We Can Be Heroes

by Kyrie McCauley

  She swung it as hard as she could, but missed the first time, her vision blurry with tears that she kept pausing to wipe away furiously.

  She swung again, and it marked the smooth metal side. But it was just a scrape, a ding. It wasn’t enough. Beck got up again, heading for the back room, where Grandpa stored things they didn’t need as often. She reached for the sledgehammer that they used to tear down a wall years ago.

  She started swinging again, this time with both hands wrapped around it, putting all her force behind the movement. This time, she aimed for the name on the gun, etched into its side. Bell Firearms.

  Beck swung hard.

  A dent appeared.

  Then two, three. The barrel of the rifle caved in, but only slightly.

  It still wasn’t enough. Beck wanted them in pieces. She wanted them to be nothing.

  If Cassie’s body could be reduced to dirt and ash, then goddammit, the guns would be, too.

  She lifted the rifle and carried it to the vise grip mounted on the workbench. She tossed the weapon in and twisted the lever until it was tight. Then she reached for the sledgehammer again and aimed for the handle.

  This time she broke off a chunk, splintering the wood. She swung again, and again, and again.

  She hit the rifle as hard as she could, but the sledgehammer was heavy, and her arms were burning, and she felt it in her chest, the heaviness of it all. Losing Cass, fighting for her now. Watching their town turn against them just for wanting that loss to not be in vain. Watching them choose that company, again and again. All of it hit Beck as she swung that hammer, and it hurt, it hurt.

  Suddenly the sledgehammer weighed nothing at all.

  It had been pulled from her hands, and Beck let it go, collapsing on the oil-stained concrete floor of the garage, sobbing. Beck felt her chest heaving, trying to suck in air.

  But Grandpa was right there. He set the sledgehammer down and knelt beside her on the floor. He held her. Wrapped her up tight in his arms, grounding her to the earth, to this life she still had.

  Beck sobbed until there was nothing left in her. But Grandpa stayed.

  When she finally lifted her head, she was dizzy, exhausted. This day was never-ending.

  Grandpa helped her stand up.

  “It’s too much for anyone’s shoulders, honey,” Grandpa said. “You’ve been so strong. But this . . .” He gestured to the dented rifle, the abandoned sledgehammer. “This isn’t going to work.”

  Beck nodded. He was right. Destroying five guns wouldn’t change anything. Wouldn’t bring Cassie back, not really. Wouldn’t help her move on, either. It didn’t mean anything, except for what it meant to Beck.

  But then Grandpa reached for one of the handguns in the cabinet and put it in a long metal bin that he’d pulled out from under his bench. He went to his tool cabinet next and came back with a blowtorch.

  Beck sat on the stool. This isn’t going to work, he’d said, staring at the sledgehammer.

  Beck watched her grandpa turn on the torch. He cut through the handgun, moving slowly. He sliced through the metal, diagonally, and then went back and held the blowtorch in place, sealing off the severed ends, turning barrels and mechanisms into solid blocks of metal. The gun was beyond repair. It would never fire a bullet again.

  When he was done with that one, he reached for the rifle Beck had been working on. He gestured for Beck and handed her the blowtorch and a pair of goggles.

  He showed her where to cut. Diagonal lines at crucial places, to ensure that it was incapacitated forever.

  Beck destroyed them all, one by one. She finished and turned the blowtorch off, dropped the goggles onto the bench. Grandpa put his arm around her, staring down into the bin that now contained nothing but scraps of metal.

  “Good work, Beck,” he said, holding tight. “Proud of you, honey.”

  Beck cried again, leaning into his arm, grateful that he understood. Grateful that she wasn’t alone. Grateful to be part of his universe, right here on earth. Home.

  We Can Be Heroes

  Season 2: Episode 19

  “The Sheriff”

  [Phone recording]

  MERIT LOGAN: Sheriff Thomas, I’m surprised to hear from you again.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: I imagine you are, Ms. Logan. You’ve been creating quite a stir around here. Interrogating everyone from our deputies to the editor of the paper.

  MERIT: I’m letting you know that I’m recording this call.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: That’s fine, Ms. Logan. We’ve got nothing to hide. Listen, we’re all heartbroken over what happened to Ms. Queen in March. But you are looking for fault in what was simply a tragedy. Sometimes tragedies can’t be avoided.

  MERIT: . . . Sometimes they can.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: Well, we’ve got a lot of angry people in town. They’re saying you’re the one pushing the murals to the top of the news cycle. You’re supporting that lawsuit. You’ve got an agenda. Now we have protests happening right in our town square. Maybe it’s time to move along and ruin another town.

  [Soft laughter]

  MERIT: Well, I’m not completely done with this one yet. Sheriff, before you go, I do have one last question for you . . . why wasn’t the domestic violence clinic called in for Cassie?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: It just wasn’t that serious a case—it didn’t—it didn’t seem that serious.

  MERIT: You didn’t think Nico maybe shouldn’t have access to guns?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: That would have been an extreme response, I think, Ms. Logan.

  MERIT: Sir, were you required to attend the domestic violence trainings run by Dr. Swift from Sarah’s Place?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: I wasn’t required. I chose to attend.

  MERIT: Did Dr. Swift explain to you why the lethality assessment asks about choking, specifically?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: Oh, I can’t recall.

  MERIT: It’s because choking, or an attempt to strangle someone, is very often the penultimate act to a fatality.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: That’s right.

  MERIT: Sir, can you remind me what Cassie’s injuries were the day you visited her in the hospital?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: She had some bruising, on her arms, her shoulder . . .

  MERIT: And her throat. I’ve seen the pictures, Sheriff. And the hospital notes. Nico choked Cassie that day.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: He did, but we didn’t think—

  MERIT: Sheriff, who went with you that day, to the hospital?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: Excuse me?

  MERIT: There is a visitor log. Someone signed in with you, but it’s illegible. Who was with you that day?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: I don’t recall. Probably Deputy Everett.

  MERIT: No, he wasn’t there. I’ve already spoken with him.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: Ms. Logan, I’ve got a job to get back to now.

  MERIT: Very well, Sheriff Thomas. One last question.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: All right.

  MERIT: There was another lawsuit filed against Steven Bell eight years ago, and then withdrawn. It was a civil suit, for personal damages. Do you recall that? You were a brand-new sheriff that year.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: I do not.

  MERIT: The lawsuit alleged that Mr. Bell took advantage of a young woman—an intern with the mayor’s office. It said that Bell had “special access” to the mayor and used that access to lure this young woman into an affair. He would have been forty-four years old at the time. The young woman was seventeen.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: Oh, that. That was nonsense. It was all consensual. Inconsequential.

  [Extended silence]

  MERIT: It may seem inconsequential, but it may well come up now that Mr. Bell is facing yet another lawsuit. What happened to the young woman?

  SHERIFF THOMAS: That girl was trying to make a name for herself. It ended up not being the kind of name she wanted. Bell residents turned on her fast. Last I heard, she moved to another state. Probably to try to start fresh. She went away.

  MERIT: You mean the p
roblem went away.

  SHERIFF THOMAS: As far as we were concerned, that was the same thing.

  MERIT: Did you feel that way about Cassie Queen, too?

  [Phone call disconnects]

  MERIT LOGAN: Well, listeners, we seem to have lost our connection. Okay, well, this is a long shot, but here it goes. I want to talk to Steven Bell. Mr. Bell, I doubt you’re listening, but I know your people are. So here it is: an invitation for you to come on my podcast. You get to tell your side of the story. Tell us what happened to Cassie Queen. I promise I don’t bite, Mr. Bell.

  Mural 6

  TITLE: HELEN

  LOCATION: BELL LAKE LEVEE

  Cassie

  Beck’s grandpa dies

  with a smile on his lips

  a cheek full of tobacco

  and the sun shining

  on his face.

  Beck had said

  that they were luckier

  than most,

  they’d had time to talk

  about his last wishes,

  all those strange

  end-of-life details

  that don’t mean anything

  until they mean everything.

  They had already talked

  about his funeral:

  No.

  And his burial:

  At St. Mary’s

  next to my wife.

  And even the precise

  wording of his

  obituary:

  You just tell

  Jack O’Day

  that he wins the bet

  but I’m not paying him.

  He dies on the porch

  while Beck works in

  his mechanic shop

  and at first when she returns,

  she thinks he’s asleep.

  It is the day of the

  Bell Sunflower Festival

  and tonight is when

  Vivian and Beck planned

  to do the next mural

  in the most visible place yet.

  They would need to start early—

  start soon—

  to have enough time

  and they also needed

  the entire town

  to be distracted

  to pull it off.

  The festival was perfect.

  Bell Lake has a spillway

  like a waterfall.

  The water is fast, furious,

  but on the side is a blank

  concrete wall.

  A wall that can be seen

  from the headquarters of

  Bell Firearms.

  It is there that Beck wants

  to paint Helen—

  Helen, who started a war.

  When Beck suggested her

  for the last mural,

  Vivian said

  She’s perfect for Cassie.

  The face that launched

  ten thousand tweets.

  What does it mean

  for your body to be

  the collateral

  in a war you

  never asked for?

  I imagine it’s how Helen felt

  at the center of everything.

  Beck comes early tonight.

  The moment the sun

  touches the horizon

  she is out of the house

  and running toward me.

  Toward Betty.

  She wrenches open the door,

  and her eyes are wild

  as they search the van.

  I know she sees me

  but her gaze moves on

  still searching

  and it takes me a moment

  to realize:

  She’s looking for him.

  He’s not here.

  I tell her what she

  can see for herself.

  I say the words out loud

  because sometimes

  you need to hear it.

  Beck sinks to the ground

  and she cries like I’ve

  never seen.

  Though maybe she cried

  like this for me

  and maybe her grandpa

  held her tight.

  But I can’t hold her.

  I can hover here

  beside her.

  I can reach out my arms

  and hope that maybe

  she feels the glance

  of my touch on her shoulder,

  but it is not the same

  as wrapping your whole

  self around someone

  to keep them here,

  to keep them from

  breaking.

  The screech of tires

  draws my attention.

  Vivian.

  She barely stops the car,

  is out and running

  and falls down

  beside her

  and holds Beck

  like Beck needs

  to be held.

  It is too much.

  This loss.

  It doesn’t matter

  that she knew it was coming,

  grief leaves no room

  for reason.

  And for Beck, something else,

  something ancient,

  buried deep inside of her

  alongside her bones.

  Loneliness.

  Beck has told us

  in a million ways

  the thing she feared most,

  without ever having to

  say it out loud.

  She didn’t want

  to be alone.

  Beck, always sharp

  on her edges,

  was hard to approach

  but impossible

  to walk away from.

  I knew it

  from the first moment,

  and deep down,

  Vivian knew it, too.

  Knew they needed

  each other.

  We don’t have to go,

  says Vivian.

  But Beck uses her sleeves

  to wipe her tear-stained face.

  Of course we do, she says.

  We have to do this one.

  I want Bell to see it.

  When the sun sinks

  into the earth behind them

  I see only their dark

  silhouettes against

  an inferno sky.

  We shouldn’t have to do it—

  set ourselves on fire

  to change the way things are.

  But I think maybe

  to be a girl in this world

  sometimes you have to burn.

  Sometimes it’s how

  we light the way.

  Beck

  BECK WAS NO STRANGER TO GRIEF.

  She knew it like she knew the night sky over the farmhouse in the summer. Like she knew the flecks of green in Cassie’s blue eyes. Like she knew the twist of Vivian’s braids, or the hot spark in her eyes when she was angry.

  Like she knew the rise and fall of her grandpa’s breath when she listened for it in his doorway at night.

  Beck knew that grief could ruin her.

  So she pushed it down, down deep. She let it settle in her bones, and she told it to stay there until she had the capacity to face it.

  Tonight she had a job to do.

  Vivian had begged Beck to call this one off. She knew Beck was hurting. And Beck knew Vivian was trying to help. But the only way through it, for Beck at least, was to keep moving.

  He wasn’t waiting in the van.

  He didn’t have unfinished business.

  He was just there one moment, and gone the next.

  If she let it, that would crush her.

  Beck checked her backpack. This was a portrait, like the first one. Helen of Troy. Beck planned to do Cassie’s profile this time, looking out to the sea, to the ships on the water. Coming to save her, by laying wreckage to a city.

  They were on the far side of the lake, where the water went deepest, and where it spilled over the side of the levee, forming a thin veil
of a waterfall. On the side of the levee, though, was a thirty-foot concrete wall, shoring it all up.

  It was the perfect place. They’d been saving it for last because it was so visible. They needed the festival for coverage, distraction. And tonight they had it.

  They drove in the dark, Beck going over a mental checklist of the tools she’d packed for tonight. They couldn’t climb up the wall, so Beck would use rock-climbing ropes to rappell down it instead. It was more dangerous than anything else they’d done, but Beck didn’t care. She had to see this through.

  She hadn’t even told him.

  That was what hurt the most. She’d gotten the call days ago—she’d gotten the apprenticeship at the tattoo shop. She was going to move to the city and get an apartment. And try to be brave the way Cassie was brave. It was brave to want things for yourself. It was brave to go after them.

  Beck knew her grandpa would have been proud of that decision.

  And she never got to tell him.

  “We should wait,” Vivian said again. She wasn’t letting up tonight, even with them standing on the top of the concrete wall, looping rope around the railings. Her hands worked to string the rope-pulley system they would use to lower Beck. They’d driven an hour away to a rock-climbing store for the materials, and watched tutorials online to learn how to use them properly. “This is dangerous.”

  The levee was old. Beck never noticed how decrepit it looked before now.

  But the railings would hold her. They’d tested them.

  “So was the water tower,” Beck countered. She left the paint cans in her backpack, but put it on her front so she could reach them while she was in the air.

  “That was nothing like this. And I thought you hated heights. Why don’t we wait until—”

  “We can’t wait, V!” Beck shouted. She didn’t want to argue with her. She wasn’t changing her mind. They had to do this one. Mr. Bell was going to get away with it—with all of it—if they didn’t keep up the pressure on all fronts. The podcast. The lawsuit.

  And the murals.

  “Why not?” Vivian asked.

  “Because she’s leaving us,” Beck said. “That’s why she’s stronger, Vivian. Strong enough to leave the van. She’s going to walk into those sunflowers, and she’ll be gone for real this time.”

  “You don’t know that,” Vivian said. Beck looked up at her from her work.

  “I do. And you know it, too. This might even be the last one. And this is the only time we can do it. With everyone and their brother and the sheriff at the Sunflower Festival.”

  She saw Vivian struggle with the truth of what she was saying.