Four Letter Word

by J. Daniels

  Plus, most parties took applications once a year, and there was always a deadline.

  First of the year. I’d missed it by two months.

  Didn’t matter either way. I’d make sure he received the therapy no matter what I had to do.

  A horse neighed from inside the barn as I walked up the ramp leading to the office doorway, kicked the dirt off my shoes on the wooden post connected to the railing, and opened the door, stepping inside the tiny office space.

  Mona lifted her head at the sound of my entrance.

  She was the owner of the ranch, and the only person I dealt with when I came here. Everyone else tended to the horses or the clients, worked in the riding arena or around the ranch, or did other things that didn’t involve being inside the office.

  I only ever spoke to her about two things every few weeks, money and progress, but I spoke to her enough to know she had a heart the size of North Carolina.

  She dedicated her life to helping improve the lives of others.

  Mona was good people. Straight up.

  “Brian.” She greeted me with a smile, pushed the glasses higher up on her nose, and set down the paper she’d been reading when I stepped inside, giving me her full attention.

  “It’s good to see you,” she added, sounding hopeful.

  She wanted me to hang around and talk. I knew this. Mona always tried putting her own version of therapy on me every time I stepped in here, the “talk about your feelings” kind of therapy I wasn’t interested in, because she knew the story and, thus, felt sorry for me.

  I hated the pity.

  And like I said, I was only there to talk about two things.

  But Mona was cool so I didn’t fault her for wanting more out of me; I just never hung around long enough to give it to her.

  And I wasn’t about to start now.

  I walked to her desk, carrying the envelope with my head down, eyes not focused on anything in particular and doing this to avoid the compassionate look I knew was in hers.

  It was always there.

  “Got next round’s payment. It’s a little more than you ask for, so throw in an extra lesson or something. Whatever he wants. Maybe let him go longer on a few days if his parents are cool with that. Your call.” I dropped the envelope on the desk and lifted my head to add, “Just make sure it stays with him.”

  She placed her hand on top of the envelope. “Of course. It’ll be put into Owen’s account straightaway.”

  “Good,” I said, nodding, then tucked my hands into my pockets and watched her slide the envelope into a drawer.

  “He doing okay? Is he…improving?”

  Mona folded her hands in front of her. Her eyes grew soft and she sighed.

  I braced myself.

  “He’s enjoying it, which is the most important thing, so he doesn’t realize it’s work for him when it is. Some activities he enjoys more than others. There are things the therapist asks him to do that he struggles with, but he pushes through ’cause he wants to get to something he likes. That’s typical. Not everything is going to come easy to him. You have to remember—in the end, this is still therapy. We want everyone to have a great time on the ranch, but if it was easy, they probably wouldn’t need it. You know?”

  Again, I nodded.

  “But this isn’t a cure. I wish it was, Brian. I wish this place had the power to change everyone’s prognosis, but for kids like Owen who sustain that type of injury, we’re riding on a lot of hope here.”

  My lips pulled tight.

  I knew this. She didn’t need to tell me. I knew after speaking to people in the medical field what the outcome was likely to be for this kid, but I’d also read up on this type of therapy.

  People recovered. Miracles fucking happened. Every day they happened. After months of being on a horse, some were able to do things now that they never thought they’d be able to do, like stand unassisted or take a step, which was why I knew this was going to work.

  It had to.

  He deserved the life he was supposed to have, and this place was going to give it to him.

  “If you want, you could stick around tonight and watch him in action, maybe talk to Mr. and Mrs. Burns and—”

  I turned and headed for the door, cutting her off. Her suggestion was asinine.

  What the fuck would they do if they saw me?

  “I’ll see ya, Mona,” I said, my hand poised for the knob.

  “Brian.”

  I stopped and lowered my arm. I didn’t look behind me.

  I heard the heavy roll of wheels on carpet. I knew Mona had pushed out her chair and stood up, but again, I didn’t look back to confirm it.

  Head lowered, I kept my eyes on the door and pulled in a breath, releasing it slowly.

  “They want to know where the money is coming from,” she informed me, her voice gentle but growing louder in a way I knew she was moving closer. “They appreciate it so much, you know that, but they keep asking me, Brian. A one-time anonymous donation is one thing, that’s believable, but to have their bill paid in full every time with sometimes extra funds added to their account, it raises suspicions.”

  I finally turned my head.

  Her eyes moved to the side, avoiding mine, then came back when she added, “I know you said you didn’t want them to know, but I think they just want to show their appreciation somehow. I’m sure they wouldn’t be angry.”

  “They can never find out, Mona,” I said, my voice hard and final, my eyes burning into hers as I turned more to fully face her. “Never. They ask, you tell them you keep getting donations from local charities, church groups, or whatever the fuck you wanna come up with, I don’t care, but you are to never tell them I’m the one paying for this. That was the deal.”

  “But—”

  “They can’t know,” I growled.

  Her hand came up between us, palm out facing me. “Okay. Okay. I understand, Brian. I won’t say anything.”

  I inhaled through my nose, exhaling with my eyes pinched shut.

  “They won’t know unless you want them to know,” she added quietly, and I felt her touch on my bicep.

  It reminded me of something my mother would do. Or my sister, Jenna.

  Both of them were good women, too. Compassionate. Caring. Always wanting to take care of people.

  Mona was just being Mona. She was looking to take care of me. She thought I deserved the recognition.

  I opened my eyes.

  “Appreciate you doing this for me,” I said, watching as she pulled her hand back and adjusted her glasses again. “Sorry for using that language in front of you. That was disrespectful.”

  She stared at me. Her hands moved in front of her to clasp together.

  “No sorry necessary,” she replied, tipping her chin to the door, a light smile playing on her lips. “You better get going if you don’t want to be seen.”

  “Right.” I nodded once. “I’ll see ya in a few weeks.”

  “Okay, Brian. Take care.”

  I stepped outside, jerked the door shut behind me, then moved swiftly down the ramp, stalking across the dirt parking lot until I reached my Jeep, pulled the door open, and climbed in, starting it up.

  I would’ve taken off right then if it wasn’t for the handicapped van pulling off the road and turning into the lot, moving slowly down the small decline and parking in the space directly across from me.

  Shit.

  Fucking shit.

  I recognized that van. I had seen it in the driveway of the house I paid a visit to once a week, but this was the first time I was seeing it here.

  My hands curled around the wheel. That weight I’d been feeling for the past three months pressed its full capacity against my sternum and pinned me to the seat.

  I stared. I couldn’t move.

  I prayed to God, if he was up there, that I wouldn’t be seen.

  The driver’s side door opened, followed by the passenger door. Mr. and Mrs. Burns stepped out, both of them congregating over o
n one side of the van, smiling at each other and looking eager while sliding the back door open, Mr. Burns leaning in and pressing some mechanism on the inside to activate the lift for the wheelchair.

  He secured the chair while Mrs. Burns held her son’s hand, grinning big as he was lowered to the ground, tapping the top of his hand with excitement.

  She looked happy. They all did.

  This place was going to work.

  Fucking miracles every day.

  It would work.

  Owen maneuvered the chair himself. It was one of those powered ones, and I knew he still had some use of his hands, which enabled him to move the joystick around for direction, easing himself off the lift and onto the dirt, where he waited by the back tire.

  Some use of his hands. He didn’t have full use anymore, and from the watching I sometimes did, I knew he’d grow tired on occasion and his parents would take over.

  He didn’t seem tired right now. He was grinning and moving with ease.

  I wanted to like seeing that. Smile at it, but I couldn’t.

  I didn’t deserve to feel good about any of this.

  I watched them cross the lot and move into the barn, disappearing into the shadows.

  They never saw me.

  It was time for his lesson to begin.

  And it was time for me to get the fuck out of there.

  * * *

  I parked at the curb and grabbed a pen out of my glove box, doing what I did every time I came by here and scrawling the name on the envelope containing the remainder of what I’d earned over the past week.

  It was close to a grand. I knew that would cover a handful of bills, but it wasn’t enough.

  It was never enough.

  In-home therapy, medications, repeated doctor’s visits and specialists, hospital bills, and the monthly van payments, everything added up and hardly any of it was covered by insurance.

  I knew this because one of the girls I shot with on occasion had a sister working for the insurance carrier. She got me the answers I needed.

  It was appreciated and she knew it. Didn’t even want anything in return.

  More pity.

  I hated that.

  I gave what I needed to give to the riding center and the rest came here, direct payment for anything outstanding, and there was a lot outstanding.

  I knew this because of the bills in the mailbox stamped in red.

  The bills I’d opened and resealed.

  Overdue.

  Bastards at the HMO covered jack shit, wouldn’t even help with the cost of a ramp so the kid could get inside his own fucking house, and still wouldn’t eat a few thousand to help a family out.

  It was fucked up.

  I spent an entire Sunday morning when I knew the Burnses were at church building the one they have now. It wasn’t much, but it was better than watching someone struggle to enter their own home.

  Pride went a long way. Taking someone’s independence from them chipped away at that pride, and it was a hard fucking thing to build back up.

  Owen didn’t need to be carried anymore getting in and out of his own house.

  That was huge, and I knew it when I saw the look on his face when they got home that afternoon.

  Shock, followed by tears and embraces among the three of them.

  I knew that should feel good, giving him that, giving them that, but I couldn’t smile.

  He never would’ve needed that ramp if it wasn’t for me, so why should I feel good about any of it?

  Guilt—it’s the best thing to have. It never lets you forget when you don’t deserve to.

  I left my Jeep running after stowing the pen away, stepped out, and placed the envelope in the mailbox with the name side up.

  Owen

  Then I got back into my Jeep and took off, wondering how almost a thousand dollars in my hand could feel like nothing when placed in that mailbox, how it was never enough no matter how thick that envelope was.

  No matter how much extra I gave Mona, or how many fucking ramps I built.

  Almost a thousand dollars and it felt like absolutely nothing.

  * * *

  “Jesus Christ. I feel like I’m watching minor ball. This is ridiculous.”

  Jamie dropped the remote onto the couch and stood up, tossing the rest of his beer back and grabbing his empty plate.

  After I got back from doing the drop, we threw some steaks on the grill and ate dinner watching the Yankees slaughter the Angels 14–1.

  He was right; it was ridiculous. I’m not even sure the Angels showed up tonight.

  Jamie cut his eyes to me, holding up his bottle.

  “Want another?”

  I shook my head, picked up the remote and cut the TV off, then grabbed my plate and followed him into the kitchen, which was right off the main living room and bigger than necessary for two men who threw everything on the grill to cook.

  Everything. Even when it was raining, we rolled the grill under the deck and cooked shit out there.

  I couldn’t remember the last time either one of us turned the oven on. And we had two of them.

  Wanting to live on the water and close to Wax, Jamie and I went in together and tossed money on the beach house two years ago, not giving a shit how big the kitchen was or how many rooms the house had but only caring that it had the sickest view. You could step off the deck and hit sand.

  Life was good for Jamie. Mine had been, too, up until three months ago.

  “Got Rip Pro next weekend. Winner takes home fifteen grand.”

  I set my plate in the sink and turned to Jamie after he spoke, watching him pull another beer out of the fridge.

  “Yeah,” I stated more than asked, because I already knew Rip Pro was happening next weekend. We’d talked about it when Jamie entered it last month.

  Also already knew what the grand prize was.

  He twisted off the cap and took a swig, then tipped the bottle at me.

  “It’s yours, if you want it.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The winnings.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest.

  “Don’t want it.”

  His brows rose, and he stared at me for a couple seconds before repeating back to me, “You don’t want it,” as if my reaction was a shock to him and we didn’t have a conversation pretty damn close to the way this one was going every other minute.

  It pissed me off.

  He knew I didn’t take his money, or anyone else’s money. Cole being the other asshole good friend of mine who tried slipping me cash.

  “Come on, Dash. Seriously, what the fuck is the difference whose money it is?”

  I stepped closer.

  “You know what the difference is,” I bit out.

  He sat his beer on the counter, then turned to face me again.

  “Yeah. Some shit about how this is all on you, and it’ll always be all on you and nobody else.” He shook his head. “That’s bullshit, man. How long have we known each other? I’ll tell you how long—KinderCare. Fuckin’ diapers and shit. We’ve been best friends since we were two. We’re there for each other. Always have been. You got my back, have definitely needed you to have it on more than one occasion, never had to ask, you got it, and I got yours. Now I’m offering to help and you don’t take it? Why not?”

  The muscles in my shoulders tensed.

  “Were you there that night?” I asked, cutting to the fucking point so I could end this conversation and do what I’d been planning on doing since I drove away from that house earlier tonight, get Sydney on the phone again.

  I wanted to hear her voice. More of it. I couldn’t get this woman out of my head.

  And now I knew she’d answer.

  Jamie sighed and pushed a hand through his hair. His eyes fell.

  I kept on chasing that point, leaning in to say, “What happened that night falls on my shoulders. Not yours. Mine, and how I go about attempting to make that shit right, ’cause it’ll never be right, nothing I do coul
d ever make up for what I took away, all of that burden falls right here.” I jabbed a finger at my chest. “This is my fuckup. I eat this. Not you. That being said, you know you’re my brother and I love you, and I know you’re just trying to help me. I get that, but you can’t. Every dime is coming from me.”

  “So, what, you’re gonna fuck for money the rest of your life? Pimp yourself out until you’re dead? You planning on getting married ever, ’cause I have a feeling your future wife might have a huge fuckin’ problem with this plan.”

  “Guess I’m not getting married then,” I told him through a shrug. That was the last fucking thing I cared about.

  Jamie’s eyes lowered and lost focus. He nodded as if considering this option for himself.

  “Right. Maybe I’ll check out a bike,” he murmured, rubbing his chin. “Be pretty badass, you know? Getting a Harley?” He looked up at me and let his hand drop.

  I felt my lip curl.

  “Go for it. Your winnings can pay for that and your hospital bill when you break your neck,” I told him, reaching out to slap his shoulder, then turning and starting for the stairs.

  “Hey, I’ve ridden before,” Jamie called out behind me.

  “You’ve ridden a scooter.”

  “Same thing.”

  “No, it’s not.”

  “I’m pretty sure it’s the same concept.”

  “It isn’t.”

  I hit the stairs and started ascending.

  “It’s close,” he mumbled in the distance, causing me to shake my head as I pictured Jamie getting on a bike, starting it up, after someone showed him how to ’cause he had no idea what the fuck he was doing and having experience riding a scooter gave him jack shit experience on a bike, making it two feet, then falling over or running into something.

  I smiled, picturing that as I kept climbing.

  “You going to bed?” he called out.

  I wasn’t. I wasn’t even tired, but Jamie didn’t need to know what my real plans were right now. I had no intention of telling him or anyone else about Sydney. Ever.

  This was mine.

  When I talked to her, what I talked to her about, who she was to me, it was mine.

  So I lied, reaching the top of the stairs and yelling out a “yeah,” while tugging my phone out of my pocket.