Founder

by Jodi Payne

  Len approached him slowly and Aubrey slid the lead into his hand. “You're mighty good at that. Didn't have to risk your neck for us, but I appreciate the help."

  Aubrey took a deep breath, finally letting his tension go. His fingers tingled a bit from being choked by the lead, and his back felt a little off, but he was fine. He was more than fine, actually, he felt better than he had in months. It was good to use his strength and his skills again, and it was a relief to find that his way with horses was something so natural. It felt comfortable again, like a worn-in hat. He hadn't realized how much he missed the animals.

  "Happy to help,” he told Len with a genuine smile. He'd forgotten what one of those felt like, too. “Haven't talked to a horse in a long, long time."

  "Well, friend, I'm just glad this one was inclined to listen.” Len said, offering his hand. “I'd offer to buy you a beer, but I think we better get everyone calm and get where we're going as fast as possible.” Joey was already loading the other mares back in.

  Aubrey shook Len's hand, watching his own start to shake a bit. “Thanks anyway, y'all have a safe trip,” he said, and started back toward the station. His hands shook again and he stuffed them in his pockets. It wasn't from the adrenaline anymore. Aubrey knew it well for what it was; the tremors that rocked him when he needed a drink.

  "Where the hell have you been?” Aubrey's supervisor shouted at him as he returned to the station.

  "On break."

  "You just got back from break, Jacek. Don't start with that crap."

  Aubrey kept on walking. “I quit."

  "What the hell are you talking about, Aubrey?"

  "I quit.” He turned, but kept on walking. “Find yourself another idiot.” He turned his back again and made his way toward the motel.

  "Not sure I'll ever find one as dumb as you, you drunk retard!"

  Aubrey wondered if he might be right.

  Chapter Nineteen

  The rain pounded down on the sidewalk outside and streaked the windows of the diner, distorting Aubrey's view of the street. On the edge of his table was the breakfast special; a plate of eggs, scrambled well, with bacon and a side of hash browns. The hash browns were half-eaten, the bacon was gone, but the eggs were untouched and cold.

  Beside his left hand was a hot cup of black coffee, kept full and steaming by the pretty, brunette waitress who said her name was Julie. In front of him was an unfinished, or more accurately, a barely begun letter to Kelly Ayers, the only man that Aubrey had thought about, when he'd been able to think clearly, since he'd left the gas station. And in Aubrey's slightly trembling right hand was a ballpoint pen that he'd stolen from the truck stop motel's nightstand just before he'd checked out.

  Coffee did the trick most of the time, but after a while instead of not enough alcohol, he'd have had too much caffeine and the effects were much the same. He closed his eyes against the headache that got a little better or a little worse but hadn't left him for two days, sighed, and rubbed the back of his neck. He knew what he wanted to tell Kelly, he just couldn't find the right words to say it. ‘I'm sorry’ seemed lame at this point, and far too little too late. ‘Please forgive me’ and ‘I love you’ were probably better things to say, but Kelly might not be receptive to them without the right amount of groveling first. He craved Kelly's forgiveness more than he craved the whiskey he hadn't touched for almost three whole days.

  He'd called Kelly twice since he quit his job at the filling station. The first time was right after he'd made the decision to dry out. He was so excited about it and he thought Kelly would want to know, but the kid wasn't around and he didn't leave a message.

  The second time was yesterday.

  Kelly, I'm done. I'm getting dry. I want to set things right and come home. I want to sit with you and explain everything and work this out. Will you have me?

  He'd had the words ready, he'd even practiced saying them. But when Kelly got on the line, he'd lost his nerve and hung up. What if he didn't get dry? What if he couldn't *stay* dry? He didn't want to make the kid any promises he couldn't keep. So all he had was pen and paper, and an aching heart to go with his aching head.

  He'd been an ass, he didn't need anyone to tell him that. What's worse, he'd been a drunkard and an ass, and he'd allowed the booze and depression to do all of his thinking for him. Kelly had made an effort, he knew that. The kid had offered up an olive branch more than once, and when Aubrey should have reached out for it, he'd hung up on Kelly instead.

  Yeah, he had a hell of lot of groveling to do.

  When he opened his eyes his vision was dim and hazy and no amount of blinking seemed to clear it. The dull ache at his temples suddenly became a wave of stabbing pain accompanied by a roar in his ears. As the nausea set in he frantically tugged his wallet from his jeans pocket and threw a handful of bills on the table, unsure of even what they were, then grabbed up his pen and paper and crumpled them together in one big hand before stumbling blindly out into the street.

  His new room in the residence hotel was only half a block away and he forced his feet to take him there, every step sending jarring waves of nausea through him. He'd be damned if he was going to lose his breakfast on the sidewalk, and he was even more determined to get into his room before the more debilitating effects of his withdrawal set in. He'd been waiting for this; he knew it would come and come on hard like it had with his father. His father, however, had been sixty-three and already fighting a heart condition. He hadn't made it through, even with the hospital's intervention.

  Aubrey had other plans.

  He leaned his weight against the door to his room, panting hard and already drenched with sweat. He fumbled the key and dropped it and that was when the tears started. Huge, heaving sobs that he couldn't control or attribute to anything in particular. He picked up the key in shaking fingers and somehow managed to open the door, closing and locking it securely behind him before collapsing onto the floor.

  "Oh, God,” he said out loud, sending up the first prayer he'd said in months. “God, I know I have to do this, just please get me through it fast.” And then he crawled to the bathroom and heaved up the contents of his stomach.

  The next hour was miserable, fraught with alternating bouts of vomiting and chills. He'd spend several long minutes leaning against the tub, shivering and moaning with his eyes closed to keep the headache at bay, only to be forced to his knees again by the spasms in his gut, which eventually brought up absolutely nothing, but wracked his body painfully all the same.

  Time became irrelevant after that, but eventually he was able to haul himself into bed where he lay motionless, grateful for the pillows and the soft mattress after the cold, hard reality of the tiled bathroom floor.

  He slept, or maybe he passed out, he couldn't tell which, and when he woke the headache seemed better, but his tongue felt thick and his throat was dry as a desert. Water was what he needed, but when he sat up, the jackhammer in his head returned with a vengeance and he had to lie back down, exhausted and defeated for the moment. He slipped into unconsciousness again.

  When he woke the next time the room was dark. There was a ray of light cutting through a gap in the curtains, probably from the streetlight outside. Aubrey had to get up this time, he had to piss and he absolutely needed water, so he rolled to his side and gingerly got himself upright.

  He was pleased to find that the headache, while still painful, wasn't nearly as intense and that the nausea from earlier had subsided. He made it to the bathroom and relieved himself for what felt like an eternity, then feebly tried to brush his teeth before filling a cup by the sink with water. He drank that one down and then another, taking a third back to bed with him. It was useless to do anything but try to rest at this point; he knew his ordeal was far from over. With any luck, however, it might leave him in peace before the next day was out.

  * * * *

  A ten year-old Aubrey stood silently, his back straight, his blue eyes forward, and his fingers to his forehead in a snapp
y salute. His light-brown hair was moppy and boyish, hanging in curls on his forehead and down the back of his neck.

  "Howdy, Tiger!” His father's voice was cheerful and warm. He was handsome and dressed in a crisply starched, tan uniform and smiling broadly. “Oh. Hang on,” he said, stopping short before Aubrey, echoing his son's stance. He lowered his hand sharply in acknowledgement and Aubrey did the same before allowing himself to smile. His father tugged him into a tight embrace. “God, I missed you, Tiger."

  "Me, too, Daddy.” Aubrey knew he was dreaming, but he could do nothing to rouse himself.

  Inside, his mother, who was dressed like June Cleaver, was making fried chicken and mashed potatoes in the kitchen.

  Aubrey groaned and rolled over as his dream took a dramatic turn into nightmare. A grey fighter jet hung in the air, framed by puffy, white clouds in a bright blue sky. It tilted slightly to one side and then the other in slow motion, leaving behind it a trail of white vapor. Another jet, black and ominous with deafening engines, roared overhead and the grey plane's tail was suddenly engulfed in flames.

  Its engines sputtered and coughed and then the nose angled sharply toward the ground and toward Aubrey's point of view. It dove right at him and Aubrey heard the faintest of screams, human and desperate as the plane drew closer. It banked, cartoon-like as it passed by, and Aubrey saw his father's face, ghost-white and panicked. He looked right at Aubrey and shouted “Mayday!"

  Aubrey woke abruptly, shaking hard and surrounded by a pool of his own sweat. He was panting and his head was pounding, and although he could tell that his skin was on fire, he was shivering from cold. He reached out to pull the blankets higher around him when someone called his father's name.

  "Wayne?” It was his mother's voice. Aubrey looked around the room wildly. “Wayne Ryan Jacek, have you been drinking again? Jesus, Wayne, look at you. Sorry son of a bitch. You were supposed to be watching the baby!"

  "He ain't a baby no more,” he heard himself, or his father, say.

  "Wayne, I swear to God, if you don't..."

  Aubrey's guts twisted and his vision blurred with the onset of another sharp, searing headache, and then everything went black.

  * * * *

  Aubrey blinked at himself in the mirror. He was completely naked and staring at himself, tears streaming down his face. The letter he'd started to write to Kelly at the diner was clutched tightly in one hand. He was shaking again and pale, but this time it was for a different reason. His heart was pounding and his ears were ringing and he couldn't for the life of him remember coming in here. He'd just come to his senses staring at himself, and he found that utterly terrifying.

  His panicked tears turned into sobs again and he sank to his knees on the hard tile. He pressed the letter in his hand to his forehead and let himself cry, let his shoulders shake and his chest heave, not looking for a reason, but knowing it needed to happen. At some point in the middle of it all he realized that the blinding headache he'd been battling was gone, leaving only a dull reminder in its wake; a raw feeling like something abrasive would leave behind. His sobs subsided shortly after that, though the tears continued, and he leaned heavily against the tub again, this time willing himself to relax.

  He memory of the last several hours, or days, was cloudy at best. More than anything he was exhausted, and he knew that at the very least he had a day or two of sleep ahead of him before he could drag himself out the other side of this tunnel. But just the fact that he was lucid was encouraging.

  Not only did he find that he was able to think more clearly, but his body responded to his commands. His heartbeat was returning to something closer to normal, his hands no longer shook, and he was able to get several deep, clean breaths into his lungs.

  "Thank you,” he prayed out loud before forcing himself back to bed.

  Chapter Twenty

  He was exhausted and sore for days. He had vague withdrawal symptoms now and then; a little headache, a queasy feeling in his stomach, and a few more hellish nightmares that twisted him into knots in one way or another. He felt beat up and battered, emotionally drained, but overall he was encouraged and optimistic that the worst was finally over.

  He'd survived.

  On what Aubrey thought was the fourth, or perhaps the fifth day after his withdrawal began, he decided it was time to get some air. He opened up the few windows that he had, letting in light and a chilly but fresh breeze. He scrubbed the bathroom, changed the sheets, got new towels, and threw all the dirty stuff into a bag. He shaved and brushed his teeth and resolved to get a hair cut. And when all of that was done, he discovered that he was starving. The return of his appetite was encouraging.

  He hit the laundromat first and started two machines going, then made his way to the diner that he'd left in a rush several horrible days ago to get something into his stomach. A waitress recognized him as soon as he came in, but he swore he'd never seen her before.

  "Sir!” The brunette made her way over to him. “Oh, I'm so glad you came back in. I think you made a mistake the other day.” She picked up a menu and led him to a table by a window that looked out on the street. “I appreciate a good tip as much as the next gal, but honestly it was too much.” She placed a rolled up stack of bills on the table in front of him.

  Aubrey squinted at the bills and then looked up at her. “How much is this?"

  "Three hundred and forty-eight dollars,” she said solemnly. “I kept twenty percent of your tab if that's all right with you, but the rest I can't accept."

  Damn. Three hundred and forty-eight dollars was about all the cash he had to his name. He pulled a twenty from the roll and pressed it into her hand. “For being honest. Thank you so much, uh..."

  "Julie.” The name seemed familiar now. “And you don't have to—"

  "Keep it, Julie. Please. I had to rush out and ... I wasn't ... well. I wouldn't be able to pay next week's rent without this, so honestly, thank you.” He felt tears stinging his eyes and blinked them away so they wouldn't cloud his vision. He felt so raw that a little kindness went a very long way with him right now.

  "You need a job, honey?"

  Aubrey laughed softly, trying to remember the last time anyone called him ‘honey'. He thought it might have been his mother. “Yeah, I guess so."

  "What do you do?"

  "Horses."

  "Horses? Like what?"

  "Barn work, breeding, training, that kind of thing."

  Julie looked at Aubrey, frowning slightly in thought. “Hey, Art?” she shouted over her shoulder.

  "Yeah, baby?"

  "Didn't I hear something about Ratchet needing a hand?"

  "Uh ... Ratchet? Yeah, some barn thing."

  "Some barn thing,” Julie repeated, rolling her eyes. “Frank Ratchet owns the big ranch up Shoeffer road."

  He shook his head. “Not from around here."

  "I'll write it down. What are you eating?"

  Aubrey ordered a hamburger and fries and a milkshake, but then called Julie back to change that to white toast, a bowl of chicken soup and a decaf tea. The hamburger sounded good, but he imagined it sitting in his empty stomach and changed his mind quickly. While Julie was gone he pulled out the crumpled letter he'd started to Kelly and flattened it out on the table. He squinted at it, then flipped it over, then opened his notebook and flipped several more pages. He counted fourteen pages in all, front side and back, covered in barely legible writing, not one word of which he had the slightest recollection of having written. But there it was, apparently finished, and signed at the end “LOVE, YOUR AUBREY” in big block letters.

  He glanced at the writing here and there and made out a few words, some that confused him, some that struck home, and some that were so painfully honest that he had to stop reading. He tore the pages out of the notebook, folded them up together, and put them in his pocket. He'd keep them as a reminder of why he never wanted another drink, but he hoped he'd never have to read them again.

  He looked at what was now a bla
nk page in his notebook and thought about Kelly. He thought about how upset Kelly was the last time they'd seen each other. He thought about how Kelly had asked him more than once if Aubrey was ever going to callwhile sober. He thought about those grass-green eyes, eyes so remarkable and so earnest that he couldn't forget them. Tapping his pen on the table, he tried to decide how to start.

  Dear Kelly, he began. He stared at the salutation for so long that he was worried the letter might start and end there. His soup arrived and he nibbled the toast before a ravenous hunger overtook him and he had to set the letter aside to eat.

  It was the best tasting bowl of soup he'd ever had and he was disappointed when it was gone. He felt like a convict having his first meal as a free man. Bolstered by comfort food, Aubrey was able to concentrate on the remainder of the letter. It wasn't fourteen pages this time. It was barely even one.

  I'm writing to apologize, he started the letter plainly, rough as my handwriting is, and hoping you'll forgive me at least that much.

  He went on, describing to Kelly how things had ended with Carl, how he'd finally hit rock bottom, and how he'd dug in and drunk himself into total uselessness. He explained how he'd been reminded, in what might as well have been giant neon letters, that he had a talent to put to use, and that after a few days in Hell drying up he'd finally realized that he'd been stupid and prideful and had completely shut down the best thing to happen to him in years.

  I know how wrong I've been, how bad I've treated you, Kelly. But if you can find it in your heart to forgive me, I'd surely like to see you again. I don't have any expectations, and I'm willing to do whatever you need me to do to make this up to you. I'm putting my return address on the envelope and if you're inclined to answer me, I'd be mighty grateful. I'd be mighty glad to see you, and mighty glad to go home.

  I'll be waiting to hear from you,

  Aubrey

  Just like that, it was done. He read it over, scratching out a word here and there and correcting spelling errors where he saw them, but otherwise he let it be. He got up from the table, put down a reasonable sum to pay for his check and the tip, and then went straight to the post office.