Comanche

by Brett Riley

  LeBlanc turned into Thornapple’s driveway. They disembarked and entered the unlocked house that already smelled stale and masculine and strangled. Then they went to their separate rooms and packed. LeBlanc and McDowell entered the same room together. Raymond watched them go. He smiled and nodded. And then, because his obligations had been met and his hand ached like hell, he went into his room and took a pill.

  Rennie sat beside C.W.’s bed, reading a Larry McMurtry novel. Will was nowhere in sight, but then, it was a school day. A Tuesday, if Raymond were not mistaken. Now that his father had stabilized, Will would be back in class, where he could resume his life as if the ghost of a vicious gunfighter had not tried to murder him. Rennie stood when Raymond, LeBlanc, and McDowell entered. She hugged their necks and kissed Raymond on the cheek. C.W. was awake and watching Raymond as they moved about the room. He looked pale and drawn, dehydrated, malnourished. An oxygen tube was taped to his nose. He locked eyes with Raymond, but there was no anger there, no hatred. Nothing that suggested forgiveness or gratitude either, but it was better than open hostility.

  Raymond squeezed his shoulder. Hang in there, he said.

  Roark nodded.

  Doctors want him to keep his mouth shut, Rennie said. I told ’em good luck.

  Roark smiled.

  McDowell sat in a chair beside the mayor’s bed and talked to him, her voice soothing and somnambulant. LeBlanc squatted on his heels beside her. After a moment, Roark’s eyes fluttered.

  If I had known her when Marie died, it would have been easier. But Betsy would have paid for it when all my anger—at Marie for dyin, at God for lettin her, at myself for livin—burst out of me like pus.

  That was what she did, though. McDowell took on other people’s pain. She was one of the strongest people he had ever known. She would want to help them leave the Dead House in the past, and they would probably let her, even if it hurt her. What did that say about them?

  Sometimes self-awareness sucked ass.

  Raymond and Rennie stood near the door, speaking in whispers. She nodded at his hand.

  You get that taken care of first thing.

  I will. How’s C.W.?

  Rennie looked back at her husband. Better. Especially knowin the Pow Wow’s gonna happen. So far, nobody’s gone to the press with any crazy stories about a ghost.

  What about them folks who saw C.W. get shot? I figured somebody would have filmed it and put it on the Internet.

  There’s half a dozen videos. I’ve watched ’em all. They show you and C.W. yellin at each other, and then all hell breaks loose. Lotta nice shots of people runnin around half crazy and cars not startin. But not one trace of a ghost. From the comments I read, most people seem to think you were rehearsin a movie scene. One kid said he thought it would be great once they added in the special effects.

  I reckon that’s good.

  As for the folks who saw what happened to the Harveston girl and John Wayne, nobody believed ’em in the first place.

  So the local situation’s handled.

  Even the Warrior-Tribune didn’t mention anything weird. Ran Joyce Johnstone’s and Adam Garner’s obituaries and a story about a burnin storage building. I guess Red didn’t have the heart to write the truth, or else he saw the sense in lettin it lie.

  Well, you know people. When they don’t know the truth, they make up a story that fits what they already think.

  I wish I didn’t know the truth.

  Raymond looked at the floor. I’m sorry we didn’t do better. We came here to save folks and lost more than half of ’em.

  Rennie made a go-along-with-you gesture. You saved folks, too: C.W. Will. Red Thornapple. Sue McCorkle and her kids. God knows who else that thing might have gone after.

  That percentage would be good if we were playin baseball. But we ain’t. It’s enough to drive a man to drink.

  She squeezed his arm. We all did the best we could. Because of you, my boy gets to grow up. C.W.’s gonna see his old age. And Red Thornapple will grieve and get on with his life. If you let this send you back to the bottle, I’ll tan your hide.

  He smiled. But he felt like crying.

  C.W. Roark, McDowell, and LeBlanc sat in a patch of slanted sunlight coming in through the open blinds. McDowell and LeBlanc held hands.

  Look at those teenagers, Raymond said.

  They’re happy, Rennie said. That’s good. Too much misery in the world as it is.

  Yes, ma’am. There sure is.

  I love you, Raymond.

  I love you, too.

  Chapter Thirty

  September 20, 2016, Afternoon—Comanche, Texas

  Raymond leaned against Will’s truck in the Comanche High parking lot. Kids passed and whispered to each other, grinned in an embarrassed way, snapped photos with their phones in ways they probably thought subtle. They all knew what had happened: Will’s drunken P.I. uncle had ridden into town, shot up a diner, and then burned the whole place down. It must have seemed like they had missed an action movie.

  Let ’em gawk. I’m just leanin against a truck.

  Will approached, walking alone, the fingers of both hands tucked into his front jeans pockets. He wore his football jersey, number seventy-six—a defensive end, if Raymond remembered correctly. It had been so long since he and Rennie had spoken of such things. When the boy saw him, he raised his chin in greeting. Raymond nodded. Will leaned against the chassis near Raymond. Together they watched the other kids drive away, honking at each other, shouting across the lot.

  All this shit seems silly, Will said.

  Raymond picked at some dried mud caked at hip level. I reckon seein your father shot puts things into perspective.

  I guess. What’s up?

  We’re leavin tomorrow. I know you’re busy, what with school and the hospital, so I thought I’d swing by. In case we don’t get another chance.

  Chance for what?

  To talk. Or drive around with the radio turned up too loud. Or whatever you’d like.

  Will shrugged. I don’t know what I’d like.

  A white extended-cab Chevy blared by, too fast, its ear-splitting pipes blatting louder than half a dozen industrial machines running full-bore. Will waved. Somebody’s arm snaked out the window and gave them the finger. Will laughed.

  Maybe you like duallys, Raymond said.

  Will took out his phone and played with it. Naw. Not really.

  Well, what do you do these days? Last we spent much time together, you was catchin up on Harry Potter and Star Wars.

  I watch a lot of Longhorns ball games. Momma keeps askin me who I’m datin. I keep tellin her nobody. She don’t believe me.

  Mommas are born suspicious. It’s what keeps us alive long enough to grow up.

  The boy laughed again. Sweat trickled from his hairline. He wiped it away. Soon the breeze would grow cooler. The leaves would turn brown and fall, covering yards all over America. The grass would die. The air would turn bitter and sharp, and rains would freeze into sleet or snow, and the world would turn and turn.

  Well, anyway, Will said.

  Raymond pushed himself off the truck and kicked a rock. Look. When your aunt Marie died, I was a mess. You wouldn’t have wanted to hang out with me.

  Will brushed a lock of hair from his eye. And now?

  I’m still a mess. But a little less so, I hope.

  Seems like you made a couple new friends. Maybe between them and Darrell you’ll make it.

  That’s the plan. And when you’re ready, I’d like to catch up. Come over here and go fishin, like we used to.

  Or I could come see you. I ain’t been to New Orleans in years, and I’m almost old enough to do all the fun stuff.

  Raymond smiled. I’d like that. If you’re serious.

  The boy looked at the ground. Maybe. After graduation, though. If you’re s
till okay.

  I’ll make up the spare room.

  They stood for a while, each looking toward nothing in particular. More traffic on the road. A faint siren. Birdsong, and the buzzing of some insect. Soon Raymond would have to get back in his rental and drive out to the Thornapple place, right into the teeth of Red’s grief and all that quiet. For now, though, he stood beside his nephew, who was almost a man, and listened to life’s score swelling and ebbing, swelling and ebbing. The days were still warm, the sun bright, and so much seemed possible.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  September 21, 2016—Dallas, Texas

  Twenty-four hours later, they waited for takeoff on their Delta flight, the rental cars returned, their luggage checked. Raymond and Frost sat together on the right, LeBlanc and McDowell on the left—she at the window seat, he on the aisle. Frost was already asleep, head against the window. Raymond bought them all earbuds, even though the flight to New Orleans would take less than an hour. Tireder than ever, hand throbbing, he wanted a drink. Vodka or bourbon or whiskey, something strong. Instead, a Percocet would have to do once they reached cruising altitude. And in New Orleans, he would hand the pills to LeBlanc or McDowell. From now on, he would look life in the eye, no matter how much it hurt.

  His broken wedding band lay ensconced in his suitcase. Unwearable, unless he followed McDowell’s advice and melted it down, recast it, transformed it. But what could it ever really be, if not itself?

  The plane taxied and trundled down the runway and lifted into the air, Raymond’s balls shrinking even as his stomach flip-flopped as it always did during takeoffs and landings. McDowell had taken LeBlanc’s hand again. She looked straight ahead and yawned. As if it were contagious, Raymond yawned, too. Soon the plane would land in New Orleans. His bed would still be half empty, the other pillow still cool, Marie’s side of the closet as bare as an oak in winter. But maybe he could stand the silence now. Perhaps he would tell Marie about Bob Bradley and Joyce Johnstone or the ones who had lived. Perhaps one day soon, he could bring himself to speak with God.

  He plugged in his earbuds and put them on and waited. When they reached cruising altitude, he would turn on a radio station, jazz if he could find it, and syncopate all the way home.

  Acknowledgments

  No book is written alone. I’d like to thank my wife, Kalene Westmoreland, for her love, her unwavering support, her reading every draft of this book and making helpful suggestions, and her ability to put up with me, even when I’m at my worst. I truly do not deserve her.

  Thanks to my children—Shauna, Brendan, Maya, and John—for never making me feel guilty when I lock myself in my office and write.

  Thanks to our fur-babies—Cookie, Tora, Nilla—for soothing my soul in its darkest night.

  To my friends and colleagues, thank you for believing in me.

  To Vicki Adang, my editor on this project--thanks for both indulging my eccentricities and pushing me to make this book better.

  To Megan Edwards and Mark Sedenquist of Imbrifex Books, thank you for believing in this story. Your passion and professionalism are models to which the publishing world should aspire.

  Finally, to every single person who reads this book, thank you. I’m honored you chose to make my story a part of your life. I hope you liked it.

  About the Author

  Brett Riley is professor of literature, creative writing, and composition at the College of Southern Nevada. He grew up in southeastern Arkansas and earned his Ph.D. in contemporary American fiction and film at Louisiana State University. Riley’s short fiction has appeared in numerous publications including Folio, The Wisconsin Review, and The Baltimore Review. The winner of numerous awards for screenwriting, Riley lives in Las Vegas with his wife, daughters, and Cookie McSnowshoe, their beautiful and slightly silly cat. Comanche is his first novel. Riley is online at http://officialbrettriley.com. Follow him on Twitter @brettwrites and Facebook @BrettRileyAuthor.

  Reader’s Guide Questions: Comanche

  The book is set in two locations: Comanche, Texas, and New Orleans, Louisiana. Based on how these locations are characterized in the text, how might we compare and contrast them? What can we learn about each town from this comparison?

  The three Turner Agency characters come from a big city with a specific cultural heritage. To what extent does this background contribute to the various conflicts with the characters from small-town Texas?

  How does the legend of the Piney Woods Kid conform to American myths about the Old West? How does it revise or resist those myths?

  Raymond Turner is an alcoholic who also struggles with using prescription medication, yet he refuses treatment. Does this narrative situation reflect one manifestation of real-world addiction? To what extent do Raymond’s friends and family help him? To what extent do they enable him?

  Raymond belongs to two kinds of families—the one he was born into and the one he makes with Betsy, Darrell, and Jacob. Discuss what this suggests about the nature of familial love.

  Comanche has been labeled literary fiction, horror, thriller, and even mystery. How would you categorize the book—in one of the above categories? As a hybrid? Something else? Explain.

  On one level, this book is about being haunted, but not all ghosts are literal. Discuss the different ways people are haunted in this book. How do they deal with their ghosts?

  To what extent are the women in the book strong and independent? In what ways do they conform to traditional gender roles? Can Comanche be read as a feminist text?

  Comanche is a violent book. Do the plot and character arcs justify the violence?

  How might we describe the ending—happy? Sad? Melancholy? Discuss.

  James Joyce, Cormac McCarthy, Junot Diaz, and Charles Frazier are all authors who, like Brett Riley, have written novels without the use of quotation marks in dialogue. What effect does this stylistic choice have on the reader’s experience?