We'll Fly Away

by Bryan Bliss

  “You hit the gym, maybe people will stop fucking with you.” Jimmy flicked Toby’s ear playfully. Put up his fists like they were going to box.

  “The ladies like me this way,” Toby said.

  Jimmy snorted. “Well, that’s some positive thinking right there.”

  Who knew why his dad was here, let alone how many beers he’d already put away. Negotiating even the simplest deal with him was more complicated than anything Toby did in trig, so he spoke in open statements, “I was thinking . . . I might . . .” Always waiting for an opportunity, a way to navigate the minefield. His dad was staring at the parking lot, the thin blue smoke from his cigarette surrounding his head like a halo when he said, “All right. Let’s hit it.”

  Toby flinched, opened his mouth. Luke met his eyes and shook his head quickly.

  “I was going to have Toby help me with my math tonight,” Luke said.

  “Yeah. And we’re watching the boys for Doreen,” Toby added.

  Jimmy shook his head, not unkindly. The way someone might if they saw a young child being mischievous.

  “Nah, I’ve got a surprise for the boy.” When he faked a punch at Toby this time, Luke jumped. Jimmy smiled, looking Luke up and down.

  “Look at you. Mr. Big Time.”

  Luke had squared up to Jimmy only once before, and nothing had happened. Jimmy had cuffed him and gone back to his beer, laughing. They took off, waiting hours and hours until they were convinced he’d cooled off. Toby had seen his dad challenged enough times to know that Luke had gotten off light. It was either courage or stupidity that took over his father’s head in moments like this. He never showed weakness, never backed down. Jimmy cocked his head and looked at Luke long and hard.

  “I’ll give you the answers tomorrow morning before school,” Toby said quickly, starting toward his dad’s beat-to-shit truck. Hoping Jimmy would follow.

  They drove down River Road, toward their trailer, with the windows down, the heater cranked, and Waylon Jennings pumping loudly through the speakers. The truck didn’t have air conditioning and barely had heat, but the radio was top-of-the-line. You could hear it two counties away.

  “Waylon was supposed to die on that plane with Buddy Holly,” Jimmy yelled. “But God was like, ‘Shit no. This guy is special.’ Listen—right there. You hear that note? Damn, boy.”

  Some families had religion, Toby’s had Waylon. His grandfather—Toby had only met the man a handful of times before he ended up on the wrong side of a knife in a bar in Startown—had taken his chances in Nashville. Even opened for a few big names in the early seventies. Names that meant nothing to Toby. There were still people in this town who would stop Toby and comment on the way his grandfather could sing and play—like an angel or a devil, depending. But he had also been a notorious drunk, meaner than Jimmy, if that could be believed. After he didn’t make it in Nashville, they had moved back to North Carolina so he could work in the furniture mills.

  Jimmy sang along with Waylon as he took the turn into the plot of land that held their trailer. His voice was a high tenor that faltered at the top of his range. As if he was so brokenhearted he couldn’t bear to hold the notes any longer. One of the best memories Toby had was hearing his dad—drunk, Toby now knew—softly singing to his mother over the phone. Convincing her to come back.

  When the trailer came into view, a car was parked sideways in the turnabout that circled their front lawn. The paint shone under the single bulb of their porch light. When Jimmy saw the car, he slammed on the brakes.

  “Whose car is that?”

  Toby’s heart started pounding. He squinted into the darkness, trying to see if he knew the car. Hoping he didn’t. Jimmy didn’t like visitors, even when it was Luke. Toby knew Jimmy was involved in some petty criminal activity—selling stolen cell phones, the occasional scheme. He knew about the revolver wrapped in a T-shirt and stashed in the back of the closet.

  “Whose fucking car is that?” his dad asked again.

  “Maybe Silas got a new car,” Toby said. Silas was one of Jimmy’s oldest friends from high school, two-thirds of a group of hell-raisers that were still legendary in Catawba County. Most of the stories ended with somebody going to jail. Bo, the third, had been in prison for close to six years.

  “Hell no. Silas couldn’t handle a sexy-ass car like that. Look at it. That kind of car is guaranteed to get a dude some ass.”

  Toby looked at his dad for a moment. Maybe he was high. The car—an El Camino with a wolf mural on the tailgate—might as well have a blinking caution light. NO LADIES ALLOWED.

  “Yeah. I don’t think so.”

  A flash of annoyance crossed Jimmy’s face. Toby instinctively scooted back as his father reached into his pocket, struggling to pull something out. He cussed once, finally producing a set of keys.

  “You always got something to say, don’t you?”

  Jimmy held the keys out to Toby, who didn’t take them.

  “What is this?” Toby asked.

  “You are just like your damn mother, I swear.” Jimmy pushed the keys into Toby’s hands. They were heavy, which may have been the resin-skull key chain that now dangled from his hands. Toby wasn’t sure what to say.

  “It’s . . . mine?”

  Jimmy laughed once. “Shit, if my dad ever gave me a car I would’ve been out the door. Not sitting around asking questions. Do I need to rethink this?”

  Toby shook his head and jumped out of the truck. He didn’t have any more questions. Didn’t need to hear another word.

  November 17

  T—

  The first time I saw Eddie, he was dunking on this guy everybody calls Simon because he repeats every damn thing you say. You’ll be like, “Can I borrow a piece of paper?” And he’ll say, “Can you borrow a piece of paper.” Not a question, either. He’ll just say it, like he needs to think on it really deeply.

  Anyway, I was standing there watching them play ball, and this old dude just takes off. One second he’s standing there and the next he’s in the air looking like he could jump over those razor fences, the walls. Anything they put in front of him.

  Every dude in the yard went nuts. Hands in the air like Jesus himself had thrown down that dunk. From what Sister told me, Eddie was nothing short of God when he played basketball. Had a scholarship to every school in this state until he got a taste for drugs—for robbing gas stations. One night, blasted out of his mind, Eddie killed two clerks at a store. Shot another woman as she was walking in to buy lottery tickets. Everybody in here has the same story, T. Just the details change.

  But Eddie’s different. You’ll never hear him say he was innocent. And trust me, every guy in this place is innocent. Just ask them. They’re always talking about how the Supreme Court’s going to free them. How the governor’s going to see the light. But not Eddie. What he did hangs over him like a cloud, a constant presence. Guys will press him like, “Yeah, but they had it coming, right?” And he’ll get really quiet. Like he’s trying to remind himself of something.

  He never answers, though. Never gives one excuse for what he did.

  The first time I met Sister, I told her I was guilty. I thought she’d appreciate me owning it, because that’s all you hear once you get inside. Accept. Repent. Wait. I’d already said the words a hundred times to lawyers and judges and newspaper reporters. “I am guilty.” But here’s the thing: everybody expects the next part of that sentence to be “. . . and I’m sorry.”

  But man, I’m not.

  So my first lawyer never had a chance. I wouldn’t say a damn word to help him or me. We set a land-speed record getting from that night to sentencing. I just wanted it over. I didn’t want to give cold feet a chance to show up. Didn’t want anyone telling me I was innocent. The last time I saw him was right before they sent me here. He looked me in the eye and said more lawyers were coming to help.

  And sure enough, a few months later, Marilyn showed up. That first time, she lit into the CO when he didn’t get me into the roo
m quickly enough. I tell you what, they don’t waste any time now. My ass is in that chair before she even walks into the room. Every week she’s here too. Talking strategy and breathing fire.

  Whenever she comes in, it’s always the same thing. Telling me how I didn’t do myself any favors. How everything from my childhood, everything about you and me, should’ve been presented to the court.

  She’s always like, “This matters.”

  But confessing was the end for me. Lock me up. Let me just be. But I guess that’s not Marilyn’s style. Today, when she was here, she was especially fired up. Huffing as she paged through my files. Glancing at me every few seconds like she was reading a bad report card.

  The more she looked at me, the more I knew what was coming next. The frustration would turn to anger at the cops, the lawyers, the judge. Anybody who had a hand in me sitting here. It always ends with her trying to get me to believe that telling that story one more time will make some sort of fucking difference.

  I turned around in my chair and yelled at the CO, this big-ass dude everybody calls Sasquatch. “Take me back!”

  Marilyn stood up and touched me on the shoulder, saying, “Luke, Luke, Luke.” And of course Sasquatch was like, “No touching!” in that gruff voice they think makes them sound hard. Marilyn pulled back her hand like I was a burning flame.

  Everything was rushing past me like I was standing in traffic, T.

  I stood up, probably too fast, because Sasquatch put me up against the wall. His mouth went to the microphone clipped to his shoulder, saying he needed assistance. And I don’t know what happened, but something snapped. I started pushing against those bricks like I was trying to keep myself alive. But that fat ass put his weight against the back of my knees. After that, I went slack and all I could say was, “I’m done. I’m done. I’m done.”

  Marilyn lost her mind. Her screaming at Sasquatch was the last thing I heard before they started pushing me through the pod, which is about the worse situation you can ever find yourself in, man. That means isolation. It’s silence and four walls that, after a few hours, might as well be infinite. Being alone like that works its way inside you, burrows deep into your bones, your brain.

  Doesn’t matter if it’s a day, a week. When you come out, you’re different. Bent in a direction you were never meant to be.

  Luke

  5

  LUKE walked home slowly, his legs heavy and his stomach hollow, staring at the sky. Trying to catch stars behind the cloudy darkness. Anything to keep his mind from playing out what could be happening with Toby and Jimmy.

  When they were kids, Toby had come into a set of walkie-talkies. Sometimes Jimmy gave Toby things, never wrapped—always thrown at his feet like something he’d killed. Still, the walkie-talkies were quality, the sort of thing used on construction sites. Sometimes in the middle of the night, Luke’s would chirp and he’d hear Toby’s cracked voice, asking him to come to the plane. It was never good, but something about the memory made Luke wish he could rewind time. Could go back to one of those moments when he and Toby spent the night huddled together in the husk of that plane, barely saying a word.

  Luke tried to push the memory away, but it was pointless. Scene after scene from their childhood played in his head until he was in the parking lot of the complex.

  The apartment door was cracked open and his mom was on the couch, sitting on the lap of a man wearing a sleeveless camouflage T-shirt. They were sharing a cigarette, neither noticing Luke standing in the doorway. It wasn’t until Jack-Jack came running toward him that his mom looked up.

  “Luke!” She was drunk, stumbling sideways and laughing as she sloppily embraced him. “We’ve been waiting for you!”

  She laughed again when the man pinched her on the ass and said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Stop it,” she said, playfully swiping at his hand. He passed the cigarette up to her. “Luke, this is Ricky. He’s a supervisor down at the Pepsi plant.”

  Ricky stood up and reached his hand toward Luke, not taking his eyes off Doreen. Luke shook it limply, and Ricky turned to face him.

  “I thought you were some kind of badass wrestler,” he said. “What kind of handshake is that?”

  “Luke, shake his hand properly,” his mom said.

  Ricky clamped his hand on Luke’s, this time grinning and looking Luke square in the eye. He wasn’t a big man, a good six inches shorter than Luke. He had the look of a football player a few years past his prime, the type of guy who ate at buffets. Ricky considered Luke for another second before glancing back to Doreen, a pandering smile on his face.

  “I’m going to shower,” Luke said.

  His mother lit another cigarette, yelping when Ricky dropped onto the couch next to her. They both ignored him.

  Luke let the warm water fall over his body. Normally he looked forward to his time in the shower. The twins weren’t constantly running to him for food or attention. He could think, jerk off—disappear as the steam enveloped the room. This time he wasn’t in the shower five minutes when Petey burst in and said, “Mom needs your help!”

  He was out, dry, and dressed a few minutes later. In the kitchen, his mom was struggling to get the large pot of mashed potatoes off the stove.

  “Help me with this,” she said.

  Luke lifted the pot easily, holding it as she scooped the thick mash into a glass bowl. His grandmother had taught Doreen to cook when she was young, telling her only daughter that men didn’t care about school, only a woman who could cook, clean, and keep her mouth shut. Doreen had jumped in his father’s Camaro when she was fifteen and, not a year later, had Luke bouncing on her knee. They’d only been back to the small Virginia coal-mining town of Doreen’s youth once, maybe twice in Luke’s life.

  “You could’ve asked Ricky to help,” Luke said.

  “He’s our guest,” his mom said in a theatrical whisper. “Besides, he’s relaxing.”

  Luke looked into the living room. Ricky had a beer between his legs and sat there staring past the television show the boys were watching. Every few seconds, he brought the bottle to his lips.

  “He’s not spending the night,” Luke said. It came out more of a question than he would’ve liked.

  “Oh, shit.” She sucked a glob of hot potato from her finger, chasing it with another sip from her wine. “And of course he’s not spending the night. Is that how you think of me?”

  Luke didn’t answer. He wanted to believe she’d wake up one day and realize how hard he and the twins had been living. When Luke was younger, sometimes they’d go on little day trips—Doreen called them vacations—to state parks that had waterfalls, malls that seemed to last for miles, and even a zoo once or twice. They’d eat at restaurants with shiny menus that promised free ice cream after the mini corn dogs or chicken nuggets. Luke would lose himself on those trips, but it didn’t matter where they were, or how much fun he’d had—the same inexplicable dread slowly crept back into his body the moment they were pointed back home.

  “Take the meat loaf,” she said, nodding to the still-steaming pan. He followed her—mashed potatoes in one hand, pre-packed dinner rolls in the other—into the living room.

  They ate on TV trays, the television now turned to bull riding. Ricky knew a guy who rode on the professional tour. Every time a new cowboy came up, the twins got really excited and asked Ricky if that was his friend. After the fifth or sixth time, he snapped at them to be quiet. Luke stared at his mom, but all she did was move food around her plate.

  Luke, of course, wasn’t eating. He nibbled on mini carrots that he’d sneaked out of the school cafeteria. He was working through one at a time when Ricky tapped his fork on his plate and pointed it at Luke.

  “What’s his deal?”

  “Oh, he’s trying to make weight,” Doreen said. “He’s . . . how much do you need to lose, honey?”

  Luke ignored the “honey.” Language like that only came out when she was drinking wine or there were people to im
press.

  “Four pounds.”

  Ricky took a drink of his beer but didn’t say anything else. Still, every few minutes he’d look at Luke’s carrots and shake his head. Every swallow brought another look, each one more amused than the last. Finally he cleared his throat.

  “Look at these guys.” Ricky pointed the tip of his bottle at the television screen. “Those are men. They don’t eat fucking carrots. That’s real cowboy shit, right there.”

  One of the riders in the chute reworked his grip around the rope. Once his hand was in place, he started nodding like he was trying to convince himself it was a good idea to be strapped to a thousand pounds of muscle. Then they released him into the arena. The entire ride took five seconds, ending with the cowboy running for the fence as the bull bucked itself around the arena.

  Luke ate another carrot and didn’t say a thing. He had nothing to prove to Ricky and was more than willing to drop it. To go back to vaguely ignoring him the way he’d ignored all of Doreen’s other boyfriends.

  “Now, I played football,” Ricky said.

  “Of course you did,” Luke muttered under his breath.

  Ricky stopped chewing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing. I just know a lot of football players.”

  Luke smiled. He knew exactly how Ricky would react. His mom wasn’t blitzed enough to be blind to what was happening. She laughed nervously and put a hand on Ricky’s forearm.

  “He takes wrestling really seriously, that’s all.” She shot a look at Luke. “Right, honey?”

  Luke didn’t answer, kept smiling at his plate of carrots.

  “You really think you’re something, don’t you?” Ricky asked.