by Glenn Trust
A white and brown spotted dog lifted its head from the dirt beside the trailer’s front porch. Thin enough to count the ribs under its hide, the dog turned its muddy snout from the sound of the breaking glass. Squinting through its rheumy eyes, it considered the intentions of the three men seated on rusted yard chairs in the weeds. When it was clear that they would not be throwing anything edible in his direction, the dog put its head back in the dirt. Within a few seconds, it drifted into a restless sleep where it could ignore the hunger gnawing at its gut.
“You don’t to be so hard, Carl. He seems like a good boy,” Albert said, not letting up “Got a job…him and his brother working construction or some shit like that. Drives around in that pickup. Truck looks kinda old, I’ll grant you that, but I’ll bet it’s paid for.” He looked at Bain, passing the torch to him to continue the taunting. “What you think?”
“Yeah…” Bain nodded sipping his own beer. “It’s paid for. I’ll bet that girl of yours likes to slide up close to him when they go out…you know put her hand in his lap and…”
“Goddamnit! I told you! Shut up ‘fore I beat the hell out of you…” Carl’s head moved from one brother to the other. “Both of you.”
Clyde Stinson’s lessons to his young sons all those years ago had emphasized that they would forever, and always, be bound to take care of and avenge any wrongs done to the others. It was a matter of blood.
But blood did not preclude them from tearing into each other when there wasn’t some outsider to contend with. There had always been fights between them. Clyde had encouraged it...said it made them the toughest sonsabitches in county…maybe the state.
The boys thought their father was a mean son of a bitch…the meanest one they knew, although they would never have said so to his face. What they did do was learn the lessons he taught them…and they fought.
“Calm down, Carl.” Albert’s voice was conciliatory. “We was just funnin’ with you.”
“Yeah, just funnin’,” Bain said, grinning at his brother.
“It ain’t funny.” Carl’s voice was a low threatening rumble.
Four years earlier, Carl Stinson had brutalized his wife and daughter. Brutalized was the polite way of saying he beat the shit out of them, went to jail for it and was banned from having any further contact with them. He and his wife Ruby had divorced, or more correctly, Ruby had divorced him. It happened while he was incarcerated and unable to inflict any more physical damage on her, a fact that kept the rage inside him perpetually simmering just below the boiling point.
Since his release from jail, he had not been alone with his ex-wife or daughter. There was no visitation provision in the divorce. Lyn was no longer a minor and was old enough to make her own decision on the matter. Her decision was that her dear daddy could rot in prison, or hell, as long as he stayed as far away from her as possible.
A restraining order remained in place. With Carl’s history of violence towards his family, there was no expectation that any judge was going to vacate it anytime soon.
That last incident with them had sent Lyn on the run, in fear for her life. That was when she had come across Clay Purcell…and the killer. The killer was gone, shot by that deputy that had been in the papers, but Purcell was still around.
“Aw, c’mon, Carl.” Albert resumed the taunting. “You gotta admit. They make a pretty pair. Don’t they Bain?”
“Yep, they do.”
It was a bee buzzing under his skin, seeing that pickup pass by every week. The Purcell boy would come back from working out of town, drive slow through Judges Creek headed out to Carl’s old place, a couple of miles in the country, to see Lyn and Ruby. Later he would pass back down the road. Sometimes Lyn would be beside him on the seat.
Neither ever looked in the direction of the run down trailer where the three Stinson brothers resided. If the roads had permitted they would never have come near it, but Judges Creek was a small settlement with one main road. If you were going anywhere, you almost had to pass by the Stinson’s.
“I’m warning you,” Carl hissed through his teeth, watching the pickup fade behind the cloud of dust it had kicked up in the road. That pissant was fucking his daughter…he knew it…maybe Ruby too. The bee under his skin stung and burned. “Shut the fuck up!”
Clyde Stinson’s lessons had not included common courtesy, understanding or consideration of the feelings of others, even to a brother. To a man like Clyde, such traits were more than mere signs of weakness in his sons. They were alien…not existing within the universe of his sentiments.
Consequently, Albert and Bain had no moral reason to be sensitive about their brother’s feelings. What they had learned from daddy was what mattered. What they did not receive in the lessons he gave, punctuated by violence, was of no concern.
“Or what?” Albert swallowed some beer and gave his brother a mean, yellow-toothed grin. “You gonna take a poke at us?”
“Yeah, Carl, you gonna take a poke at us?” Bain mimicked Albert.
Aware of Carl’s fury, buried and barely controlled, they sought every opportunity to bring it to the surface, into the light of day. If they were lucky, he might take a swing at them and they could pound on him until they all fell in a heap and drank beer to sooth the lumps and aches. It was a family thing…a blood thing…a Stinson thing.
Carl looked at his brothers, ready…aching…for a fight today. He was not in the mood.
“Fuck it.” He pulled another beer from the case sitting on the ground. Without ice, it was warming up quickly.
Albert looked at Bain and shrugged. No fight today, it seemed, no matter how much they goaded him.
They passed the time gulping warm beers in the hot afternoon sun. Mice and rats and other assorted varmints scurried, hunted and died in the tall grass that surrounded the place. Clay Purcell’s truck disappeared down the tunnel of trees lining the road, and Carl felt the anger simmering inside rise to a boil.
4. So Many Maybes
The old house sat for decades, dilapidated, unpainted, overgrown and, like everything else Carl Stinson had touched, neglected and abused. Clay Purcell made repairing and renovating it his special project, working on it in his spare time, which meant whenever he wasn’t on a job with his brother Cy.
A carpenter by trade, he made quick work of the simpler tasks…new floorboards on the porch…rotted window frames replaced…timbers to shore up the sagging foundation posts. Over time, the house began to regain the look of a solid little cottage, which it had been for years until Carl got hold of it.
Ruby and Lyn did their part. The yard was kept neat and tidy. The house was bare but clean inside. Ruby’s beloved roses began to flourish now that Carl wasn’t there to pee on them every night when he returned to the house drunk and mean.
“Supper’ll be on soon and Lyn’s on her way home from work. Come inside.” Ruby Stinson stood at the screen door.
Clay rose from his knees and tossed the hammer on the porch, surveying the new lattice, hung to prevent animals from getting up under the house. He nodded. “I’ll come back and paint it this weekend. Should do the trick.”
“You know we appreciate all you’re doing for us, don’t you?” Ruby came out on the porch. “It’s not right you spending all this time here, doing chores that should have been done already.”
“Seems right.” Clay wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his arm. He looked at her and smiled. “Besides. I’ve got ulterior motives.
“I’ll bet you do,” Ruby said grinning widely. “If I was thirty years younger, I’d give you a run for your ulterior motives.” She nodded. “I surely would.”
“I think you misjudge me.” He stepped up on the porch, smiling, and sat on the top step. “I was referring to your cooking. What’s for dinner?”
“Hah!” The older woman laughed. “I haven’t misjudged a thing about you Clay Purcell…good or bad.” She nodded seriously. “Lyn is lucky to have found you.”
“Well, rightly speaking, sh
e didn’t find me…and I didn’t find her. We were sort of put together by the way things happened. Anyone’s lucky…I’d say it’s me.”
“What she’s been through…what she’s going through…” Ruby shook her head, looking into the young man’s eyes. “She may never be right again, Clay. You know that, don’t you?”
“Not sure what I know.” He shrugged. “Haven’t been sure since that day me and Cy dropped her at the truck stop. Felt wrong to do that…” He shook his head. “Worse feeling I ever had. I don’t know where this is going. I only know that…since that day…she’s had a hold of me.”
“She never meant to do that.”
“I know. Maybe that’s why she does. We drove away…left her standing there, I felt sick about it. Had to find her…make it up to her, and then…”
“That’s it?” She smiled, knowing there was more to it than that.
“No, I reckon not. Used to be hard to say, but I suppose…you know how it is…I suppose I love her.”
“You sure about that? Love is a big word…a tricky thing.”
“I’m sure I only get really happy when I see her…makes me smile to see her. Not sure about much else, I’ll grant you that.”
“You mind yourself, Clay Purcell.” Ruby sighed, lowering herself to sit beside him on the top step of the porch. “She’s my daughter. I am grateful that you came along…followed her and that monster who took her. Nearly got yourself killed doing it, but…” She paused, struggling with the conflict within. What was good for her daughter, might not be good for this young man who had been so good to them…who had become as close as family. “But you mind after yourself. She might never be able to give you back what you’re feeling,”
“I know.” He lowered his head, staring at the worn planks between his boots. “Don’t know what else to do though. Feels like we’re both caught in this and sometimes there has to come a way out of it. Some way we can make things right and then be together…or at least see if she wants to be with me.”
Ruby put a hand on his arm. “It’s none of your fault, what happened to her. It worries me too, ‘cause I don’t see the way out…how it’s gonna end up.” She shook her head. “So many things that could have been changed that might have kept it from happening. If I had just been strong enough to protect her from her Daddy, then maybe…”
He put his arm around her slumped shoulders. “Enough. Does no good to talk like this. I’m here, whatever the reason. Don’t expect I’ll be running off…until she tells me to.”
She brushed a tear away from her cheek with a leathery hand. “If I could have been stronger, a better mother…maybe she wouldn’t have had to run off…maybe her brother wouldn’t have gone to the Army and died when that bomb went off …maybe that killer wouldn’t have took her and done those things to her…maybe.”
Grasshoppers buzzed across the small yard landing in the grass for an instant before propelling themselves on another leap, half flying half jumping. Their short lives were filled with thrumming activity.
Ruby wondered if they were happy lives. Did grasshoppers know happiness, or pain, or hurt…or anything? Maybe that was the way to be in life…buzzing along not feeling anything.
She dried her tears, considering the maybes. There were so many maybes.
5. “I will beat you to death…”
“Talk to me dammit!”
The beer can arced across the porch and clattered onto the top of the pile in the old crate by the front door, then tumbled to the floor. George nodded his approval and turned his head towards Sharon. “What?”
“Jesus, Mackey! Talk to me! Let me in. Don’t box me out like this.”
“Nothing to say.” He shrugged, reached into the cooler by his chair and retrieved another beer.
With a smile, he popped the tab with his thumb…his left…and looked out into the twilight towards the tree line across the yard. A whippoorwill called as the sky darkened. He turned his head, wondering if it was the same bird that he and Sharon and old Fel Tobin listened to, nights sitting on the porch. Lifting the can, he took a long swallow and held it up in a toast to the dark, to the whippoorwill.
“There’s everything to say.” She reached out and put a hand on his arm. At least he didn’t pull away. “I know you’re hurting. Help me understand, Mackey.”
“Not much to understand. Just me…living the life.” He laughed. “Living pretty good, really. Just hang around the place all day…not even our place, it’s Fel Tobin’s old place…do a little mowing if the grass needs it, check out the shed.” He leaned towards her and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “That’s where I keep the beer hid you know…the daytime beer for when you’re not around.”
“You’re drunk.” Sharon pulled her hand away and let it fall in her lap.
“Maybe.” He lifted the beer again. “Oh, hell…yeah, I’m drunk.” He looked at her. “Why not?”
“The question is why? Tell me that.”
“I don’t know.” He shrugged. “Seems to be the thing to do.”
“I know. I’m trying to understand, George, but we have to talk it out.”
“Why? Doesn’t change a thing.”
“We talk it out or it changes us. Don’t you see that?”
Closing his eyes, he leaned back in the chair, the beer lowered to his side. “I don’t see much of anything anymore. Don’t know much of anything.”
“You are still George Mackey. That hasn’t changed. You are the man who made me love again. That hasn’t changed.” She rose and knelt on the porch in front of him and leaned close. “Look at me.”
He opened his eyes. Her face was inches away. Blazing, her eyes bored into his, searching. Her brow furrowed with concern and then the burning intensity turned to tenderness, fragile and vulnerable.
“I love you, Mackey. I won’t give up on that very easy.” She smiled. “You know how I am when I latch onto something.”
His eyes met hers and seconds passed. He nodded. “I know how you are, Sharon.”
“Then talk to me. Trust me.”
“Don’t know what to say.” He looked over her head into the night. “Everything I was, when I met you, the person I was…that’s all gone.”
“You’re still the same person inside.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not the same...less.”
“You don’t need a deputy’s badge on your chest to be George Mackey.”
“No, that’s true…but what’s George Mackey? Not much. I’d say.”
“Stop.”
“No. You wanted to talk it out. Let’s talk.” Hands on her shoulders, he pushed her away, gently but firmly, and stood. He walked to the end of the porch, where it turned to follow the side of the house. “Here. Right here.” He stamped his foot and looked at her.
“What?” She brushed at the tears in her eyes, knowing what he meant…not wanting to hear it.
“He died here. Fel died right here.”
“I know. He saved my life.” Sharon choked back a sob. “And he died.”
“That’s one.”
“One what?”
“Failure. He was my friend…my family…and I let him die.”
“You didn’t let him die. Some very bad people came and they killed him while he was trying to keep them from killing me.”
“I should have been here. I wasn’t and Fel died, and you too, nearly.” He leaned against the porch rail, staring out into the night. “There were others. Ronnie Kupman…Andy Barnes too…almost.” He put his head down, his voice lowered almost to a whisper. “The girl, dumped in the weeds along Ridley Road, like somebody’s garbage.”
“Listen to me, Mackey. Everything bad that happens is not your fault.”
“Not everything…just the things I should have been there to stop.” He shook his head, staring at a patch of light on the grass thrown out from the kitchen window. “It’s my fault.” He turned to face her. “I was good at one thing…at least, I thought I was. Not anymore.” His lip turned up in a disgu
sted smile. “No matter though. With the prison term behind me, I’ll never work in law enforcement again.”
“To hell with the prison term!” Her voice rose, eyes blazing again. “I was there…remember? You killed an animal…I wanted you to kill him. Your time in prison is as much my fault as yours.”
He stared out into the dark without speaking.
“There’s more to life, Mackey! You…me…we’re part of life.” Sharon sighed, letting her frustration escape with her breath. “It can be a good one for us…together.”
“I want it to be.” His veneer began to crumble, his voice choked with emotion. “I can’t seem to put it together now…how it’s going to be…what I’m going to do. It’s all confused….here…” He tapped his head and moved his hand to his chest, over his heart. “…and here.”
Sharon walked to him, blinking back her own tears. “I don’t give up that easy, Mackey.” She took his hand and lifted it to her lips, kissing his fingers softly. “We’ll work it out…figure it out…somehow.” She put her arms around him, laying her head against his chest. “Just don’t give up. Don’t you quit on me, Mackey, because, I swear to God, I will beat you to death if you do.”
George laughed for the first time in a long while. His arms came up and held her close. “I believe you would.”
“Damn right I would.”
6. “You don’t have to say anything…”
“I know you talk about me.”
“What?” Clay looked up uncomfortably from his seat on the top step.
“You talk about me…crazy Lyn,” she said softly. Sitting on the porch swing he had hung as one of his first projects, Lyn waited, looking down at the porch’s planks.
“That’s not true.”
“Sure it is…I know.” She looked up, a sympathetic smile under her melancholy eyes. “How could it not be true? You and Mama, here…I know you talk when I’m not around.” The smile broadened a bit. “I might be crazy…I’m not stupid.”