A Brilliant Death

by Yocum, Robin

  Following a systematic search plan that he had worked out in his head, Travis began dissecting the room, starting with the cardboard boxes under the bed. The contents ranged from used automobile parts to more of Big Frank’s collection of hard-core porn magazines, but there were no letters, or anything else connected to Travis’s mother. It was a time-consuming process, and when he had finished going through his dad’s dresser, darkness had taken over the room.

  “How do you know Big Frank didn’t put them in a safe deposit box?” I asked.

  “He’s too cheap. Besides, the sonofabitch carries that forty-five with him everywhere. Who would want to try to steal something from him?”

  “Think of what you just said.”

  Using a flashlight that he pulled from his hip pocket, Travis began searching Big Frank’s closet. It was small and cramped, and the floor was littered with clothes.

  “Why don’t you turn on the light?” I asked.

  “Too dangerous. If he came back, he’d see the light before I ever heard the car.” The darkness made me nervous. I never feared the nearby railroad tracks or the trains during the day, but they were terrifying at night, when their cycloptic head beam eerily cleared their path, and their very passing vibrated the house and made my bedroom windows rattle in their frames. The closet revealed nothing of interest and the search seemed fruitless. Travis had searched under the bed, the closet, and both dressers. All that remained was the steamer trunk in the corner. It was unlocked, and Travis scooted the trunk away from the wall and pushed back the lid. The trunk was jammed full of Big Frank’s junk—medals, ribbons, and plaques from auto shows, a few car magazines, his parents’ brittle obituaries from the Steubenville Herald-Star, and assorted items that held no interest for Travis. Quickly, he pulled the items out of the trunk, setting them in a circle around him so he could return them in the same order.

  The sound of a car passing by in the gravel behind the house was followed by a creak from downstairs. We both froze and listened. Nothing. It had been nothing more than the sighing of a tired house and the coincidental passing of a car. Still, it had given my nerves a jolt. “Come on, Trav, hurry up,” I said.

  He hurried though the rest of the trunk. With everything scattered on the floor, he could see nothing that resembled a letter. “Crap. Nothing here, either.” As Travis put the contents back in the trunk, trying his best to remember the order in which they had left, he found a faded, four-page brochure: Installation and Operation of your Hide-a-Safe. Travis looked at the brochure, finding a series of numbers on the back page.

  “Run down to the kitchen. There’s a scratch pad and pencil on the table. I need you to write something down.” I did as he asked and was back in seconds. He said, “Nine, sixteen, fourteen . . .”

  “Nine, sixteen, fourteen,” I repeated.

  “Thirty-eight, one.”

  “Got ’em.”

  For the next thirty minutes, we scoured the house, basement to attic, looking for the safe. “How can you hide a safe like that around here? This place isn’t that big,” Travis complained. “We’ve checked every wall in the place—basement, bedrooms, living room, everywhere.”

  “Maybe he didn’t put it in a wall,” I suggested. “Maybe he buried it in a floor.”

  Travis looked at me, that crooked grin stretched across his face. “It’s in the garage.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe, or in the basement.”

  “No. It’s in the garage. I know right where it is—under his tool chest. He’s got it covered with a piece of concrete. I asked him about it once when I was little and he blew me off—wouldn’t answer. That’s exactly where it is.”

  I was excited by the prospects. “Let’s go.”

  Big Frank kept an extra key to the side door of the garage hanging on a nail just inside the basement door. The key unlocked both the door lock and the two deadbolts. “Let’s get in there, get the letters, and take them back to your place,” Travis said. “After I’ve read them, I’ll put ’em back.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  We slipped through the door and pushed it nearly closed. The Chevy, buffed and gleaming in the dim light of the neon clock on the wall, rested in its usual spot. Travis shined his flashlight against the large, red tool box against the back wall. “I’m getting nervous. Maybe we should abort,” I said.

  “You’re kidding, right?” Travis asked.

  “Maybe we should wait until he’s out of state on a trip,” I offered.

  “No. It’s safe. Come on, let’s do it.” The tool box was on wheels and we easily moved it away from the wall, exposing a square block of concrete. Buried in each side of the concrete were two threaded receptors. Travis grabbed a handful of bolts from a coffee can on the workbench and worked them at the receptors until he found two that fit; they were nine-sixteenths. Using them as handles, he pulled the concrete block out of its resting place, revealing the face of the safe. It was gray, about a foot square, and resting in a cocoon of cement, a patina of rust developing along its exposed edges. The combination dial was off-center to the left, the handle to the right. I held the flashlight on the dial and read the combination aloud. It took Travis several tries before the handle moved freely. He took a nervous breath, opened the door to the safe and shined the light inside. There were only a few items lying on the bottom of the safe—the deed to the house, the title to Frank’s prized Chevy, and a packet of envelopes wrapped in a rubber band.

  The envelopes were tattered and yellowing badly around the edges. There were about twenty in the bundle, each marked in block letters, “Amanda.” Each had been carefully opened by being slit across the top. Travis crouched down, leaning against the wall with the envelopes resting in his lap, the beam of the flashlight throwing a hazy light. He took the top envelope and held it between his fingers, gently, like an archaeologist might cradle a precious find. “I feel like I’m invading her privacy,” he whispered.

  “If Big Frank has read them, it was invaded a long time ago.”

  “I’m sure she never dreamed that her son would be reading letters from her lover.”

  “I’ll give you that one.” The adrenaline rush of sneaking into Big Frank’s garage had masked the fact that my bladder was about to explode. “I thought you were going to take the letters and leave.”

  “In a minute.”

  “Well, if we’re not getting out of here right now, I need to whiz.” He used the flashlight as a pointer, throwing a beam of light on the little bathroom that Big Frank had built into the corner of his garage. I followed it into the room.

  I stood in front of the toilet for a minute, allowing my eyes time to adjust to the near total darkness. When I could finally make out the rim of the toilet, I started to fumble with my zipper. I thought of how Travis’s life would have been different if Clay Carter had been his father. I envisioned Travis with a normal, happy family. In my mind’s eye I could see Travis as a youngster, maybe four years old, playing on the beach with the mother that I knew only from a photograph, and a younger Clay Carter. They were all smiling and laughing as they built a sand castle on the shore. That was the image in my mind as I grabbed my dick to relieve myself, the same instant that the overhead light to the garage came on.

  “Find anything interesting, boy?” Big Frank Baron asked.

  “Shit,” Travis said.

  “Thought I’d bring Angel down for some fish at the American Legion, and as I was driving by I wondered, why is there someone in my garage with a flashlight?”

  I tried to stuff myself back into my jeans and stem the flow of urine. I succeeded in getting it in my pants, but failed miserably at stopping the flow. Again, hot piss ran down my front, soaking my jeans and running into my socks. I froze, concealed in the darkness of the bathroom. I turned, and through the slit in the door I could see the scene unfolding.

  Big Frank was standing in front of the door, blocking Travis’s only escape route. “Come here, boy,” Big Frank said.

  “What are these?
” Travis asked, standing and holding the letters in his right hand.

  Lord, but I admired his guts.

  “They’re mine and none of your fuckin’ business, that’s what they are.” He pointed to the safe. “Put them back and come here.”

  Travis shook his head. “You said you didn’t know who her boyfriend was.”

  “I said, put those letters back in the safe and come here.”

  “I’m through taking orders from you. Why do you have these?”

  “That ain’t none of your concern, either. Give ’em to me.”

  “Why would you keep them? Huh? Why would you keep Mom’s love letters from another man? Unless, of course, you were hoping you could blackmail someone. Maybe get another car out of the deal? But if you tried to do that, Clay Carter might kick your ass again.”

  Travis, shut up, I thought.

  It was too late, though. Big Frank had all he was going to take. He moved away from the front of the Chevy and started toward Travis. In the illuminated doorway, Big Frank’s girlfriend appeared and hollered, “Frankie, what are you doing?”

  He turned his head and yelled back, “I’ll be back in a minute. Go sit in the car.”

  As he turned his head, Travis tried to dash past his dad, hoping to leap the hood of the Chevy and escape into the night. Despite his quickness, the garage was too small and Big Frank too close. Before Travis could jump, Big Frank threw a forearm into his son’s ribs, driving him off his feet and sending him flying into the edge of the work bench. The envelopes flew out of his hand and fell like confetti. The air rushed from Travis’s lungs as his ribs hit the bench. Before he could stagger to his feet, Big Frank grabbed him by his ears and lifted him up. The fight was over. All that remained now was punishment. “Don’t ever let me catch you in this garage again,” Frank Baron said in an eerily calm voice. He released the ears and backhanded Travis across the side of his head, his ring opening up a gash over Travis’s right ear and sending him to the floor. “I hope you understand me, boy,” Big Frank said, grabbing Travis by the back of his shirt and carrying him like a bitch with a pup. He hauled Travis just outside the door and threw him face first into the dirt and gravel. Angel backed away from the scene, her hands behind her feeling for the car. “I told you to go wait in the car, goddammit.”

  Frank Baron crouched down over the limp body of his son. I was expecting a kick to the ribs or face. Apparently, Travis was expecting it, too, because he curled and covered. “Now, this is the last time I’m going to tell you this: Knock it off. I know what you’ve been doing, snooping around, trying to find out shit about your mother—you and your fuck buddy Malone. I want it to stop, and I want it to stop now. This is a small town, boy, and you’d be surprised what all I hear. I know you talked to Clay Carter, and I heard that you been talkin’ to that cocksucker Chase Tornik. I don’t know what you think you’re looking for, but it’s over. You think you want to know about your mom, but you really don’t. Trust me. You might find out things you wished you didn’t know, like that she was a cheating, fucking whore.” Frank took a few sucks of breath. “You best let it go. And if I ever find you snooping around in my shit again, it’ll be the last time, son or not.”

  I remained still as Big Frank walked back into the garage and picked up the scattered letters. He got them all, except for one that had neatly slid between the windshield and the wiper arm on the passenger side. It looked like a parking ticket pressed against the glass, but he didn’t spot it. He took the wad of letters in his fat hand and flicked off the lights as he walked out of the garage. A few seconds later I heard the locks click. About ten minutes later, Travis rapped on the door. “Hey, fuck buddy, the coast is clear. You can come out.”

  I plucked the envelope from the windshield as I passed and slipped it into my back pocket. “Glad you haven’t lost your sense of humor,” I said, pushing the door open.

  I looked at his swollen face. He looked at the stain covering the front of my jeans. “What is it with you and your bladder?” he asked.

  I had no desire to explain. “How’re your ribs?”

  “I don’t know. My head hurts so bad that it won’t allow me to think about my ribs.”

  “Did you get to read any of the letters?” He shook his head. “Here you go,” I said, gently slipping it from the pocket.

  Travis smiled, which caused him to wince. He sat down on the back steps, blew gently into the envelope, and removed a single page of stationery, folded twice and, like the envelope, yellowing at the edges. He looked at it for a minute in the dim light of the kitchen. He began to read.

  My Dearest Amanda:

  I cannot tell you the exhilaration I am feeling at this moment. Only minutes ago you left me. While already I miss you more than you can imagine, I have never felt so alive. Never has a woman made me feel the way you make me feel. I love you, my darling, and I cannot wait until the day when it will be just you and me together forever.

  I know you are under a terrible strain as you try to maintain your life at home. I am so sorry for this. Please, I beg you, leave him soon. Say the word and I will arrange everything. You and your son will be safe with me. This, I promise.

  My heart aches for you, now and always. I cannot imagine a life without you, for I know that there is no other who could give me the happiness that you have given me. You, sweetheart, belong in my arms—now and forever.

  I love you deeply.

  Clay

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  It was the last week of football season and we were working overtime getting ready for the game against our big rival, the Mingo Indians, who were quarterbacked by my cousin, Duke Ducheski. With eleven seconds to go in the game, I reached the pinnacle of my high school athletic career when I intercepted a deflected pass in the end zone. We beat Mingo 14–13 and captured the first Big Valley Athletic Conference football championship since the days of Alex Harmon. Here’s something I’ve never before admitted: I was totally out of my position, and that interception was nothing but dumb luck. Doesn’t matter. I was the hero. After the game, I shook hands with Duke and he had tears in his eyes, and I felt bad for him . . . but only for a second.

  The Blue Devil Touchdown Club had a victory parade through town and a celebration in the high school gymnasium. It was great fun, and early the following morning Travis was back at the house. “Okay, hero, time to get back to work on Project Amanda,” he said.

  He had healed quickly from his encounter with Big Frank. The cut over his ear had mended, and he could once again breathe without pain.

  “All and all, that night wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be,” Travis explained. “When that light flipped on, I figured it was all over. I was sure he was going to kill me. And I don’t mean that figuratively. I really thought he was going to kill me. When he said, ‘Find anything interesting, boy?’ I swear, Mitch, I believed it was the end of my life.”

  “I wouldn’t have let him kill you.”

  He grinned. “What were you going to do, run out and piss on him?”

  “Kiss my ass, Travis. I couldn’t see in there.”

  “If I could have gotten past him and out the door, I would have kept running and never come back.”

  I raised one brow toward him. “And where, exactly, would you have gone?”

  “I probably couldn’t have made it in one night, but I was thinking of Asheville, North Carolina.”

  I smiled. “Really. That’s interesting.” Travis hadn’t mentioned his grandfather, or the man we believed to be his grandfather, since the day he had made the aborted call. “So, you’re thinking that Ronald E. Virdon might actually be your grandfather?”

  “I’m thinking he is, yeah.”

  I laughed. “You should have just asked him when you had him on the phone.”

  “Hell, with the way my luck has been running, he’d probably get so excited he’d have a heart attack. Hopefully, that doesn’t happen when I see him.”

  “See him? When are you going to see h
im?”

  “As soon as you can get the car. I’m thinking next weekend, before wrestling season starts.”

  On Monday, Travis came over for dinner and I called for an executive committee meeting of the Malone family. Mom came in from the kitchen, where she was cleaning up from dinner. Dad was in his recliner, smoke from his pipe swirling up over the sports pages of the Steubenville Herald-Star and filling the room with the faint aroma of cherries. I had decided to take the direct approach. I had given this a lot of thought. I was a teenager, and there were certain things that I would try to slip past my parents. However, a weekend road trip to North Carolina was not on that list. Either I did this with their blessing, or I didn’t do it. Neither of my parents held Frank Baron in high esteem, and I hoped this would play in my favor. We would tell them about Project Amanda—to a point—and hope that they would allow us to complete the mission. Frankly, I was harboring major doubts. Travis was hoping to play upon my mother’s soft heart, which could work. Trying to slide one past my dad, however, was an entirely different issue.

  There was no school on Friday because of a teachers’ workshop. I had the weekend off before basketball practice began on Monday. That gave us three full days, which was all we needed. We planned to drive to Asheville on Friday, meet with his grandfather on Saturday, and drive back Sunday. I was hoping that my newly found status as football legend for the interception in the Mingo game would give me an edge in the negotiations. “I need a favor,” I told my parents. “Actually, we need a favor. There’s no use in pussyfooting around, because it’s all going to come back to the fact that we need a favor. A big one.”

  Mom and Dad looked at each other. “What is it?” Mom asked.

  Travis interjected. “Mrs. Malone, do you remember about three years ago, Mitchell and I were sitting out on the porch, and I asked you if you knew how my mother had died?”

  Mom nodded. “Yes.”

  “Well, since then, Mitchell and I have been conducting our own investigation. I asked Mitchell to help me because I wanted to know about my mom. So we started Project Amanda.” My dad’s brows arched. “We’ve done a pretty good job, actually. We gathered up old newspaper stories, police reports, interviewed people, stuff like that.”