by Martin Clark
There was also small-town scuttlebutt that Denise had slipped a time or two or three or five since reconciling with Gates, talk that she’d been spotted at the Tanglewood Beach Music Festival with Wayne or gotten hooted with her girlfriends and mentioned him favorably or been seen picking up her car—early in the morning—from the elementary school parking lot not far from his house. And who could blame her, given what Gates had to offer and his headstrong, good-for-nothing nature?
Wayne was a paradoxical fellow, a handsome boy who’d moved from Georgia to Stuart with his parents in the middle of his ninth-grade year and finished Patrick County High School with Gates’s class. Quiet but tightly wound, Wayne had been in a vicious, bloody fistfight in the school hallway and tended to turn scarlet around his jawline when a teacher called on him with a math problem he was unable to solve or a treaty date he couldn’t remember. Yet he was polite to the point of shyness, a whiz with an arc welder, a volunteer at the old-folks home, the treasurer of the Spanish Club. He’d begun a minimum-wage, part-time job with the highway department while he was still in school, and nine years after earning his diploma, he was employed at the same place, now an assistant foreman with a few night classes at Patrick Henry Community College to his credit, drawing a steady state check, cruising the roads in a bright orange VDOT truck, keeping tabs on bridge repairs, potholes and vandalized traffic signs.
He’d fathered a child out of wedlock but never hemmed and hawed about paternity. He let the lad take the name Wayne Jr., paid for the baby’s delivery at the hospital and made arrangements to have child support deducted from his check and forwarded to the mother in Roanoke. By all accounts he generally attempted to do right by his son, keeping him every other weekend and treating him to dirt-track races, Santa photos at the Martinsville Kmart, a Myrtle Beach vacation and trips to the Patrick County fair, even though the boy was too young to ride most of the attractions or win prizes on his own. It was widely known that Wayne had once sucker punched Harley Stevens at the Old Dominion roadhouse and then kicked him in the ribs when he was flat on the floor, but if anyone had it coming, it was Harley, a lout and a loudmouth, so the law was never notified and nothing more came of it.
The brothers were still in the Corvette, the engine idling, Huey and the News playing, when Wayne appeared on the deck. He was wearing a snug leather jacket scarred by asymmetrical silver zippers and black jeans rolled into chunky cuffs. Gates erupted from the car without turning it off. “What the hell do you think you’re doin’?” he demanded, striding for the trailer, Mason instinctively falling in beside him. Claude saw the Hunts sail out in a hurry, and he jogged a few steps from his pickup to join them.
“It’s a free country, Gates.” Wayne was walking guardedly toward his RX-7, careful not to act cowed or to blink too much.
Denise stepped onto the deck and told Gates to calm down. She was a shapely, graceful woman with a striking face, and she pushed her hair back with both hands after she spoke.
Wayne made it to his car, where he opened the door but didn’t get in. Gates and Mason halted at the bottom of the wooden deck steps. Their friend Claude, a beanpole of a man with a sketchy mustache, was beside them. “How many times do I have to tell you to stay away from Denise?” Gates shouted. “Huh? Am I just goin’ to have to beat your ass to a pulp so you’ll understand?”
“This is Denise’s property, not yours, Gates. You ain’t got any control over how she uses it or who she sees.”
Denise didn’t hesitate. “Wayne, I’ve asked you before not to come around. You’re a good guy, but right now you’re just making things bad for all of us.”
Wayne put his hands on his hips and squared off toward Gates. “I’d be embarrassed if I was you, Gates. Damn right I would. A grown man and you don’t even have a pot to piss in. Livin’ off your mama and your girlfriend.”
Mason had a fast grip on his brother’s biceps, but surprisingly, Gates didn’t attempt to pull free or rush Wayne or ape through a frenetic, piss-and-vinegar, hold-me-back charade in an attempt to impress Denise. Instead, he half-smiled and chuckled, stared at the closest step and kicked the ground next to a bright yellow mum. “Yeah, Wayne, you’re the man,” he said in a mocking tone, pausing to look up. “King of the road, ridin’ around and shoveling dead possums and dogs off the highway. We all want to be you.”
“Nice jacket,” Mason chimed in gratuitously, making certain there was no doubt where his allegiance lay. “Part of the Knight Rider collection?” He released Gates’s arm.
“Opossum Boy,” Claude added.
Wayne seemed relieved that this was the extent of the confrontation and that the brothers were keeping their distance, content to insult him from across the yard. “You all can kiss my ass,” he said as he was sliding into his car, but the words didn’t have much vigor in them. He drove to the main road, stuck his middle finger out the window in their direction, turned left and disappeared on the other side of a severe curve.
Agitated again, Gates stared up at Denise, who was bent over the porch railing, a small crook in her back, her arms stiff and supporting her weight. “What the fuck was he doin’ here?” Gates asked, his voice sharp. “In your house?”
“He came by and said he needed to talk to me, claimed it was important and wouldn’t wait.”
“And you said, ‘Sure, come on in and I’ll chill the champagne and put on something low-cut?’”
The Corvette was still running, and Claude scurried toward it, eager to be occupied. He took a seat on the driver’s side and switched off the engine, staying put after the car went quiet.
“It’s not like that at all, Gates,” Denise protested. “I haven’t even seen him in months, and he shows up on my porch with no warning, hell-bent and beggin’ me for five minutes. I told him you were on the way, but he was bound and determined to speak his piece, so I let him. I can’t help it if he shows up out of the blue, now can I? I was as surprised as you.”
“So why can’t he do his important talkin’ on the porch?” Gates asked.
“Listen, Gates,” she said, her voice gaining an edge, “if you want to pick a fight about this, fine. But I’m not going to stand here and listen to you cuss me and accuse me of crap I didn’t do, okay?” She straightened up from the railing. “He caught me by surprise, and when he asked if he could come in I said yes. Anyone would. I’m sorry if that’s a sin. I told him you and me were together, and you and Mason were due any second.”
“You heard her, Gates,” Mason said, touching his brother’s shoulder. “You heard her tell him how things are.”
“What’d he say?” Gates demanded. “Why’d he drive out here in such a lather? Why today? All of a sudden?”
“Just stuff, Gates. It’s not worth repeatin’.” She was looking directly at him. Her hands had shifted to her hips, but her tone was more plaintive now, conciliatory.
“You want me to move the truck closer?” Claude asked from the Corvette. “I think I will.”
Gates ignored him. “He was walking on the very deck I built, talkin’ shit about me and hittin’ on you, right? That pretty well sums it up, doesn’t it?”
“Yes, Gates, but like I said, I told him to forget it. You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when I opened the door and he was standin’ there. I don’t know what in the world made him come out here all torn up after…Well, you know, I haven’t said more than hello to him since forever, and the last time we discussed the situation I was crystal clear about me and you, and him not fittin’ into the picture.”
“Pretty exceptional circumstances,” Mason said. “And she handled them with class, as well as could be expected.” He focused on Gates, trying to make him see reason.
“He’s a piece of shit,” Gates said, but he wasn’t looking at anyone, instead was staring at the curve where the RX-7 had driven out of sight. “I could snap him in two if I wanted,” he muttered, still locked onto the road.
“Just forget it, Gates,” Mason encouraged him.
; “I think he’s gone for good,” Denise said. “Come on, Gates, let’s not ruin the day.”
“If he ever says another word to you or even so much as drives by here, I want you to tell me.” Gates twisted his head so he could glare at his girlfriend above him. Two creases met and formed a “V” between his eyebrows. His mouth was a peeved slit. “We understand each other?”
“Yes, Gates,” she said.
“I’m heart-attack serious,” he warned her.
“Okay, Gates. So now can we just put it behind us, please?”
“Fine advice,” Mason told him. “Let’s see about unloading the dresser.”
“Yeah…well…well, first let’s see about a stout drink to celebrate how ol’ Wayne tucked tail and ran,” Gates suggested, his tone brightening.
“Count me in,” Claude said.
“The bottle’s under the seat, Claude.” Gates started up the steps. “You got any mixer, baby?”
“Probably,” Denise answered.
“You gonna have one with us?” He walked to where she was and put his arm around her. “It’s the weekend and a pretty day and we have a special guest appearance by Mason, the boy wonder.”
“I might,” she said.
“How about you, Mason?” Gates asked. “You gotta bend an elbow with me, no more than we see each other.”
“Sure, a beer would be great.”
Denise spoke almost before he finished the sentence. “I’m fresh out, Mason. I knew you were going to say that’s what you wanted. I’ve only got a few wine coolers and a dab of vodka Gates left in my car. I’ll be glad to drive to the store—what kind do you like?”
“Don’t worry about it. There’s no need to go to any trouble. I’m happy with whatever’s here.”
“I need to get some cigarettes anyway,” she said. “It’s not a problem.”
“I’ll drink a wine cooler or some vodka. No big deal. I’m okay.”
Despite his protests, Mason’s simple beer request was soon made the mainspring for a slice of the improvised, freewheeling, low-wattage hedonism that Gates could scare up from the barest of surroundings, and just like that the men were checking their wallets and Denise was contributing a ten from her purse, and since Claude and Mason were going to buy beer they might as well grab burgers, buns and charcoal and another bottle of vodka, and while they were taking care of business in town Gates and Denise would pick out some excellent tunes and roll a joint from the reserve she kept hidden in a tampon box, and she would call her friend Shannon to see if she wanted to come to a cookout, and the dresser stayed put, draped in patchwork while the party took root around it.
The quarrel with Wayne Thompson was forgotten by the time Shannon arrived at three o’clock with her cousin Suzi from Florida. The women brought chips and snacks, but it was left to Claude to cook the hamburgers, and it was growing dark before they ate supper, everyone except Mason buzzed off the pot and beer and vodka and peach wine coolers, and even Mason drank four Budweisers, more than normal for him. Goosed by the alcohol, he was probably too long with his explanation when he phoned their mom to let her know they were delayed at Denise’s trailer, helping her move heavy furniture. “Don’t bother waiting up for us,” he sheepishly told Sadie Grace.
After the Blue Ridge Mountains completely stamped out the sun, the six of them sat on the porch wrapped in jackets or blankets, watching the orange briquettes fade to ash, talking nonsense, swapping stories and singing and howling along with “Werewolves of London.” They moved on to drinking games with a deck of cards—Mason didn’t play—and Claude entertained everyone with his impressions: Nixon, Reagan and John Wayne at a bordello. Gates was stoned, relaxed, happy to be with his girlfriend and delighted to have his brother home for a visit. All afternoon, he’d teased Mason about his prissy diction and tight-ass habits, but encouraged by a shotgunned beer, he finally broke down and encircled Mason in a headlock and told him how proud he was, and there was no doubt he was sincere, meant every word. When he turned loose of his brother, none of the others said anything, just sat there with dopey grins and starched eyes, the women and Claude wholly taken in by the men’s affection for each other. A dog barked somewhere close by, a car whooshed past, the cassette finished and the portable stereo clicked off.
Shannon broke the silence, sweetly blurting that she loved Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass, having heard them as a kid on an eight-track her folks owned, and her Florida cousin suddenly left for the car and returned with a spiral-bound notebook and volunteered to read some of her poems. Mason politely noted he’d be glad to listen but warned her he didn’t much care for poetry: it was a fine trick, but what in the world to do with it. “It’s like a party favor or a Matchbox car or those stunted trees and shrubs people carve all tiny and precious, kind of literary bonsai.” For several mute moments, they all looked at him as if he’d solved Stonehenge or translated the Dead Sea Scrolls, then Gates began giggling and said, “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” and Claude snorted and snickered and the women began cutting up also, and the lot of them went on a laughing jag that didn’t end until Denise announced she needed to pee and wobbled off the porch.
Around ten thirty, after the dope, food, alcohol and cigs had been exhausted, Mason mentioned the firewood tree and his four-hour trip back to Richmond the next day. The men finally carried the dresser from the truck into Denise’s bedroom, and when they’d situated it in the space she’d cleared, Gates stood back, folded his arms, cocked his head and said with silly, exaggerated satisfaction, “Now that, gentlemen, is an excellent effort. Mission accomplished.” He debated staying the night with Denise, especially since Shannon and Suzi were making noises about traveling to the Dutch Inn Lounge in Martinsville for dancing and Fuzzy Navels, but he decided to kiss his girlfriend good night, biting her neck and squeezing her rear before letting her alone. He and Mason thanked Claude for the help, shook his hand and left him talking to the women about what to do next.
Like always, Gates—drunk, stoned—insisted he was going to drive, and Mason—sober, clearheaded—agreed he could, thus avoiding a skirmish over the keys and a pointless, profane give-and-take that would end with Gates even more determined to have his way and result in his speeding and ripping through the gears so as to demonstrate that he and his liquored-up self were beholden to nobody: it was his fuckin’ car and he would drive it and the hell with the police and the rest of them who wanted to tell him how to live his life. It helped that the rural roads to their mom’s house wouldn’t be busy, Gates was an old hand at drunk driving and there were ordinarily only two county deputies on duty, most likely lenient sorts who’d know both brothers and Sadie Grace and could be counted on to sigh and make the brothers change seats, or at worst, shake a finger at Gates and swear to him this was his last break.
They’d gotten to the crossroads at Five Forks, and Gates had just fished a cigarette butt from the ashtray and clicked fire to the last hint of tobacco when headlights zoomed in behind them, aggressive high beams, fierce illumination that made the knobs, gauges and numbers in the Corvette starkly apparent and lit the side of Gates’s face, his neck, his arm as it angled toward the shifter. They quickly identified the car as Wayne Thompson’s—“it’s friggin’ Wayne,” Gates said, his eyes rolled up toward the rearview mirror—and for the rest of their days, neither of them would know whether it was happenstance that Wayne had discovered them or whether he’d come looking, still brooding about his ill treatment at Denise’s trailer and determined to prove a point where she was concerned.
For reasons that seemed sound to a drunkard behind the wheel of a Corvette, a drunkard who was also frustrated and at war over a woman, Gates punched the gas, shot across the main highway and barreled down a two-lane side road, Wayne and the RX-7 right on his ass. Mason shouted at him to stop it, told him to quit acting like a moron, but Gates didn’t pay him any attention, and for two miles of narrow shoulders, blind curves and spotty, patched blacktop, Gates and Wayne performed reckless, pea-bra
ined stunts, the Corvette accelerating to eighty and then screeching as Gates jammed on the brakes, the RX-7 filling the lane beside the brothers so the two cars were racing down a country road door-to-door, neither of them yielding, neither of them giving the slightest thought to precisely what they were accomplishing.
Mason told Gates to slow down or he would jerk the car out of gear and let him worry with what happened after that. “I mean it, Gates. You better fucking quit it. You two can kill yourselves, but you’re sure not taking me with you.” He put his hand on Gates’s wrist and squeezed. “What the hell do you think this is proving?” Wayne had dropped behind them again but was still giving no quarter.
They zipped past a field of cattle and a lopsided barn. “Asshole,” Gates muttered, alternating his gaze between the mirror and the road. The word was slightly slurred, stuck to his tongue.
Mason leaned closer to the driver’s side and ratcheted up the pressure on Gates’s wrist. “I don’t know how you’re planning to pay for a blown engine or a new transmission.”
“I’ve had enough of this shit,” Gates said, his voice without inflection. He began slowing, gradually, and Wayne mimicked him, sixty to fifty to forty, the RX-7 following suit, its lights continuing to burn on high, thirty, twenty, ten, nothing, and the two cars were stopped dead in the road. A lackadaisical moon and a pasture with large round hay rolls at one corner were to their right, a tangle of woods, mostly pines, was on the left.