by Jones, Brent
Rocco stopped at a red light, gestured toward a Super 8 on his left. “Let’s turn in here tonight.”
Brennan looked up for the first time in hours, examined the hotel from the backseat. It occupied two three-story buildings on Cleveland Street, and the one closest to the road had new shingles and siding piled next to its entrance. A sign announced it was open during renovations. “Works for me,” he said.
“Is that what I think it is?” asked Franky, pointing to the establishment opposite the hotel. The sign above its door read Moby’s Casino in giant letters. “Who’s feeling lucky?”
“Looks like an old house or an all-day breakfast place,” said Brennan.
“Says it’s a casino. We should check it out later. Might be fun.”
“No, thanks,” said Rocco. “If I’m gonna blow all my money in one night, I at least wanna remember getting a lap dance.”
“Think you’re on your own, Franky.”
Franky waited for the light to turn green, asked, “What’s the difference between a Motel 6 and a Super 8?”
“The size of the bed bugs,” Brennan muttered.
The car made easy work of the steep hills and sharp turns, a winding ascent toward Keystone. As they got closer, family restaurants, lodges—designed to look like rustic log cabins—and gift shops lined the road. After another sharp turn—where a mountain goat was scaling steep rock—Mount Rushmore appeared in the distance. A designated viewing area at the side of the road was filled with tourists armed with cameras and binoculars.
“Should we jump out here and have a look?” asked Franky.
“Let’s see if we can get a bit closer,” said Rocco. “There’s supposed to be an observation deck or a park or something just a bit farther up.”
A young woman greeted them at the main entrance a moment later. “Good afternoon, everybody!” Her speech was fast, loud, sharp, and her face was stretched into a wide and unnatural smile.
Rocco handed her ten dollars. “Here you are, miss.”
“Would you like to buy an annual pass instead?” she asked.
Rocco narrowed his eyes. “For what?”
“You can come back anytime this year and park without having to pay again.”
“That’s a big seller, is it, miss?”
She nodded, flashed another wide smile.
“A lot of people come back and see this thing twice in one year?”
She nodded again, this time with more force.
“Even though they can see it from the side of the road without spending a dime?”
If she bobbed her head any faster, Brennan thought it might fall off.
“I think the day pass’ll be fine, miss. Thank you.”
After parking, they walked toward the lookout area with Fender, despite signs warning that pets were prohibited. The stone corridor was flanked by every state’s flag. “Guys, help me find New York,” said Franky. “It’s gotta be here somewhere.”
“We’re good,” said Rocco.
The grounds were packed with visitors marveling at the distant batholith, four dead presidents carved in rock. Tourists took photos from every conceivable angle, but Brennan couldn’t be bothered. “Haven’t these people seen this thing before?” he asked. “Like in movies and magazines? I mean, there’s gotta be thousands of photos of it on the int—” He looked left and right and realized his friends had joined the masses of people taking pictures.
“How the hell’d they get up there?” asked Franky, as awestruck as the other tourists. “The workers, I mean.”
“The answer’s probably somewhere around here,” said Rocco. He took a photo with his phone, stepped back, shielded the screen from the sun to view it, shrugged. “Something like two million folks a year come out to see this thing, if you can believe it. I’m just trying to figure out why. That peppy white girl on the way in said some people come here twice. Twice in a single year.”
“It’s kind of a big deal,” said Franky. “I think so, anyway.”
“Two of these guys were slave owners,” said Brennan, rejoining his friends. “Did you guys know that?”
“He’s right.” Rocco pointed to Washington and Jefferson. “Don’t see that on any of the signs, do you? God bless America.”
“I thought Washington freed the slaves,” said Franky, pointing to Roosevelt.
“Nope,” said Rocco. He moved Franky’s finger to the right. “Lincoln freed the slaves. Not that he gave a shit about African Americans. He was a proponent of the three-fifths clause, you know.”
Franky blinked, his face vacant. “Three-fifths of what?”
“Gentlemen, there’s no dogs allowed past the parking lot.” A stocky woman in a uniform approached, scowling.
“How come?” Brennan asked. He glanced at Fender, who was sitting at his feet, panting, tongue sticking out.
“I don’t make the rules,” she said. “But you need to get that dog out of here.”
“He’s not causing any trouble, ma’am.”
“Now,” she said. “I’m not going to tell you again.”
“Fine,” Brennan said. “I’ll take him back to the car.”
“It’s eighty damn degrees, Bee. You can’t leave him in the car.”
The woman put her hands on her large hips and tapped her foot.
“I’ll take him,” Franky said. “You guys go on ahead. I’m not real big on history anyway. Just wanted to see this big bitch up close.” He took the leash from Brennan. “We’ll see you guys in a bit.”
The official stood in place and waited for Franky and Fender to disappear before returning indoors. Rocco and Brennan followed her, entering The Lincoln Borglum Museum. It housed information on the four presidents and their sculptors, artifacts and American history—maps, images, and placards full of text—behind panes of glass.
Rocco and Brennan walked up one aisle and down the next. “You finding any of this stuff interesting?” Rocco asked.
Brennan paused to read something. “Well, says here ninety percent of the heads were carved with dynamite.”
“That so?”
“Yeah, I think that’s kinda interesting. It only takes a few sticks of dynamite to make history.”
“Does it mention that Borglum was a member of the Ku Klux Klan?”
“I—no, I don’t think so. You, ah, sure you wanna be here? We can go. I don’t mind.”
“It just gets to me sometimes, that’s all.” Rocco pointed to an exhibit. “Look here, for instance. The story of how America was stolen from the Indians.” He gestured toward another, “And how we slaughtered Mexicans and stole their shit, too. Not to mention we built a goddamn empire off the sweat and tears of blacks. And we put these stories on display like they’re something to be proud of.”
“Never heard you talk like that before.” Brennan was quick to add, “Not that you’re wrong about any of it.”
“Things are different now.” He turned to face Brennan. “Got Harlem to think about. He’s at that age where he’s curious ’bout how the world works. They start indoctrinating ’em young now, you know. They teach ’em all of that land of the free, home of the brave bullshit, and get ’em to recite it in school until they believe it.”
An elderly Caucasian couple wearing matching Make America Great Again hats passed Rocco as he said it. Their wrinkled faces exchanged disgusted looks—his jaw dropped, her eyebrows raised—and they livened their pace.
Brennan frowned, stared off in the distance. “Guess I don’t have to worry about that kinda thing anymore.”
Rocco furrowed his brow, cursed himself under his breath. “Sorry. That was—”
“No harm done, Rocco. It’s fine.”
He nodded. “And just to be clear, I wouldn’t wanna live no place else. I thank God America’s my home today. But it seems to me we oughtta be a little more transparent about our history.”
“Shouldn’t we all.” It occurred to Brennan that history was often subjective. He had no clear memory of the suicidal thoughts he�
�d had in his early twenties—nothing specific at least. All he knew was that Fender helped him through it, and his mind filled in the blanks while he slept. “I guess we all tell ourselves the best version of our own history, don’t we? I mean, ever talked to a guy about the biggest fish he ever caught?”
“Good point.”
They finished their tour of the museum, ignoring the film playing on repeat at its far end—The Shrine, it was called—and arrived in an expansive gift shop. “It’s damn near the same size as the museum. Like a Costco of souvenirs,” said Brennan. “And I bet half this shit’s made in China. You gonna get something for Harlem?”
“I’ll take a look around for something, yeah.”
“Even though you’re worried about the message it’s sending?”
“Who knows?” Rocco said with a sigh. “Maybe the United States really is the greatest country in the world.”
The two men headed in opposite directions, looking around with mild interest. Brennan passed mugs featuring an image of Mount Rushmore, pens decorated with stars and stripes, a pile of mouse pads with the words I Love Mount Rushmore in black, a red heart in place of the word love. Brennan stopped at a rack of friendship bracelets, ran his fingertips across them, entertained the idea of purchasing a matching set of three.
“Check this out.” Rocco said, creeping up behind him. He had a tee shirt tucked under his arm, and held out a pink tiara. “Abby woulda loved this.” It was made of plastic and had the words South Dakota Princess in gold cursive font across the front. “Let me get it for her and you can hold on to it.”
Brennan nodded, grateful for the gesture, unsure what he would do with it. “Thank you.”
“You were Abby’s hero, ya know. She was always talking ’bout how you made her laugh. The funny faces you make and how you kept all her little friends in stitches.”
Brennan thought back to the last slumber party he and Rosie had hosted for Abby. She had had three friends over from school that night, and Rosie had helped them paint their nails. After some pleading, she agreed to paint their faces, too, to look just like jungle cats.
They had begged Brennan to tell them stories before bed, and he agreed, inventing a tale about four wild animals—a baboon, a snake, a toucan, and a sassy purple elephant. He made faces as he invented their lines, conjuring different voices for each character, outlining their journey toward the mythical Sugar Rush atop Candy Crush Mountain. The girls had stayed up until the wee hours of the morning, trying to mimic the voices he had done.
His lip began to tremble, and he realized Rocco was watching him. He reached for his wedding band. “Yeah, well, I’ve got no one to make up stories for anymore.”
“But you’re still the same guy, Bee. And you’re a good guy, at that. I know it’s hard right now, but you’ve gotta find some good in the world. It’s who you are.”
“Like the way you found good in Mount Rushmore?” It sounded sarcastic as Brennan said it, and he wished he had chosen his words more carefully. “Sorry, Rocco, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine. Look, bottom line? You’ve got to find the good everywhere you can. Hell, you created good in the world. Abby’s proof of that. And you’ll find good again, I promise. Just don’t lose sight of that, ’kay? Don’t lose hope.”
* * *
Night had fallen and Brennan walked Fender outside the Super 8. They moved at a slow pace, Fender sticking close to Brennan’s side. The wind was gentle and warm, comforting, and Brennan breathed out a long puff of smoke before pitching the butt in some tall grass. Fender strayed a few feet from Brennan with his nose to the ground, sniffing.
“You searching for clues, little buddy?” He gripped the leash tighter, holding on as if Fender was all that still made sense in the world. “Trying to figure out what we’re doing out here?”
Tomorrow they would arrive somewhere in Montana, and the following day, Seattle. The West Coast and all its unknown glory was drawing nearer. But he dreaded the thought of pushing farther west, and decided he would head back to the room in a moment in search of a drink.
“Do you miss home, little buddy?” He spoke softly to Fender, who traipsed through the grass, inspecting each blade with care. “Not that there’s anything waiting for us back home.” He stared up at the clear black sky filled with pinpricks of white. “I guess that’s what we’re all really looking for . . . the place our broken hearts belong.”
Rocco came jogging up behind them. “Enjoying the night?”
“Trying to,” Brennan replied. “Franky still at the casino?”
“Yeah, I think so. Peeked in earlier. Don’t look like much in there but a few slot machines. Clean though.” He glanced up at the Super 8, wrinkled his forehead. “Which is more than I can say about this place. Sorry we couldn’t take you to nicer spots, Bee.”
“You guys took time off work to take me across the country. Both of you. And you did it for me.” Expressing his gratitude out loud caused Brennan to actually feel it for the first time. “And you’re apologizing?”
“You’ve picked up some of the meals and gas, Bee. It’s not like we’re doing this all ourselves.”
“I can afford it.” He regretted saying it at once, and lowered his eyes to the ground.
“Not the point. We didn’t want to put you out at all, but, uh . . .” Rocco trailed off, glancing at his Lexus in the parking lot. “Things are a little tight. That’s all.” He scratched the back of his head.
“The only time you scratch your head like that is when you’re hiding something.”
“I got nothin’ to hide, Bee.”
“C’mon. It’s your tell. You’d make a shit poker player.”
He grinned. “That’s why I stay out of casinos.”
“So what is it?”
Rocco saw no way out of offering an explanation. He exhaled and said, “Car’s getting repossessed when we get back.”
“What? Why?”
“Fell behind, Bee. That’s all. Putting Harlem in Grover Cleveland cost an arm and a leg. Crystal’s working only part-time at the store right now, and . . .”
“And you took me on this trip.”
“It’s nothing, Bee. It’s what me and Franky wanted to do. You’re family and family comes first.” Rocco, sounding less confident, added, “And it’s just a car.”
“But you love that car.” He thought back to the day Rocco had first brought it by the house, brand new, beaming with pride, as though it were proof he had defeated poverty.
“All the more reason to drive it across the country. Give it one final mission.”
Rocco gave the back of his head another scratch—not even aware he was doing it—and Brennan was about to persist that there was more, but shouting pulled their attention across the road.
Franky was leaving Moby’s, an old man following behind him. “Thasss my money, ya fuck!” The old man slurred, his voice a dry rasp, and shook his fist.
Brennan fought to see through the darkness, dim streetlights glowing on the man’s thick and greasy hair. He had dark stubble and skin that resembled rawhide, cracked and weathered. The man was a few inches shorter than Franky, much thinner, and looked too unstable to be threatening.
“Giffit back, ya fuck!” His shouts were getting louder, shakier, more pathetic than menacing. “Giffit back!”
Franky got a few paces ahead of him. “It ain’t your money, motherfucker,” he growled over his shoulder, nearing the edge of the road. “I won it fair and square.”
“I wuzz on ’at slot all fucking night ’fore you came innn,” the man insisted. “Put every fucking cent I had in err and now I ain’t got fucking nuffin left.”
Franky started across the road.
“Ya got no reshpect, boy, ya fuck. Yer fucking daddy shoulda laid a poundin’ to ya. Taaaught ya to do right.”
Brennan froze. He knew the man had gone too far.
Rocco cupped his hands around his mouth. “It’s not worth another assault charge, Franky! Forget about ’im. Ju
st let it go.”
Franky spun around, eyes wide, face flushed red, breath quickening. He grabbed the man by the collar. “If ya think I owe ya something, step your ass up and get it.” He stood still and waited for a response, statuesque and intimidating.
The old man raised trembling fists, and that was all the provocation it took. Franky cocked his hand, released a right hook and—whaaap—the man toppled, clutching at his jaw. Franky was on him in a heartbeat, pinning him to the ground, feeding him crosses—left, right, left, right—bellowing war cries with each blow.
Rocco dashed across Cleveland Street, Brennan and Fender in pursuit. Rocco grasped at Franky, strained, tugged, but his considerable mass didn’t budge. Franky had grown a full two inches in stature and thick veins popped on his fat neck. Brennan joined in restraining him, and it took their combined efforts to pull him off.
The man groaned and rolled his head to the side, panting, his face streaked with crimson and his eyes beginning to swell shut. His hands twitched at his sides as he battled to remain conscious.
“We even now, you old bastard? Or do I owe ya s’more?”
“Franky,” Rocco hissed. “Shut the fuck up and let’s get outta here.”
“I can’t hear you, old man,” Franky shouted. “Want some more, asshole? I can’t hear you.”
Brennan glanced in all directions. The casino door was sealed tight and no one was looking out the windows. The hotel across the road looked dark and uninhabited. No cars had passed. Brennan released his grip on Franky and Rocco dragged him back toward the Super 8 on his own.
Brennan knelt down. “You shouldn’t have picked a fight with him.” He pulled off his shirt and handed it to man. “Wipe off your face. You need an ambulance?”
Rocco called from across the road, “Get Fender and get out of there, Bee!” He disappeared with Franky through the hotel’s side door.
Brennan realized he had lost his grip on the leash, and Fender was sniffing at some nearby trash. He grabbed the leash and crossed the road, looking back as the old man rose from the pavement an inch at a time. “You gonna find your way home all right?”