A Better Kind of Hate

by Beau Johnson

  He knows your brother was with you when it went down.

  I’ve also seen the footage and I see the predicament you found yourself in. I’m guessing the Mexican girls in the back of the van somehow jimmy the lock from the inside. Good for them. Seriously. But I also see that Bishop’s sister has parked too close to the back of your van, the arms of the women trying to escape the only appendages coming to see the light of day. You shoulda took off is what I think you should have done, but no, you herd the sister and the mother into the van at gunpoint and now here we are, you on your couch and me in your face. Effectively, you and your brother put this entire thing in motion. You see that? Sure, the reins were taken over by the Abrum boys once the situation was brought to their attention, but you guys, you are the ones responsible for what it unleashed.

  Brings us to now, the fourth time I meet Bishop Rider. Didn’t even hear them big black boots come up behind you, did you, Richie? And yes, that object you feel is exactly what you think it is; the very same shotgun I told you about earlier. Seems to be pointing a little lower than it did on Marty Abrum, I think, perhaps into the small of your neck it looks like. You know what that means? Means your face and acrobats are about to have more than a whole lot in common. Before we paint the coffee table though…before we do I think it might be fair for you to hear about the third time Bishop Rider enters my life. I mean, in the bigger scheme of things, I can see it being pertinent to what’s about to unfold. It’s not much, not really, but sometimes not much is all you ever truly need.

  I meet Batista, Rider’s contact on the inside, and it’s here that three like-minded individuals decide to take it upon themselves to do what most in this world will not.

  Last thing, Richie: once you’ve caught up to him, tell your brother we made good on our word. His dogs, they ate like kings.

  Back to TOC

  Coffee, Tea and Me

  Looking back, I never would have guessed I could be this type of person. In my opinion, it proves the existence of God, or at least narrows the implication of him; that we do have free will. It is only because of this rationale that I carry on.

  I believe there are two types of people in this world: those who drink coffee and those who drink tea. How they drink their choice, well, that’s where most of the problems lie. From early on I’ve been a tea drinker, same as my wife. Often I would ready Cara a hot cup for when she exited the shower. She never asked me to do this—it was just something I would do.

  Cara and I met in college, she in her final year of admin, me just about to complete my bachelor’s in popular science. As they say, the sparks flew—and oh how we danced. Times change though—don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying I am adverse to such things. Quite the opposite, matter of fact, as I know it is a part of life. What I am trying to convey is that we were no more special than anyone else, and that after twelve years of marriage there are bound to be some bumps in the road.

  Bumps, yes. Mountains, no.

  “What’s wrong with Mommy?” That is Leighton. She is eight now and came four years after Cara and I became husband and wife. Except for her chin, she is a mirror to her mother, right down to the curl of her dark brown hair.

  “Mommy’s sick,” I say. Which was true, and enough to keep Cara from work and in bed for the better part of the month. We sat at the kitchen table, my daughter and I, bowls of frosted flakes in front of us both.

  “I know she’s sick,” Leighton says. “It’s just…”

  “Different?” I suggest, and suddenly recognize my daughter’s strength for what it is; that she is much smarter than I had previously thought. Deep down she knows something is off. Some part of her anyway. Keeping cool I change the subject, ask on about iCarly and the Montana girl. It works, our discussion soon turning toward school and the getting ready for it. At the bus, before she gets on, Leighton asks, “She won’t die, Daddy, will she?”

  Did I lie?

  Did I tell the truth?

  I did neither, realizing I was now more than ever the man I never thought I would become. Granted, I had been well on my way, but by not answering Leighton’s question, well, that just solidified it all together. Gelled it, actually.

  “You needn’t worry about such things,” I said, and then waved her on her way. Turning, I stopped, took in the view of our house, thought about what lay inside. She was dying, yes, and it was clearly because of me, but it was also because of her—that is what I want known most of all. Not because Cara lived the life of a naturopath, but because of what she did. She will never admit as such, not outright, and for truth I would never ask her to; this just us being us.

  Things began to turn around the time Cara began mentioning a new co-worker at the office, this new guy named Mike; my take on it anyway. After a retreat her entire floor went on was when it hit home, however; when this Mike was no longer mentioned in the stories of Cara’s day. What clinched it were the blowjobs I began waking up to not long after. I chalk this up to guilt, as this was Cara’s way. Not that I minded, there at the start, but when I really sat down to contemplate the reason for the extra attention I was receiving some mornings…

  This is when I think I began to turn, the moment and place.

  Was my tea not good enough anymore? Yes, this thought did go through my mind. So did, was it coffee she wanted now? Is that the way it was? I didn’t know, couldn’t know, and seemed to be standing beside myself, our lives together running through my mind at a gallop. I see her smiling, laughing, dancing; see her cooing, sighing, frowning. I see it all, our entire life, the good as well as the bad. This is life, I think, what everything’s all about. And then I see her drinking tea, the tea I make and leave on the counter for her to have after her shower. I do this because I love her, so she would never have to wait. I picture her dumping it then, there in the toilet, there in my mind, and this is where the coffee comes forth, my analogy of the damned. It is more than I can take, hence what I have done.

  Cara turns toward the light as I open the door. The room is dark and has begun to smell.

  “How are you feeling?” Better, she says, but her voice betrays her calm. It is because of this stubbornness that I will get away with what I have done. Her family has been here, mine as well, but Cara, God love her, will not budge, not even here, when we find ourselves at the end. It was the same thing with Leighton’s birth; that no modern medicine would touch our child’s head.

  “No. No,” I say. “Don’t try to get up.” She ignores me, stumbles, but I am far enough into the room that I catch her in time. Sitting up, I pass her the tea that I have brought. She smiles, says thanks, and sends a hand to stroke my stubbled cheek. For a moment I pause and think I hear the man I used to be; that he is protesting from somewhere very far away. The moment passes, as moments do, and then it is only Cara and I, sitting as we have come to do.

  “It’s bitter,” Cara states, her smile weak, her body weaker.

  I agree, telling her the flavor is new. What I don’t tell her is I no longer have the wherewithal to mask the taste.

  “Oolong-almond? Who’d have thought?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Who indeed.”

  Back to TOC

  Recompense

  You may remember Gabe Weller, you may not. In his twenties he does what was done to my parents and takes a red-handled axe to both his mother and father as they sleep. Post-apprehension, he comes to say, yes, okay, it was in fact his body that did the deed, but his mind was a whole other story. All this comes to light after video surveillance of a car matching his is found leaving through the front of his parents’ gated community. This in addition to footage and a receipt of him purchasing shoes two sizes too small two nights before the murders occur. If one were to hazard a guess, it doesn’t take much to realize the size of footprints discovered in the blood that is collected and catalogued. That was then, however, and what I wish to address is now.

  How Gabe Weller seems to have found God.

  We are sixteen years removed from said in
cident, sure, and I can only assume the amount of time it took for Gabe to embrace and concoct all he would need for when he’s finally released. It happens though, all of it, and the notoriety the man creates for himself, well, this is what led him to me.

  Dressed for weather, toque pulled tight, he fails to hear me come up from behind as he makes his way to his car following a book signing. As it should, the hypodermic does everything it needs to. Out of the van I introduce the left side of his face to a doorway in an attempt to remove the man’s goatee. When it doesn’t work I give it another four tries. Six more and I almost have what I’m looking for.

  Upon waking, I tell him the tape is there for a reason—that it’s because he’s lost the goddamn right. Done, I pull him higher, tighter, ensuring he’s as taut as he can be. I use chains now, opposed to rope, as the sound that accompanies the sway seems to elicit in them a fear far greater than expected.

  “You say you believe in intelligent design. That God exists.” He does not even nod, only looks at me with eyes as wide as doorknobs. They are beaten, bruised and bloodshot, but even then they match what only certain men will see: they have been caught by something outside their pre-conceived notions.

  “And the arrogance you possess, to believe that all of this, everything, that it has been made specifically for you. It’s beyond arrogant, really.” Did he know what I was on about? Did I care? Not really. What concerned me more was how he’d turned what he did to his favor; that religion found him a way. It’s as insane as telling a six-year-old he or she will burn eternally if they choose to not believe.

  Yes, my hate doth grow.

  It’s why I produce a red-handled axe and begin to ask Gabe Weller different kinds of questions. Ones he was sure to steer clear of in that book of his. Wasn’t until I got to the end of things that he realized what I’d been up to.

  Eye for an eye, I say. Followed by time heals no wounds, served or otherwise. I don’t start up top though, choosing instead to stack the man like wood. Arms on top the pile I say out loud his parent’s names.

  It would have to do.

  Back to TOC

  Bobby Charles

  “Was it worth it?” There in the gloom, this is what he asked. It was also not the first time he’d asked the question since waking me. Fumbling for a response, the flood gates opened, and this was when I came to know exactly with whom I was dealing; that there would be no coming back, not the same way I came, anyway. And in situations like those, I knew they tended to hurry.

  I couldn’t blame him though, not really, and once you hear how everything went down you will understand why. Why he did what he did, and why I choose to live with it. I mean, the dude had every right in the book to end me, and if the shoe had been on the other foot, well, I can’t say for sure that I would’ve been able to show the same amount of restraint that Bobby did. No, not for sure. I’m not saying I’m a coward; no, but I will convey that I’ve never truly been tested. There is a difference. Of this at least I know.

  He was angry. Livid actually, and it seemed to permeate off of him in waves. It was not quite dawn, but the night was leaving just the same. He sat in the chair opposite my bed, the one I used for day-old clothes. His legs were crossed and his arms ran the length of each arm of said chair. I could see he took care of himself and that he went to a gym. In the past I have done this myself, enjoying the release I found in lifting the weights. Lately, though? Not so much. Now there is an extra layer to my mid-section. It matches the one above my neck.

  His eyes are what captured me. Sunken and blue, they were rimmed by dark circles. There was a redness there, too, a rawness. I assume this comes from the kind of crying one finds themselves unable to stop. I do not think I am very far off in this assessment. The man looked broken is what I mean to say, but he appeared coiled as well—like I said, I could feel his anger. Looking back, I now realize he was only ever these two things with me—sorrow and rage—and I could complain about that until I was blue in the face, but I don’t think I will, as I deserve everything this man has done to me. However, I will say this: I am sure he is not the first person to eat of those two emotions. I am also sure he will not be the last.

  “I said, was it worth it?” The man was all business, straight and to the point from beneath the visor of his ball cap. I looked at him, silent, unable to do anything but go over everything I had read about him during my stay in the hospital: Bobby Charles, father of one, husband of almost ten years. Age: forty-five, nineteen years my senior. He enjoyed fishing and golf and owned a restaurant which he ran up on Brock. The Pita Pit is what I think it’s called. He was a widower now, of course, and the only reason for that was because of me, yours truly. I’d cost him his son as well. The boy…his name had been Patrick.

  I did not kill these people on purpose, no, but do not doubt that it is my fault just the same.

  I tried to answer him but found myself unable. Pausing, I remember thinking, What did he want from me, anyway? Would his lawyers not be taking me for everything I owned soon enough? Was the cost of me breaking both my legs in the accident not payment enough? Even as I thought it, I regretted it—whole-hearted and immediate. If anything, I have learned a lot about myself because of that day. Chief amongst them being this: I was more selfish than I could have ever imagined. And denial is very much a form of addiction. Not the big denial, the type which can get you through serious trauma, but the everyday denials we incorporate into life. The ones which let us believe we are good people, if only we choose to believe.

  I cleared my throat, swallowed, and then adjusted the pillow between my back and the headboard as best I could. As they’d been doing for a while, my legs protested this. Bobby and me? We continued to look at each other, to blink and breathe. We listened as well, as the clock above the door frame went tick, tick, tick. Finally, I asked: “Will you kill me?”

  He only shook his head and repeated, “Was it worth it?” And then I realized that his head nod was not an answer to whether or not he was here to kill me. He wanted his question answered is all; didn’t want the jerk in front of him answering it with one of his own. Why would he? This wasn’t about me—well, okay, it was; how could it not be?—but this is not the point I am trying to make. What I am attempting to show is how narcissistic I was, how self-absorbed and shallow. This is what I want you to know, that it wasn’t until he did what he did that I truly understood what it all was ever supposed to be about. Funny, isn’t it? What it takes to open one’s eyes? No, not funny—sad; pathetic, really.

  Still, the question remained. Was it worth it? Was what worth it? That is what I wanted to say, as I had no idea to what his question referred. I was at least smart enough—and scared enough—to realize that I had to get on with it and finally just ask him what the fuck he meant. The whole thing here, he in the chair, me waking up to him in the chair, it had taken no more than six minutes, seven on the outside. I can tell you it did not feel like minutes. No, it felt more like hours.

  “Mr. Charles,” I said. “I am not trying to upset you, but, man, I don’t really understand what it is you’re asking me. Clearly I am in no position to assume…” And we were back to regarding each other, he and his eyes simmering, me in my bed wondering if he was asking me if it was killing his son and wife that was worth it? Was this the question he was asking?

  He said, “I was behind you, Randy—on the road when it happened. Did you know that?”

  And all of a sudden I knew; could not not know; envisioned myself driving that day, driving as I always drove, like I was the only one who mattered.

  It happened on Main, a four-lane black-top which is one of the busiest in the city. It’s also a street where between the hours of eight a.m. and four p.m., between the first and fifteenth of any given month, cars are allowed to park. The day it all went down? March eighth; a Tuesday. And you can rest assured that it happened well within the aforementioned eight-hour window.

  “No,” I said, finally answering his question. I was really answe
ring both his questions, but I’m still not sure if he was aware of this or not. Either way, my response had been something just short of a whisper. For the first time since he arrived I found myself unable to hold his gaze as well. Guilt has a way of doing this, I’m finding.

  “If you had made it, you would’ve just carried on. I know this. This is what people like you do. It’s how you’re wired. Out for no one but yourself.” The anger remained, but he had control of it, seemed to be almost chewing on the words as he said them to me. In hindsight, he was doing the best that he could. I see that now. Actually, I see a lot of things now. One such gem is this: if I hadn’t killed his wife and child, I would have scoffed at the accusation he presented, if not outright denied it. That was how far gone I was in believing myself a good person. And if that is not as fucked as it gets, I do not know what is.

  But I did kill his wife and I did kill his child.

  I wasn’t going to wait; my time more precious than anyone’s; that is what it came down to.

  I had been passing and speeding. I had been dodging and weaving. Many of us do this, unable to obey the posted limit; always on our way. The morning that it happened, nothing was different. If anything I was probably a little slow to speed up as I went to change lanes that final time. This is what it hinged on, that I tried to cut over when I should have slowed. But if I had slowed, I would then have to wait for an opening and signal my way through. This would not do. I would not wait. After all, it was my world we were living in.

  I cut over, clipped her minivan, sending them and the van headlong into the teeth of an eighteen-wheeler. The big machine ate. The grill, I’m told, coming to hold bone. Myself? I over-corrected the clip and hit a patch of black ice. As you can imagine, coming out of the slide at the speed I was going—let’s just say that the flips I did were far from few.