dr. Ed says, more forcefully this time.

  “Actually, I did get to see him play once,” Chad admits, almost shyly. “It was his senior year of high school. I had a cousin who was two years behind him. He took me to a game against Purchase Line. I was six years old.”

  He takes a seat and pulls his chair up not too far from where Dr. Ed is reclining on a cot in a cell. I drink some of my coffee.

  “I’ll never forget it,” he says to Dr. Ed. “It was the most exciting thing I’d ever done in my life. Going to a football game at night. All the lights and the people cheering and the band playing.