Fight or Flee

by Patrick Jones

“Clay, please, that’s enough,” Gabrielle says, pulling her husband away from the desk. “Hinton is just so isolated. Maybe if we brought in some of his old friends to visit.”

  Stern nods eagerly to Gabrielle. “That’s a good idea. He seems too focused on himself, but not in a good way. Even one-on-one therapy with your son has been very difficult, but I’ll keep trying,” Stern says.

  “Look, I’m a busy man with important business responsibilities. Are we done here?” Clay barks.

  Stern swallows hard. “Next time, Hinton needs to participate, or else I’ll need—”

  “Or else is a threat!” Clay slams his fists on the desk. “Don’t ever do that to me or else.”

  ***

  “Thank God you’re back, Clay,” Paul says the second Clay walks into his office. “Forty’s taking over other gangs, getting numbers. Those that don’t join up, get jammed up. How do you want to handle it?”

  “I’m surprised, to be honest.” Clay scratches his forehand. “Forty doesn’t have the guts that his old man did. Forty’s dad was a warrior, Forty’s a politician.”

  “As for you, seems like he thinks—and I’m repeating what I heard—that if you can’t control your family, you can’t control your business,” Paul says with a shrug.

  Clay’s face darkens. “Family and business are two very different things.”

  “True,” Paul replies, “but Clay, I think this is partially on me for breaking up Hinton and Olivia.”

  Clay dismisses the thought with a wave of his hand. “Hinton’s been messed up for a long time.”

  “I found some of the letters he wrote to Olivia when he was at Mandan.” Paul reaches into his jacket pocket and offers a handful of papers to Clay, but Clay refuses to take them.

  “I don’t need to read that crap, and you’re a fool for bringing it up,” Clay says.

  Paul stuffs the letters back into his jacket. “So what do you want me to do?”

  “Talk to Hinton, see if you can find out why he’s acting so odd,” Clay says. “Between you and me, I couldn’t care less, but it’s upsetting his mother. I can’t have Gabrielle upset. Got it?”

  “Anything you want, Clay.”

  “Good, then there’s one more thing,” Clay says with a laugh. “Get the hell out of here.”

  ***

  “Hinton, do you have a second?” Paul asks. Hinton’s at the kitchen table, headphones blasting music loud enough to shake the salt and pepper shakers. On his phone, he’s scrolling through pictures of Olivia, texting with Horace, and visiting EDM sites. Hinton doesn’t look at Paul.

  Paul sits down across from Hinton and pulls the bud from Hinton’s left ear. “It’s important, Hinton. Your father asked me—”

  Without looking up, Hinton says, “You a ghost whisperer? My father’s dead.” Hinton shifts in his seat, puts the bud back in, and goes back to his phone.

  “Is that what’s going on with you?” Paul shouts to be heard. “Because if so, I—”

  “I don’t want you involved in my life,” Hinton hisses. “You broke up me and Olivia. She won’t even talk to me anymore. You got her thinking I’m crazy. I don’t want your help.”

  “Your mother is worried about you.”

  “You don’t get to talk about her,” Hinton spits, still staring at his phone. “If you wanted to get in her business, you should’ve done it when you heard she was marrying my uncle. You should’ve been loyal to my father, even after his death, but you weren’t, so don’t come around trying to kiss up to me like you did to Clay. I see through you, Paul, and do you know why?”

  Paul takes a deep breath. “Why?”

  Hinton looks up from his phone, his eyes falling not upon Paul, but on the cabinets behind him. “I see through you, Paul, because there’s nothing there. You’re the real ghost.”

  7

  “Paul, I’ve got an idea,” Clay barks into the phone. “I think Hinton’s not talking to you, me, his mom, or anybody because we’re all adults. Maybe he’d open up to someone his age.”

  “Well, I could get Latrell next time he—” Paul starts.

  “Olivia. I am sure he will talk to Olivia.”

  “But Clay, you know that’s not a good idea. I mean, I stepped in and broke it off, like you told me.”

  “Well, now you need to unbreak it, Paul.”

  “It will make me look weak.”

  Clay laughs and throws back the tall glass of Grey Goose vodka and ice in his hand. He continues to laugh, saying nothing, until Paul mutters, “But even if Hinton does open to her, she won’t tell me. She’s angry at me. She won’t share anything.” More laughter from Clay.

  “No worries about that.” Clay pours another triple shot of vodka. “We’ll be right outside the door. I’ll tell them to meet in the guest bedroom. Thin walls, had them put in myself.”

  “Clay, I don’t know if I trust Hinton alone in a room with my daughter. I mean—”

  Clay shuts him down again. “I trust that I pay you so that you’ll do what I say. Get me?”

  ***

  “Hinton, you wanted to see me?” Olivia says as she walks into the small guest bedroom. The lights are off, shades pulled. Hinton sits on the edge of the bed. “I thought that you—”

  “Clay said you wanted to see me.”

  “I didn’t say that. Someone is messing with us, Hinton.” Olivia glances uncomfortably at the doorway.

  “What does it matter,” Hinton hisses. “Shut the door. Come sit next to me.”

  “I’m scared.” Outside, a storm howls, and ice pelts the windows.

  “Don’t be. I won’t hurt you. If I’m going to hurt anyone, it will be myself.” Hinton fidgets with the bandage on his left hand. “Sometimes I wish I’d go to sleep and not wake up. Be free of all this. Fighting only gets me sucked deeper into this nightmare life.”

  Olivia rushes toward the bed and reaches her hand out in the darkness. Hinton holds it.

  “Hinton, don’t talk that way,” Olivia whispers. “You’ve got so much to live for.”

  “Growing up in this family, you’d think that’s something to live for, but . . .” Hinton trails off.

  “Is this about your dad?”

  Hinton falls back on the bed. Olivia joins him but keeps a distance between them. They stare up at the dark ceiling like it was the starless night sky. “What would you do if your dad died?” he asks. “No matter how angry you are at him because—you know, us—how would you feel?”

  “I’d probably feel the same as you,” Olivia confesses. “But still, you shouldn’t talk—”

  “I know, but the negative actions start with distorted thinking,” Hinton says. “I mean life or death, I didn’t used to think about that stuff back in the day. The day was the day. Who cared about the future? But that’s the thing, you can’t know the future, what is in store for you. And if you can’t know when you’re going to die, then why not control it and just do it yourself.”

  “You’ll go to hell,” Olivia says. “Isn’t that a kind of living death?”

  Hinton sits up. “Being in this family is a living hell. Dad dead, Mom married to my uncle months later, and all the crazy stuff that goes down. One day you could be out having a smoke, and bang, one of Forty’s crew—or worse, somebody you know—takes you down.”

  Olivia sits up, moves to Hinton and puts her hands on his shoulders. She leans her face close to his and whispers, “That’s why we should live in the now. Disobey our fathers and be together—”

  Hinton jumps off the bed like it was on fire. “No, Olivia. That’s over and not just because of your father. I look at my uncle. What he did for love, for power . . . I don’t want it.”

  Olivia kneels on the bed as if in prayer. “Hinton, here’s our chance. We could run—”

  “No, Olivia, there is no we. There is you and me, life and death, but there is no we.”

  “How can you say that to me, Hinton? After how many times you said you loved me—”

  Hinton starts toward the door
. “I never loved you. You’re mistaken.”

  Olivia bends over as if in pain. “But in your letters, when we talked on the phone . . .”

  “The Hinton who said that—that Hinton’s dead,” he says. “He died with my father. He’s not coming back.”

  “What is wrong with you?” Olivia shouts as she rushes toward Hinton. When she reaches for him, Hinton holds her back like a castle wall. “Hinton, I love you and—”

  “Olivia, love is for fools and I’m tired of being a fool. If it was up to me, I’d banish love for the pain it causes. You either break up or you die. There’s no other ending. You want to stay safe, you want to be happy? Stay in your house. Lock yourself up in a convent. Avoid love, live free of responsibility!”

  “Hinton, why are—” Olivia starts to ask a question, but through her tears she sees Hinton slip into the hallway, and the door slams shut.

  8

  “Hey, Hint, did you hear the good news?” Horace asks. He and Hinton stand on the back porch in a haze of coffee steam and weed smoke, a morning mist over the late-March melting snow.

  “I didn’t know that existed anymore,” Hinton replies. “I got my PO Krantz busting my chops and that bad suit Stern trying to pry into my brain. So I could use some.”

  “Your mom asked me to get a hold of some of the old EDM crew from Williston High and have them come out here and put on a show for everybody. They’re coming tonight.”

  “That’s great, except I got a UA tomorrow.”

  “I heard Roger and Gilbert have cleaned up their act, getting ready to graduate.”

  “That’s one of the bad things about doing time,” Hinton says. “Most of your old friends are criminals, so you’re not allowed to associate with them. If you do, they put you back inside so you can meet new criminals that you can’t associate with. What’s wrong with this system?”

  Horace laughs, offers the final drag on the blunt to Hinton who waves it away. Horace throws the butt into the snow where it sizzles. “Everything, but that’s the system, like it or not.”

  “It’s the same system that lets murderers like Clay stay in the free.”

  Horace motions for Hinton to keep his voice down. “Hinton, if he hears you talking that way, it’s not going to be good for you. If it’s true, and again, I’m not saying it is, but if he was willing to murder your father, his brother and the leader of his crew, then what do you think he’ll do to you?”

  “Maybe he’ll be like me, and do nothing,” Hinton mumbles.

  “Hint, don’t go beating up on yourself,” Horace says, voice still low. “What you’re talking about is no joke. You know that CBT crap—”

  “It’s not crap,” Hinton snaps. “It taught me to be mindful instead of impulsive. Except that’s not what I need now. I need to decide what to do and then just do it. I need to face the fight or flee this place knowing I’m a coward.”

  “But I’m just throwing this out there.” Horace stands next to Hinton, almost whispering in his ear. “What if you’re wrong? Like I said, everybody suspects, but nobody knows.”

  “Horace, it’s not like Clay’s going to tell me the truth. If he’d just confess, but . . .”

  Horace coughs, bangs his boot against the porch railing. “Well, never mind. Once Roger and Gilbert get out here tonight, lay down some beats, you’ll be too busy spinning to think.”

  Hinton cracks a rare smile and pats his best friend on the back. He moves his head back and forth as if the music already surrounds him. He points to the blunt remains in the snow, then turns to face Horace. “You’ve been smoking weed, son. Go ahead, deny it!”

  Horace laughs, looks at the snow, and then at Hinton’s unsmiling, hard face. “No.”

  “You’re blushing.” Hinton points at Horace’s face. “You’re a terrible liar.”

  “I didn’t used to be,” Horace says. “I must be getting soft with old age.”

  Hinton laughs then pulls his friend closer. “Do me a favor, Horace,” Hinton says.

  “Anything, Hint.”

  “As soon as Gilbert and Roger get here, let me know. It’s important.”

  “Sure thing, but what’s up?”

  “I got a little surprise to add to the mix,” Hinton says.

  “Will it get people dancing?”

  “I don’t care about people, I only care how one person reacts. Clay.”

  ***

  “So that’s that,” Hinton says, finishing his story of his time at Mandan.

  “Sounds rough,” Roger says. Gilbert agrees. Although the same age as Hinton, they look younger without the hardness of Hinton’s eyes or the roughness of his unshaven face.

  “It was, but it’s like anything, you get used to it,” Hinton replies. He starts to say more, but over Roger’s shoulder he sees Clay and Gabrielle coming toward the makeshift stage that Roger and Gilbert set up in the cleared garage. Speakers, turntables, laptops, and lights fill the space where the Harleys used to be. “But then again, some things you just never get used to, know what I’m saying?”

  “I guess, Hinton, whatever you say,” Roger says, sounding confused.

  Hinton reaches into his hoodie pocket. “I want to thank you guys in advance.” He hands Roger a wad of bills. Roger waves it away, but Hinton pushes it into his hand. “No, you guys are professionals, and you deserve to get paid.” Roger and Gilbert say their thanks.

  “But I got two little strings attached.” Hinton hands Roger a CD. “Put this image up on the screen when you do my song.”

  “Your song?” Gilbert asks as Hinton pulls a single sheet of paper from his front pocket. He unfolds it and hands it over to Gilbert.

  “You still add vocals sometimes, right?”

  Gilbert nods.

  “Well, I wrote a riff. When you find the right beat, I need you to use it.”

  “Sure thing, Hinton,” Gilbert says. “I didn’t know you were a writer.”

  Hinton pulls his hoodie over his head. “I’m a poet. I seek the truth.”

  Gilbert laughs, offers Hinton a fist bump, then says, “The truth with a techno beat.”

  ***

  “You liking the music, Mom?” Hinton says between songs. He sits at a table up front with his mom, Clay, and Marcus. None of the adults are smiling, let alone dancing, under the blare of the music and the glare of the rapid fire random images flashing on a big screen.

  “Not really, Hinton,” she says. “But I can see that it makes you happy. Sometimes I thought I’d never see you smile again.”

  “Of course I’m smiling. We’re just one big happy family,” Hinton says.

  Clay slams his glass on the table. “To me, this is just hyped-up elevator music for crackheads. But that’s me,” Clay slurs. His sips of Grey Goose and ice have turned to slurps. Paul refills the glass with vodka as if he were Clay’s personal bartender.

  “It’s just music. Won’t kill you to listen, will it, Clay? Would it kill you?” Hinton shouts the word “kill” for emphasis.

  Clay throws back another, then stares hard at Hinton. “I’m not Clay to you. I’m Dad. Get me?”

  Hinton glares back at Clay. His green eyes set like stone as the stage lights start flashing. Gilbert lays down a new beat and Roger starts mixing. Hinton breaks the stare with Clay and stands up. He pushes his chair back and starts to dance, and Horace and some of the younger crew join in. Olivia, dressed all in white, stays seated at the table with her father. The garage comes alive as Gilbert moves toward the microphone. Behind him, the rapid fire images suddenly stop and the screen goes black. A single spotlight shines out from the stage toward Clay.

  “So, we gotta little rhyme for you,” Gilbert says. A mad beat drowns out the cascade of the adults speaking in words of shock and awe as an image of Hansen fills the screen. With the beat behind it, it looks almost as if he’s about to jump off the screen into the crowd.

  Hinton throws his hands in the air as if reaching for the heavens. Others around him do the same as Gilbert sings Hinton’s words.<
br />
  “Kill the King. Steal the throne. Take the Queen as your own.”

  The only thing louder than the music is the hard slap of Clay’s boots against the floor as he staggers out of the garage.

  9

  “Clay, you okay?” Paul shouts, chasing after Clay. Clay runs, stumbles, falls into the wall, and stumbles more until he reaches his office. “Clay, what’s wrong?”

  Clay says nothing as he collapses face first onto the sofa near the windows.

  “What was that about?” Paul asks.

  Clay turns his head to the side. “Get me a drink.” He slurs the words.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Paul asks, not moving.

  “If I say it, it’s a good idea,” Clay snaps. Paul heads toward the liquor cabinet. “I’ll tell you a good idea: Hinton’s got to go. Maybe go live with Latrell in St. Paul. Maybe something worse. Maybe he violates his parole and goes back inside. Anyplace but here.”

  “That would kill Gabrielle.”

  Clay tries to lift his head up, but fails. He speaks more to the sofa than to his second-in-command. “Maybe she’s the answer. Maybe she can figure out what’s wrong because if she doesn’t, he’s gone. With Forty coming, I don’t have time for his crap. He’s gone, gone.”

  Paul hands Clay the glass, half vodka, half ice. Clay throws it in his face. “No ice.”

  Paul wipes his face, grabs the glass, and fills it again. He returns to where Clay lies face down. “Here’s your drink.”

  Clay mumbles something. Paul leans closer. “Paul, if you ask God to forgive you for something but you’re not really sorry, then does it really matter?” Paul starts to answer, but Clay just keeps repeating the words “I’m sorry, brother,” over and over.

  “This ends tomorrow.” Paul pulls a blanket over Clay. “I’ll listen in to what Hinton tells Gabrielle, and then we’ll know what he’s thinking and what he knows. When we know, we can act.” Clay mumbles his apology refrain, but says nothing else as Paul leaves him in his misery with the bottle by his side.

  ***

  Clay doesn’t move when the door to his office opens. The thin sliver of light from the hall reflects for a brief second off the open switchblade Hinton holds in his right hand.