Wild and Crooked

by Leah Thomas

  I wish I didn’t know him. I wish I didn’t like him so damn much.

  Because I can lie about all sorts, about being a nice person and a Southern Belle, about being tough and being proud, but I can’t lie about this one truth:

  My dad is the reason his dad doesn’t exist anymore, and his dad is the reason mine can never come home.

  If you do a chronological search online through articles that mention the Ellises of Samsboro, you’ll find Gus’s great-grandparents first.

  James Ellis’s grandpa was an Irish immigrant who became one of the earliest supervisors at Munch-O Mills. He made a good living, good enough to send all three of his kids to college and buy up half the town. James’s daddy, Mortimer Ellis, grew up to join the school board and began working as an attorney. Mortimer Ellis married Erica Holeman, a member of the city council. When James Ellis was a toddler, his parents were giving back to Samsboro, building parks like the one I just stomped past.

  It was a family disease. James’s cousin became the youngest mayor on record, and his uncle founded a successful chain of credit unions. Seems every one of James Ellis’s relatives did something worth reporting, from great-aunts winning prizes in the county fairs to plain aunts fund-raising for charities and—wait for it—Girl Scouts.

  The first time I read that little nugget, I swore out loud. I would have been kicked out of Alleghany Public Library if I hadn’t pretended it was an enormous sneeze, or if the librarian hadn’t decided third graders couldn’t possibly cuss like that, or if they could, they needed to spend more time in libraries and less time at home.

  James Ellis himself? Well, that golden boy wasn’t even in second grade before his sharp eyes made the front page of the Samsboro Herald. He threw some amazing pitches in Little League. Folks talked like he was some kind of prodigy. One reporter said, and I freakin’ quote, “James Ellis was born with a pair of cleats on his feet!” Which is just dumb from a figurative language standpoint, because all I can think of is how hellish it would be for a woman to give birth to some squirmy thing wearing spiked shoes. Maybe that’s why James was an only child?

  James Ellis always made the honor roll, won Boy Scout derbies and fishing contests. At Jefferson High, James did Samsboro proud, striking out the best batter in the state, Parker Adams of the Pikeville Pirates, and securing tiny Samsboro a place in the state finals during his junior year. He joined the football team, too, like it was easy.

  All these Ellis accomplishments are footnotes now. What you’ll really find if you search for “James Ellis” are dozens of sensationalized murder and trial articles, obituaries, and footage from local and national news. The death of this small-town boy captured the morbid imagination of America. Golden successes might be the Ellis legacy, but there’s blood spatter on the trophies.

  The first article mentioning both Dad and James Ellis isn’t anything criminal. It’s a shout-out to the students of Jefferson High’s Tech Ed class, who worked for a semester to build and donate a brand-new gazebo to the Samsboro Community Center. In the newspaper clipping, James Ellis grins like high beams, sitting pretty, front and center. Dad looms in the back row, bunched up and scowling like the devil.

  There are dozens of articles about my family’s crimes, from robbery to arson to drunk driving. But there’s only one article I care about, an article that captures the cruelty of that golden boy. The Herald left out the names of minors, and also left out the truth.

  SAMSBORO SCHOOL BOARD SEEKS REVISAL OF BULLYING POLICY AFTER INCIDENT

  Students within the Samsboro school district may be required to attend biannual antibullying seminars as early as next term. According to Jefferson High principal Harold Broadbent, a revision of school policy “is a necessity” after a slew of bullying incidents culminated in the hospitalization of a sophomore student last week. The student sustained second-degree burns when classmates pushed him into the bonfire at the annual homecoming celebration.

  “The incident didn’t happen on school grounds,” Broadbent explains, “but at Morley Field, where the rally takes place. Though the boys were just horsing around, we want to move toward a zero tolerance policy for this kind of behavior.”

  The first seminar will feature a visit from the Parents Against Bullying Association (PABA) spokesperson Ted Chandler.

  You’d think that if you flipped through articles from the week prior, you’d see one about the attack. You’d think it’d be juicy news. But someone didn’t want that, probably Mortimer Ellis. The articles talk about Jefferson High’s victory over the Eustace Eagles and a touchdown that saved the second half. Only I care about this story.

  The good people of Samsboro like to ignore the reality that Gary Spence was the boy shoved in the fire, and James Ellis was among the boys who shoved him. I’ve seen Dad’s scars. He calls his arms Slim Jims. It’s not actually funny.

  The first story other people care about detailed the discovery of James’s body in the trunk of that rust-eaten Ford Taurus at Spence Salvage.

  That October morning, the first early snowstorm had blown into Samsboro. The picture shows the red car, centered in a row of tan and silver sedans. The Taurus is the only splash of color against a snowy backdrop made of undead vehicles. A splash of red, but also black: the Taurus’s trunk is open, dark and deep as a well you’ll fall right into.

  ALL-STAR ATHLETE’S MANGLED BODY DISCOVERED ON CRIMINAL’S PROPERTY

  The bullshit in this “investigation” began from the word go. First off, James Ellis wasn’t an all-star. Second off, since when do two bullet wounds constitute a mangling? And third fucking off, at that point in history, Spence Salvage belonged to Grandma, one of a few Spences with no criminal record.

  Dad confessed to the murder before they brought in any other suspects. He called it self-defense. He explained that perfect fucking golden boy James Ellis showed up at the salvage yard after dark, swinging a knife around. Most reporters ignore this part.

  The papers don’t say that James Ellis bullied the living shit out of Dad from the moment he hit preschool. There aren’t any articles about all the times James Ellis and company spat on Gary Spence “because you need some kind of bath, trailer trash.”

  The papers never reported the crickets dropped down Dad’s shorts at school, or the maggoty meat hidden in his locker. There aren’t articles about the time Dad’s ribs were cracked in a PE “accident,” about Dad being beaten to bruising in the locker room, about Dad’s truck being set on fire in the parking lot. Besides, James Ellis had such a great pitching arm, didn’t he?

  There’s no proof of any of this, except what Spences say. People like to point out that the only knife found in the trunk with James’s body belonged to Dad. But mostly they don’t bother going that far.

  There was a confession. There was a poor kid from a violent family on one side. A wealthy family and a pretty, pregnant widow on the other. They made the following case: Gary Spence kidnapped James Ellis to take revenge on him for harmless teasing. Spence kidnapped Ellis halfway through the homecoming game, drove him to Spence Salvage to kill him. There’s no other way James would ever show up there.

  It was first-degree murder, premeditated, and enough to qualify Dad for death row. Look at that crying widow. Look at her cry. Amazing that he got life instead. Amazing they didn’t kill him, like swatting a goddamn spider.

  I don’t need proof that this shit was unfair. I know it was, because I’ve lived it. When you’re poor and you’re dirty, you get hatred where friends should be. You’ve got broken teeth memories of smelling bad on the way to school and being incapable of doing jack about it. You don’t get trophies.

  The case gained a rabid following. But the attention waned. Dad was too obviously a hick and not an evil serial killer. Really, it was Mom who caused a real stir, when she started dating Dad in prison. But that’s another story. And no one’s business.

  Apart from the Taurus picture, there’s another picture that haunts me. It shows James Ellis laughing with Liz. Suppos
edly it was taken on the Fourth of July, months before his death. Supposedly the two of them are at the fairgrounds, watching the fireworks. There’s light on their faces. They lie on the hood of a car, staring skyward. It could be an album cover.

  If you peer into the background like I have, you notice there are other cars parked there. Yeah, maybe this is a field of sky gazers. But if you peer even harder, you notice the hoods in the background are old. There are no other people, just empty cars. You realize these kids might be in a parking lot or even a salvage yard.

  But James Ellis would never have reason to visit Spence Salvage, right?

  None of this matters to anyone.

  To me it matters more than anything. More than sunlight and a good smoke. Dad had his reasons for shooting James Ellis. Dad’s in prison, and he’s a murderer. But he’s a good man, too.

  I don’t know when I hit downtown, but I’m passing the Sunny Spot. Mom’s shift won’t have started yet, but I catch myself craning my neck anyway.

  A shiny Prius pulls up alongside me at the curb.

  “Rose? Hey! Rose!” calls Eli through his window. It’s like slapstick, the way his brakes squeak. “Are you . . . ​are you bleeding?”

  I stare at my fist. Shit. I’ve definitely been squeezing that glass. Yeah, there’s blood on this brown dress along with all the other filth. Classic fucking Spence.

  “Oh my.” Rose isn’t so easy right now. “Whoopsy-daisy.”

  “Where you going? Can I give you a ride?”

  “Nah. It’s a nice day for a walk.”

  “It’s a school day,” he observes. “And it’s only one.”

  “Oh?” I force a bat of lashes. “So why aren’t you in school, mister?”

  Eli grins. “Oh, you know. I’ve got better things to do.”

  “Really?”

  His grin slips. “Actually, I had an orthodontist appointment.”

  “You don’t look like you need braces.”

  “That’s because I used to need braces.” Eli recaptures his cartoonish glimmer. “This doesn’t happen naturally, you know.”

  This is the first time he’s admitted to any kind of fakery. He may be on my level.

  I lean on his car. “Hey. That dance this weekend. Still want to go with me?”

  Eli raises his eyebrows. “Yeah.”

  “But I’m filthy,” I say, as grossly as I can, with a wink. Might as well be a mess now, with a sheen of lace on top.

  “Know what I think?” He’s staring past me, almost glaring at tiny downtown Samsboro. “Nothing changes in this town. No surprises. Except you.”

  I think of Gus, telling me how Phil put me in some role in his head. I guess that’s happening again. But roles are better than actual me.

  I climb into Eli’s car. He looks happy as a cat full of salmon dinner.

  I giggle when Eli lends me one of his long jerseys to wear like a dress. I giggle while we eat Coney dogs at Maverick’s Diner. I giggle on the way to the movie theater for some boring rom-com’s matinee. I don’t tell Eli no when he pushes his hand up my thigh. I don’t know which girl lets that happen. If I tried to stop him, I’d get blood on his sleeve.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Gus asked me, before.

  Never.

  Eli tells me if he gets chosen for honor guard and I don’t, he’ll still dance with me. He tells me his dad bought him a suit and it’s black but the tie is emerald, but he can switch it depending on what color my dress is.

  Eli drops me off outside a neighborhood near Gus’s, so I’ll have to walk home all over again. I slip him some primrose tongue before hopping out of the car. He’s popping a boner for sure, and I’ll leave him with it, because everything is going to spin out of control soon, and what else can I do but leave him wanting a girl who doesn’t exist.

  GUS

  BEFORE I CAN go liquefy in bed, Mom leaves the kitchen. She stands at the foot of the stairs. She spots the frame in my hands. “Is she gone?”

  I nod.

  Mom’s shoulders fall. Tamara stands behind her, but of course she can’t catch them. “Gus. We have to talk about her.”

  “Let me guess. Her dad killed my dad?”

  Mom’s beads rattle like rainfall. “I was hoping I was wrong.”

  “Maybe you are,” Tamara reasons. “Gus, couldn’t this be a misunderstanding?”

  I’m used to tingles in my right hand, but now I’m flickering all over. “I think I wanna throw up?”

  When I lean over, nothing leaves me but a gasp.

  “I’ll get a bucket.” Tamara slips into the kitchen.

  “Does she look like her dad, too?”

  Mom shakes her head. “No, she—that wasn’t it. It was how she . . . I don’t know.”

  Mom’s talking like me, maybe because she hasn’t spoken about this before. I’m aware in some reality that Mom and Dad and his killer all played at recess together, ate in the same cafeteria, probably went to the same homecoming dances.

  Maybe Gary Spence, convicted murderer, had a spitting sense of humor. Maybe he gave people fake names and insulted everyone equally. Maybe he seemed like an impossible character when he came to Jefferson High.

  No wonder Kalyn’s good at changing faces. No wonder she’s living my dream. Both our dads might be gone, but hers can call her on the phone. He can give her a million life lessons about crocodile smiles.

  I want to call Phil, but I can’t. I want to call Kalyn Poplawski; she doesn’t exist.

  This isn’t just timber. It’s the entire clearing of a rain forest inside my skull. Maybe inside Mom’s, too, because her head is shaking, all of her is, and when Tamara returns with the upturned compost bucket, Mom’s the one who vomits in it.

  Tamara proffers it to me.

  “I think I’m okay.”

  “Gus,” Mom says. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Mom doesn’t want to talk about it. But Mom’s always giving me options. That’s what Kalyn couldn’t see. She’s not bullying me. That might be what Kalyn was doing.

  I don’t know. I can’t even think about it. I can’t think. “No.”

  “I think this time maybe you really should,” Tamara murmurs.

  “Gus said no.”

  “Because not talking solves all the problems in this house.”

  “Tamara! Give us a moment. Please.”

  “Don’t shoo me. I don’t work here, Beth. This is my family, too.”

  “But you didn’t lose anyone. Give me a moment with my son.”

  “I didn’t lose anyone? Then what’s happening right now?” Tamara holds back from shouting, by just a hair. She puts her hands up. “But hey, it’s all good. I’ll just go on out and garden some more. I’ll be where you think I should be.”

  It’s a sign of the times that Mom doesn’t stop her. Tam slams the door.

  The house is eighty times emptier now. All Mom and me can fill it with are words we don’t want to say. We’ve got to find something, anything else.

  “Where on earth did she put your father?” Mom straightens her poncho.

  By the time I unbind my joints and reach the living room, Mom’s pulled all the Dads out of the bureau. They’re spread along the floor at her feet. She clutches one portrait in white-knuckled hands.

  I expect her to cradle it close. Instead, Mom holds it far from her face, gripping the wood so hard I think her arms might snap.

  “You should have let me go,” she whispers. I’ve never heard her talk to him before; I thought that was my specific brand of crazy.

  “Mom?” She jerks like I’ve cracked a whip. “Can I help put the Dads back?” Most are facedown on the rug, seeing nothing.

  Mom passes me the Dad in her hands. In this one, he’s sitting on a porch with a baseball bat in one hand and a grape soda in the other. I don’t care about sports. I always pretend he’s secretly more interested in the grape soda.

  Tamara managed to stash seventeen pictures of Dad in five minutes, but Mom and I take our time with th
is ritual. I return Baseball-Dad to the mantel, and then hook Bowling-Dad into place in the hallway. Mom puts Pontoon-Dad on the fridge. Soon, Tamara comes back inside to help us hang up the rest. She doesn’t speak, but I grab her hand as she passes. I don’t miss. I watch her squeeze my palm.

  The three of us stand over the last picture: Dad and the fish.

  “Where did the glass go?” Tamara asks.

  “Kalyn took it with her,” I say. “In her hand.”

  “What kind of girl walks around with a fistful of glass?”

  “I don’t know.” I feel helpless. “I don’t know what kind of girl she is.”

  “She must have known. Why else would she come here?”

  That hasn’t occurred to me. Kalyn might have known. All along, she might have wanted to see what her dad had done. Victim first, disabled second, person not at all. Was that all I was to Kalyn?

  “I can replace that frame, easy,” Tamara says. “Heading to Lew’s Hardware to sharpen the shears anyhow.”

  “Planning to cut me good, dear? Because I’d deserve it, Tam. I’m sorry.”

  “Damn straight you’re sorry, baby girl.” Tamara pulls Mom close and plants a kiss on her forehead.

  I don’t speak. I want to be alone. Maybe I am.

  “To be honest,” Mom says, “I always thought it was a bit silly. You know, hanging a picture halfway up the stairs . . . ​ What?” Mom doesn’t understand why we’re laughing the house down to its foundations, but she climbs aboard the hysteria train and laughs, too. It’s about all we’re good for.

  KALYN

  I PASS ROW after row of rust-eaten automobiles and imagine Gus’s eyes peering out of every black trunk.

  Grandma’s little house smells so musty that I’m coughing. I want to go right to bed, maybe vomit for good measure—Eli’s tongue was like any other boy’s tongue in that I didn’t actually want it in my mouth.

  But they’re waiting for me. Mom sits across from Grandma, who’s pulling threads from her sweater. Mom’s eyes are fixed on papers spread across the table like poorly shuffled cards.