by D. W. Wilson
I found my mom and Colton in the restaurant’s dining room, in a corner booth with a black coffee each. My mom had her head rested on the cushioned back so her chin pointed at the ceiling. Colton had wedged himself against the wall and kicked up his feet, and as I passed the carafe I hoisted it from its burner and shook it their way. With a grave nod, Colton lifted his hand and made a come hither motion with the fingers.
Thank you, he said when I arrived.
No worries.
My mom leaned forward. How’s my dad?
Pissy.
That means he’s fine.
What do you need, Alan? Colton said.
Can I phone Gramps?
Colton shifted to sit normally in the booth. He laced his fingers around the mug, took a loud, exaggerated slurp. Steam wisped off his forehead and he held the mug under his nose, as if it were a fragrant espresso, or even freshly brewed. Here I thought you were going to ask me if you can leave, he said.
Not yet.
Fair enough. We ain’t savages here. Lin, you want to show him, or should I?
Come on then, my mom said. She bid me follow her through the kitchen, where the two boys had vanished from and where she’d repaired her nigh-dead husband. It smelled like a hospital cafeteria. She’d earlier laid Colton on a steel island: no bloodstains à la some horror movie, but I clocked the first aid kit with its contents ransacked. That vague aura of iodine, the wrinkly smell of skin beneath a bandage.
Gramps had undergone similar patch-up; in fact, he all but made a habit of wounding himself miles from hospitals or help or even a bottle of hard liquor to use as sterilization, and though I personally never stitched him up I’d been present many of the times he’d done it himself. Once, he tore his leg calf to knee following an incident of four-wheeler-meets-log. Another time, he knifed his radial artery while slicing bread for a grilled cheese sandwich. One New Year’s Eve he leaped from the Dunbar cabin’s upper window and gashed his forehead on the wooden frame—a drunken misjudgment of depth. Each time, Gramps waved aside all offers of assistance and palmed the needle with a gleam of excitement in his eye. I think it reminds him of a time when the world was wilder and the potential for injury greater, when stakes were higher, and when attendance to your own wounds meant something. You could wind up scarfaced. You could wind up gangrened. His youth, I guess.
You’re going to go after Jack, she said. It wasn’t a question.
If I can.
Colt will arrest you. He’s a good cop.
I understand.
Will he be upset? Cecil, I mean. If you can’t do it.
No, but that’s not the point.
Then what is the point?
The kitchen light flickered and ticked in its socket and my mom and I both looked up at it. We didn’t move, didn’t even flinch. The light ticka-ticka-ticka’d like a moth and in my peripherals, in those unreliable half-visioned spaces where what we see may not even be real, I saw Gramps lying deathbed in that shitty hospital room, only Nora at his side—if she’d even still be at his side. Animals don’t prefer to die alone; they just don’t know any better.
Gramps never asked me for anything, I told her, and knew it to be true. Imagine: three decades of selflessness, and now, after how many moons of him not caring about time left on Earth, now that he had at his side the woman he hadn’t spoken of for twenty-nine years—now the clock ticks down? Imagine, to wait so long for a woman and have her appear at your deathbed. Fear, outrage, loss, love. You can dodge a bullet so much more easily than you can dodge a heartache. That’s something Archer would say.
He’s always been there for me, I said.
After a moment, she nodded and took off once more through the building. A rear flight of stairs led to my mom and Colton’s living quarters—separate from where Archer and I had slept, holdover from the days when the Verge had been a bed and breakfast—and we passed beneath a skylight, wedged open with a leather boot. The ceiling was low enough to touch with your elbow, not quite claustrophobic but bordering—a converted loft. Around me, the oddities of her life with Colton lay strewn through the stairwell and hallway and the floor in their living room: a wood giraffe with holes along its flank, for toothpicks or pins; volumes and volumes of great topographic encyclopedias stacked chest-high by the walls and some thrown open to pages that meant nothing to me—maps of the region with red-scrawled walking paths. I gazed at it all longer than I meant to and longer than was polite, but when I turned to her she had only crossed her arms and leaned on a wall. It might’ve been her go-to stance—a half-grin of exasperation-that-wasn’t, as if always in the rhythms of an inside joke. Taking it in: me, this creature that’d appeared in her life. Who knows.
I smell rain, she said, and raised one index vertical.
Above us air leaked through the open skylight and I sucked a strong sniff, that riverbed scent. Sure enough. A drop appeared on the glass and I thought it must mean something: that nature’s elaborate scheme had yet to unfold or that the rain gods had been appeased. It hinted at an end to things—that I could still find Jack. My mom’s eyebrows v’d together and, after a moment, she darted around a corner and out of sight. The suddenness of it—of her being gone—made me think that she had, somehow, disappeared for good.
I heard her pound around in the kitchen, bang shut a cupboard door, and she returned bearing two tin cups, and she tucked them under the skylight, onto the roof, as the rain came down. It was by no means a torrent—back home, my buddies would’ve called it a tinkle—but we stood and listened for the drops that plooped into those tin mouths. Some stray water moistened the window and a few drops gathered around the sole of the leather boot, slid over the length of it to hang off the low-hanging laces. I don’t know how long we stood there and watched it drip before my mom reached for the tins, each lined with a gulp’s worth of rainwater.
I put the cup to my lips. It takes like smoke, I declared with a laugh.
That’s what it is, my mom said. It’s smoked water.
She swirled the liquid in her mug before skulling it like a shot of liquor. My water had specks of debris along the edges—ash or dirt, the dust of her house. She took me to their kitchen, a room with one square window and stainless steel sinks, the faint afterglow-scent of vinegar used as cleaner. I tried to take it all in: people’s kitchens are portholes to their lives and oddities. Above the sink hung a sewn hen in a skirt, and the tails of plastic bags drooped from its ass. The wallpaper showed stencilled outlines of different dogs, and I clocked the unmistakable outlines of pit bulls and greyhounds, but the rest were mutts and undecipherable to my untrained eye. In the corner, an American flag was wrapped around its pole, its base dusted with disuse, and I imagined that they bust it out for occasions like Thanksgiving and the Fourth of July. The phone hung in its holster near the fridge—the old corded variety you can picture pressing to your ear as you tried to cook dinner. My mom went to it, checked for dial tone, and passed it to me in that straight-armed way people do in horror movies, as if to cryptically mutter, It’s for you.
I’ll be downstairs, she said.
Thank you.
She left me, and I faced the keypad. I dialed home and pressed the receiver to my ear and listened to the tinny rings roll out. Most likely they hadn’t released Gramps from the hospital, and I’d have to call there next, but for whatever reason I dialed his home number first. It was early, but he rose early every day because he loved his mornings, that underbreath of chill before the heat. At three rings I figured I’d let it go once more.
A woman’s voice: Hello?
Nora? I said. It’s Alan.
Hi Alan.
How’re you guys doing?
You know your grandfather, she said, but I couldn’t tell if she was making a joke.
Archer’s still kicking.
That’s good news. Did you find Linnea?
Yes.
From her end came a small tick, a fingernail rapped on mouthpiece.
Gramps awake? I said.
Is the American there with Linnea?
Yes.
She paused. Crib?
Yes.
I listened to her breath, rhythmic, unhurried. How’s Archer?
Still kicking, I said, very slowly.
Alan.
He asked me to bring him a gun.
Did you?
No.
Okay, she said, sounding tired, or fed up. I’ll go wake Cecil.
Her footsteps droned over Gramps’ echoey floor. I still wonder how much she knew of Archer’s goal on that trip, what they’d talked about and if she’d deciphered, over their years together, what drove him. He’d pined for his daughter for three decades; at first, I thought it an immense act of love, of dedication unparalleled, but I realize now that it may been something else—those other, darker emotions that can sustain us. Jealousy, revenge.
Gramps manhandled the phone to his ear. The hell do you want? he said.
Thought I’d call to make sure you hadn’t gone lazy.
Big words.
I can’t punch you through the phone, I said. But I would.
He chuckled. Face to face, I’d have seen those spark burns on his chin rise with the hook of his smile. Things going alright?
It’s not a walk in the park, that’s for sure.
I don’t want you out there anymore. Too dangerous.
Sympathy, Gramps? From you?
I imagined his grin, the fire that enters his eyes when he spies a fight, even a silly one. You know what they say about sympathy?
The flak you give me, I said. After all I’ve done for you.
He loosed something like a sigh—that comfort of sinking into a routine you know well, a place you like. He had so few people, I realized.
Gramps.
You can head home now, he said, weakly.
The receiver scratched against his chin, the stubble. He didn’t know how to ask for help—I don’t think he ever really learned how. Archer die yet? he said.
He’s trying to help.
Gramps grunted, whatever that meant. Nora says there’s an American there.
Colton, yeah.
I knew him as Crib.
There might be an altercation.
That’s my boy.
He’s a cop.
That’s great.
Great?
Yeah, Gramps said. That law won’t let him kill you, and he sure as hell can’t make you uglier, so I can sleep easy now.
Fuck you, Gramps, I said, but found myself grinning—couldn’t help it—even though I wanted to tell him everything that’d happened. He could help me: he had advice to give, practicalities to point out. He’d come up with an escape plan for me, and I’d agree with his assessment, and he’d tell me to leave Archer behind if I had to—and I’d agree with that too. But something held me back from bringing him in. I don’t understand what. I might never understand. Who knows: that, right then, might’ve changed everything.
Now seriously, be careful with Crib. Especially if Archer’s there. Those two don’t mix.
I guessed that.
Quick on the uptake, like always. Archer figures he still owes Crib one, but that’s grudge-holding even by my standards. You know?
Does he? Still owe him one?
I don’t know, Alan, Gramps said, and I pictured him shaking his head and the way one of his cheeks would pinch up, not quite a dimple. I don’t know how his mind works anymore. Maybe I never did.
Well, he’s in a wheelchair.
He’s the stubbornest person I ever knew. A wheelchair might not stop him.
Above me, on the Verge’s roof, rainfall juddered like some faraway war drum. I spied a canister of boot polish tucked half inside a nearby drawer. All the stainless steel gave the kitchen a smell like the confines of a subway car—clean in a way that suggests it will be dirty soon. I wanted to ask him if he was happy to see Nora and if his chest ached or if he still expected to die soon.
Gramps, I said, and swallowed to find the words. What’re you planning to say to Jack?
He’s your dad.
Come on.
I heard him huff, pictured his mouth clack in circles. I don’t know, he said. Hello, maybe.
It’s a good start.
Oh fuck off, he said.
Nora said something and over the noise of Gramps’ breath it sounded vaguely like a demand. His voice barked an answer, muffled because he’d buried the phone in his shirt. Of course they’d be fighting—how else could they begin to fit themselves together?
I lost Puck.
Whereabouts?
I cleared my throat, swallowed down a frog. Gramps didn’t skip a beat: I’ll miss him.
It was my fault.
No, Alan. It’s my fault.
That’s not true.
I fucked up. I fucked everything up. This too.
Bullshit, I said, but I don’t think he even heard me. Did Nora tell you that?
I never had a good son, but I got lucky with you, he said, and his voice turned low and husky, more breath than word. It’s a voice I’ve rarely heard him use since: later, for some throaty lines mumbled at Nora’s funeral; with Jack, after all the bullshit and bravado, for a clumsy It’s good to see you; and to me, of course—some years after, when, once more alone, he’d tell me he didn’t know how anything worked, and least of all people.
Shut up, Gramps.
No, I’m sick of this. You’re the only reason I got through.
Shut up, I said into the phone, and realized with a start that I’d pinched my eyes shut. When I opened them, there at the end of the kitchen stood my mom. A breeze shifted in—maybe through the skylight—and gusted her with its campfire smells, and she turned so that her shortish hair swished over her cheek and the mole on her jugular: an expression of supreme nonchalance. Her shoulders rose and fell in one big, exasperated breath. She thought I was yelling at Gramps, that she’d been right about him and Jack.
Fair enough, Gramps said before I could recover. Say hi to your mother for me.
Then, with a click, he was gone.
I squeezed the phone to its holster. He says hi.
You good? she said.
Yes, I told her. I’m good.
She put her hip on the doorway and looked at me like a stranger. Colt thinks the fires are going to make a move, and I tend to believe him.
What’s that mean?
I’ll give you the keys to our jeep. Take it, and Colt can’t pursue you. But you don’t mention me.
Why now? I said.
She bared her teeth. I never loved Jack. He’s an idiot, and an alcoholic. But I don’t want him to die.
She shoved off the wall and ducked through the doorway and I heard her footsteps retreat downstairs. Outside, the raindrops drummed on the dry ground, their sound muted and constant as bass. The kitchen’s one window was greased square-by-square with ash, but streaks of water cut culverts through the grime and I could squint through it, see the landscape in slices—the mountains like a diorama, the nearby pines as green as health, that sense of being a part of the bigness and of being bigger yourself, as a result. A nice place, in nicer times. Right then, the mountains were slate-grey cutouts lined orange—a child’s sketch of Hades—and their trees had dried the colour of rusting steel. You couldn’t distinguish the rainclouds from the fires’ smoke overhead, and the sky just foamed, dark and stubborn as those waves that lap the coastline smooth.
ARCHER WAS STANDING near the foot of the stairwell, his weight heavy on the bannister while one of the boys hauled his chair down. He’d wrapped himself in a thin blanket that draped from his shoulders to the floor where it gathered in a pool. The boy placed the chair before him and Archer gave an old man’s nod.
You walked downstairs?
Up and down again. I told you, I just can’t feel my feet. Quicker to use the chair.
He hunched forward, favoured one of his legs.
You okay? I said.
Just achy, he said, and waved a hand through the sl
it of his makeshift shawl, shooing the boy away. Go on.
When the kid had left earshot, I said, I’m heading after Jack.
Archer looked like he was leaning on a crutch, or cane. He pivoted himself around, but didn’t sit. I’ll hang back on this one, he said.
You’re cocked sideways, I told him.
Achy, he said again, with some annoyance.
Need a hand?
He waved at me, a flick of the wrist. Get out of here.
I’m taking his jeep, I said, so he can’t follow. You need anything from me?
No, he snapped. Just get outta here.
Keep your head down.
I’m not a fucking baby, he said.
You sure you’re okay?
Yes.
Something bothering you, old man?
Yes, he said, and shook a finger at me. You.
I half expected him to prod me in the chest. But he was old, pissed off at nothing—I let him be.
In the Verge’s parking lot, Colton and my mom were arguing. I hung back and let them hash it out. Rain clung to the pebbles and the air smelled at once bone-dry and wet, as if with every breath we were using up what scarce moisture remained. An alien wind cooed from the west. When you listened, you’d hear only quiet—the emptiness of abandon. Every living thing had fled; the animals sensed what lay hidden below the threshold of our awareness. Colton gave my mom the cold shoulder and faced me. He took off toward me at an aggressive pace, and I thought: here we go.
I told you you can’t go until this is through, made myself pretty clear. Hoss, I don’t appreciate you recruiting my wife against me.
Please, I said.
No, no more please. Go back inside.
Come on, Colton.
He grappled for his handcuffs. There are other people here than just you, Alan. I can’t have you cavaliering off as you see fit. And I can’t trust you to make the right decision. So. Go back inside.
Just let me take the risk. The wind’s changing. I gotta get Jack. He’ll die.