by Glenn Trust
Uncle Thomas wasn’t Daddy, but he had been good to them, as much of a father as he could be while he took care of his own family. Cy had named his son after him, knowing that it was only right and Daddy would have wanted it that way after all that Uncle Thomas had done for them.
“How’s she doing?” Cy spoke without turning his head from the road.
“She’s good.” Clay knew who she was. Lyn Stinson had been the only person who had ever come between the brothers, even if only temporarily. “Good as can be expected,” he added with a shrug.
“Yeah, I reckon that’s so. She’s had it hard.” He turned towards his brother. “How about you?”
“What?”
“How are you doing?”
“Good, I suppose.” Clay’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Not much. Just wondering if there’s gonna be a wedding sometime in the future.” He smiled. “You know...some little nieces and nephews for me…some more grandkids for Mama.”
“Oh.” Clay was silent for a few seconds. “I don’t know, Cy. Someday, yes. I believe there will be. It has to be in her own time.”
“I suppose so.”
“How else could it be…after what happened.”
“Not arguing with you brother. Just wondering. Lyn’s a good person and she was treated hard, no doubt about that. I just wonder…”
“What?”
“I only wonder how much of your life you give up for someone who might never be ready.” Cy put his hand on his brother’s arm. “Not questioning you…just concerned.”
“I know. Mama asks the same thing.” Clay looked down at the spot on the step between his boots, thinking for a minute. “Don’t really have a good answer for you. I’ve thought about moving on. I just…” He shrugged. “I just can’t. No way to explain it, I guess.”
Cy nodded. “I know. Some things don’t explain easy, even to ourselves, I suppose.”
Inside, the children squealed at their grandmother’s surprise. Outside, the brothers savored the day and considered things that could not be explained.
10. An Unpleasant Disposition
“Back in a couple days,” Albert called over the knee-high weeds and grass.
Tired out from the long night ripping off auto parts from old man Perkins and his customers, Carl sprawled in a tattered lawn chair, drinking beer. He lifted the bottle and took a long pull as his acknowledgment. “Ya’ll boys don’t do nothin’ I wouldn’t.”
Albert and Bain lifted their bottles in return and gunned the beat up pickup’s engine, pulling onto the county road in a cloud of dust. Rattling, gears grinding, spewing a cloud of oily, gray fumes from the tailpipe, it disappeared around a bend. The rusted camper shell on the back bounced and tried to lift out of its tie-downs with every bump.
Beer bottle still lodged between his lips, Carl watched, shaking his head as he drank. He lowered the bottle. “Stupid fucks,” he muttered. “Hope the fuckin’ troopers pick ‘em up.”
Hearing his voice, the old spotted dog, lifted itself from the dust by the trailer porch and approached, head down, whimpering, looking up from under its brow, wrinkled and weary.
“What d’you want?”
The dog looked at Carl through its hopeful brown eyes, shoulders lowered to the ground in submission.
“Ya hungry? That it? Hungry?” He turned the bottle up again watching the dog. “Albert shoulda fed your ass ‘fore he left. You’re his dog.”
The dog maintained its submissive posture. After a few seconds, it dared a small whimper to let the human know it was hungry, just in case there was any misunderstanding about the matter.
“Here. You hungry…eat this.” Carl tossed the empty bottle across the yard where it disappeared into the grass. He grinned at the dog.
Turning its head to watch the bottle sail through the air the dog raised its shoulders, no longer submissive, only weary and hungry. With a final look at his human tormentor, he turned and plodded back to the dusty bare ground by the porch that served as its bed. With a deep, exhaled sigh, it lowered itself coming to rest with its chin on its front paws, blinking and twitching at the flies that circled its head.
“Hah!” Carl grinned and pulled another beer from the cardboard case they had bought on the way home after their night’s work at Perkins’ Garage and Salvage Yard. “That’s right. You’re his fuckin’ dog. He can feed you when he gets back,” he hollered.
The dog made no sign that it understood that the human was speaking to it. Drunken ramblings were commonplace at the Stinson homestead. The dog had learned from hard experience to ignore them, stay small and submissive. Food would come when it came. Until then, conserve energy.
The dog’s nose twitched endlessly, examining its surroundings. Eyes closed, it could paint a picture of the yard around it. The man in the chair…the empty beer bottle…the dead rat it had chewed on the day before…the places where it marked its territory…the section of weeds it used to relieve its bowels when there was something in them to squeeze out…his brain labeled each scent and its location in the three-dimensional world around him.
Using its nose, the dog saw it all in the way canines sense the world around them. Nostrils twitched and focused on the man, the only other living thing in the yard. The man was dominant, one of the masters and could not be challenged…while it was alive. The sensitive nose drew molecules in the air that were translated into the scent picture in its brain. Yes, the man was alive.
Maybe he would not be alive at some point. Then he would be…food. The dog stirred restlessly in its dreams, grunting in its sleep, imagining what the man would taste like as food.
“Fuckin’ dog,” Carl called over his shoulder. “You ain’t mine…wouldn’t feed you if you was.”
Left behind to carry on his work at Perkins Garage while his brothers drove to Savannah to sell the stolen parts, Carl’s disposition was even more unpleasant than normal and his capacity for cruelty increased proportionately. He had no doubt that his brothers would be drinking beer while some paid-for whore put her head between their legs.
As the only jobholder among them and the one entrusted with a key to Perkins Garage, it was his duty to stay put, keep up appearances. Sure, they left him with plenty of beer. That didn’t change a goddamned thing, as far as he was concerned. They’d be getting laid and he’d be jacking off. Bullshit, he thought. Fucking bullshit.
Maybe some state trooper would stop them out on the interstate, find what was under the camper shell in the bed of the pickup, start asking questions. The thought made him grin. Maybe they’d end up hauled in with all those stolen parts.
He wondered how Albert would handle the law. Daddy had always been able to handle them, had intimidated the deputies who came poking around.
Fuck you, Albert, he thought. You ain’t a pimple on Daddy’s ass when it comes to handlin’ the law. He threw his head back downing the second beer and tossed it deftly into the grass where it broke against the one he had thrown for the dog.
“Yeah, fuck you, Albert…and you, Bain, you little piece of shit. Some cop pulls your asses over, you’ll be shittin’ yourself.”
The sleeping dog’s brow twitched at the human’s raised voice, but it never opened its eyes. Sensing the anger in the words, it stayed away, lost in its scent dreams, where there was food and no hunger.
11. The Stinson Way
1972 The Stinson residence…
“What the hell do you want?” Clyde Stinson stood on the warped wood planks of his front porch, the twelve-gauge pump shotgun resting across his forearm.
Deputy Percy Swain stopped mid-way across the dirt yard. “I…uh…” Swain’s eyes were riveted to the shotgun draped over Stinson’s forearm. “Need to talk to you Clyde…Mr. Stinson.”
“What about?”
Three boys poked their heads around the side of the porch.
“What you think he’s gonna do?” Carl squatted down to get a better look around Albert’s knees.
“That
ole deputy messes with Daddy he’ll be full of holes, sure as shit.”
“You think Daddy gonna sh-shoot h-him?” Bain crowded close behind his brothers, poked his head around for a second to see the standoff, then pulled it back quickly.
“Hell yeah,” Albert said confidently nodding his head as he studied the situation. “If he don’t back off, Daddy’ll just lift the twelve gauge and start pumpin’ buckshot into him. Lookit.” Albert pointed at their father and the deputy. “Daddy’s settin’ up high on the porch. That deputy’s caught out in the open like a dog stealin’ chickens, squattin’ to take a shit in the middle of the barnyard, a hen still hangin’ from his mouth.” Albert spit on the ground to make his point. “He got nowhere to go, and if he don’t mind what Daddy says, he’ll be full of holes.”
“Damn,” Carl said, admiring his older brother’s analysis of the situation. He dropped a wad of spit next to his brother’s wet puddle of sputum.
“W-won’t he get in trouble for shootin’ a deputy?” Bain just stared wide-eyed, shrinking farther behind his brothers, eyes clenched waiting for the roar of the shotgun.
“Law ain’t gonna mess with Daddy. He’ll have ‘em runnin’ scared. You watch.”
Swain cleared his throat. Hands on his belt buckle, his thumbs thrust down inside his waistband, the deputy was doing everything he could to appear non-threatening to the man on the porch with the shotgun.
“Have a report of a fight, Mr. Stinson.”
“So?” Clyde’s gravelly voice rolled across the yard, confident and at ease in front of the deputy who was damned uncomfortable having a shotgun pointed in his direction.
The boys peeking from their position at the side of the porch nodded at each other smiling. Daddy had this deputy in his sights, sure as shit, and the deputy knew it.
“Well…it seems your boys here got into a fight…after school.”
“I know.”
“Right…uh...I s’pose you do.”
Swain cleared his throat again and carefully lifted his hands away from his belt to remove the county-issued Stetson from his head. He thought about wiping the inside with a handkerchief from his back pocket, then thought better of reaching for it. Eye on the shotgun, his hand well away from his belt and sidearm, he wiped his brow with the back of his arm and shoved the hat back on his head.
“Get to the point, Swain.”
“Right…well Dent Gilbert…Sonny Gilbert’s father…you know him I reckon?”
Clyde said nothing, his eyes calms and satisfied, almost laughing at Swain from a face of stone like one of his boys examining a beetle before smashing it with a rock.
“Yeah…okay, so Dent says you egged the fight on…had all your boys beat up on Sonny while he was held down on the ground.”
Clyde Stinson remained silent, the look of curious amusement in his eyes unnerving the deputy as much as the shotgun.
“Gilbert says you instructed each boy to take their licks on Sonny.” Swain paused and swallowed hard. “That would amount to assault…you know…if it was to go to court.”
“Is it going to court?” Clyde spoke his first words since Swain had commenced his explanation for the visit.
“Well…no…I reckon not.”
Clyde nodded and smiled. “Boys had a fight. I didn’t touch that Gilbert boy piece of shit.” He nodded to the side of the porch where his sons still watched the encounter with the deputy. “He picks on one of my boys, he got to figure on takin’ them all on. That’s what happened.”
“I guess, Mr. Stinson it’s that…well, the complaint is you encouraged them…so to speak.”
“I watched my boys do what they should…stand up for their brother…so to speak.” He shifted the shotgun in his arm. “Like I said…is this goin’ to court? You come here to take me in or somethin’?”
“Oh…no, no…nothin’ like that. Sheriff just wanted me to come by and let you know that…ask you…to try and keep your boys out of fightin’. They coulda hurt Sonny Gilbert bad.”
“Nothin’ to me if they did. I don’t s’pose he’ll be pickin’ a fight with a Stinson no more.” He moved the shotgun to a port arms position, holding it in both hands motioning the deputy back to his car with it. “Now, if you ain’t here to take me in and lock me up…” Clyde grinned. “Get your ass back in the car and get off of my property.”
Swain turned and walked towards his vehicle, careful to keep his hands away from his belt, exercising every bit of self-control he possessed not to run to the car. As he opened the door, Clyde called out a final warning.
“You tell that sheriff, next time he wants a message delivered he can bring it hisself. Keep you from pissin’ your pants.”
Albert came out from around the side of the porch followed by his brothers. “Yeah, don’t want you pissin’ your pants!” he laughed pointing at the deputy backing the car away from the house.
“Yeah, you just have that ole sheriff come here and talk to our daddy. He’ll be pissin’ his pants for sure. Hah!” Carl stood beside Albert, joining in the taunting.
“Shut the fuck up.”
The boys looked up at their father standing on the porch over them.
“But, Daddy…” Albert began.
“I said shut the fuck up. You’re lucky I don’t lay the butt of this shotgun upside your head.” He nodded at the deputy’s car retreating down the road. “Law came here because you didn’t handle things the way you shoulda. I had to make sure you learned your lesson and that Gilbert boy too.” He looked each boy in the eye waiting for each to lower theirs to the ground before continuing. “Next time you take care of it before I find out or I’ll whip you all within an inch of your life. You understand?”
His sons looked up and nodded solemnly affirming that they understood that they were to administer ass whippings to any who interfered with a Stinson, or suffer the ass whipping themselves. There was no doubt in their mind that their father’s wrath was much more fearsome than any pounding they might get from a schoolyard bully.
“Now get the fuck outta here. I see you again today I still might turn this shotgun over your head.”
The boys scattered, disappearing into the woods behind the house. Out of sight of their father, seated on a pine tree, felled by wind and lightning in the last spring storm, their bravado returned.
“Told you Daddy would handle that deputy.” Albert spit into the pine straw between his feet.
“Yeah, he did it for sure.” Carl spit in emphatic concurrence with his brother.
“Yeah,” Bain added, attempting to spit a tight stream like his brothers, but only wetting the front of his shirt with the spray.
Albert and Carl laughed.
“You dumbass. You spit on yourself.” Carl pointed at Bain’s shirt.
“Don’t call me that!”
“Why not?” Albert said, grinning a grin similar to the one his father had flashed at Deputy Swain. “It’s what you are…a dumbass…spittin’ on yourself.”
Bain charged Albert, who stood and deflected the rush, sending his youngest brother spinning to the ground. Carl jumped on his chest where he sprawled and began pounding him in the side of the head. Albert pulled him off.
“Here, let me at him. He come at me not you! Let me at him!”
Carl turned and swung at his brother, who threw him to the ground and decided to pound on Carl instead of Bain. In seconds, all three boys were rolling in the pine straw, gouging and punching, each getting their licks in at the other. Even Bain reluctantly gave what he could to the bigger boys, knowing that it was better to get in the middle of it than be singled out by them for not fighting. It was the Stinson way.
12. Purpose
Footprints trailed Sharon across the lawn. Beaded with the predawn dew, the grass was cool and wet on her bare feet. She could feel each blade tickling and clinging for a moment before she lifted her foot. It was a pleasant sensation, one that she remembered. In times before, she and George would scuff barefooted across the lawn from the apartmen
t over the barn, holding hands. When they got to the house, they would sit through the evening with old Fel Tobin.
Since Fel’s death and their relocation to the main house, she had forgotten the feeling. So many other things had been lost in the forgetting. The simple times with George…blunt…direct…funny…passionate…happy mostly. Too many things were gone now, or changed.
They had weathered the time while George served his sentence in prison. His homecoming had been thrilling, joyful and full of the expected hunger for each other.
Then reality had settled in. She went off to work each day, still employed by the governor’s Office of Special Investigations. Now out of law enforcement, he struggled to find the purpose to his life that he had always had.
Sharon had no illusions. Purpose, honor, self-respect….fancy words and high ideals to some, they were not abstract ideas to George Mackey. They were the traits he possessed down to his bones. She loved him for them.
Now, he had become a lost soul, wandering. Somehow, he could not see that those qualities were still part of him. She knew that was the reason for his struggle.
Eventually, she would lose him, or he would lose her, drive her away. And, without George Mackey, she knew she would be just as lost.
She lifted her feet out of the wet grass and stepped onto the wooden stairs leading to the second-floor apartment over the barn. She had shared it with George before Fel was killed and willed the house and farm to them. It was mostly empty now, a place for storing old unused things and memories.