At his headstone, I dropped my pack and sat on the grass. When I first began visiting by myself, I would just sit, letting the time slip by, thinking about stuff. It was peaceful in a weird way. But after a while, I began talking to him. Almost like he was there.
The breeze whispered.
I sat for a while, picking grass and twisting it between my fingers. I didn’t want to go home. Dad would be on the warpath. Indy would be sitting on the couch flipping smart-ass answers left and right, and my mom would be in the kitchen trying to ignore everything while she cooked dinner. Welcome home.
The only time I could ever be late without question was when I came here to visit Cutter. My mom had loved him like one of us, and sometimes I think his death hurt her more than it did anybody. He’d been over at our house so often out of sheer hunger that she’d set the table for him every night, and when she heard he’d died, she changed. The way she looked at Indy and me was different now. Almost like she was afraid.
“War zone at the house tonight,” I said in the stillness. “I think it might be a bad one.”
I looked at his headstone, wishing it would answer and wishing he hadn’t stuck the needle in his arm. Dude, one time, he’d said. Just once. We’d all been partying, getting stoned, and Cutter was always the one to push the limits. He was afraid of nothing, and nothing could stop him when he’d decided something.
He’d died on the night of his birthday. I found out later what had happened that morning to push him so far. I realized too late how much it hurt him. How much she hurt him.
If I’d have known the seriousness of what happened to him earlier that day, the thing that finally pushed him to no limits, I would have literally beat him into a coma to stop him, because he knew what he was doing. He knew what would happen because he made it happen. And me and his mother were the only people who knew. Cutter hadn’t died of an accidental heroin overdose. He’d killed himself. I didn’t know if he’d done it on purpose, but I knew he did it because he didn’t care anymore. I stared at his headstone. “You dumb asshole. You dumb, fucking, selfish asshole.”
Silence. An elderly woman visiting a grave four headstones down glanced at me. Her eyes were sad.
I turned my attention back to the grass, twisting the strands together.
“Hello.”
I looked up, and the woman stood there. She wore a flowered sundress with a blue sweater. She was old. Really old. The wrinkles in her face were deep. I shook my head. “Sorry.”
She chuckled. “The dead might be able to hear, but they can’t scold you.”
I smiled. “I guess not.”
She peered at the headstone. “David Samuel Cutter.”
I nodded.
She kept looking at the headstone, noting the dates. “He was young. A brother?”
“Almost.” I stopped. “Yeah. He was.”
Her voice was soft. “I’ve seen you visit before. That’s very nice.”
“I miss him, you know?”
She nodded. “Yes, I know.” She paused. “My name is Augustine. Aggy.”
“I’m Tate.”
Her frail voice floated over the bodies. “Nice to meet you, Tate.”
My mother’s angry face flashed through me. She’d die of embarrassment if she knew I’d cussed like I had in front of the lady. “I’m sorry for swearing.”
A moment passed. She coughed lightly, holding her wispy, thin hand to her mouth. “My husband drank himself to death. I suppose you could say he was a dumb, selfish asshole, too.”
I looked at her, surprised that she would swear. “There’s a lot of those, huh?”
She smiled. “We all are in one way or another, Tate. It just depends on whose glasses you’re looking through.”
“Sometimes it’s hard to see it that way.”
Another moment passed, and she reached down, patting me on the shoulder. “It will get better with time. It always does.” Then she walked away, returning to her husband’s place in the ground.
I went home.
CHAPTER FOUR
“Why are you late?”
I shut the door behind me. I could hear Mom in the kitchen clattering dishes, getting ready for dinner. I looked at my dad. He stood in the entryway to the hall, his bulk filling the space, boots unlaced, work clothes still on, and a beer in his hand. I set my pack down. “It’s Thursday. I was with Cutter.”
His face went blank for a moment, and then he nodded. “Did you tell your mother?”
“She knows I go every Thursday,” I said, echoing my mom’s Honey, I know he goes every Thursday coming from the kitchen. She followed up with a hello, and I helloed her back.
He nodded again, taking a swig of his beer and walking across the living room to his recliner. “How was your day?”
“Good.” I reached in my back pocket, taking out my grades.
He held his hand out. “Where is your brother?”
“Under the Bridge last time I saw him.”
He studied my report card, handing it back to me. “Decent, but you know you could do better. Pick it up, huh?”
“Yessir.”
“Go show your mother your grades,” he said, looking at the coffee table. “And hand me that remote.”
I handed him the remote and walked into the kitchen as Dad flipped on the news. Mom pecked me on the cheek and smiled, taking my grades. “Good. I’ll put them on the fridge.”
I smiled. “I’m not in sixth grade anymore.”
She laughed. “You’ll understand one day when you’re a mother.”
“Ha ha. Funny funny.”
She smiled again, stirring the corn as Dad cussed out some reporter for telling him unemployment rose again. “Of course it rose, you stupid asswipe. What do you expect when every bloodsucking company in this country moves to China and pays ten-year-olds to make cheap shit?” Mom kept stirring.
“The school called again today about Indy.”
“I figured.”
Her voice softened. “I don’t know what to do about him. And your father is ready to strangle him.”
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Mom.”
“Why does he do this? I just don’t understand.”
“I don’t know,” I said, looking into the living room at my dad. The modern world didn’t have room for him, and he didn’t have room for it. A cell phone was a waste of money, video games were useless, reality shows and MTV were destroying our youth, and as far as he was concerned, whoever invented the computer should have been aborted. Ask him what an iPod was and he’d guess it was a type of vegetable.
He was the kind of guy who liked life simple, cut-and-dried, and didn’t like things getting in the way of that. He worked twelve-hour days as a welder to make ends meet, and he was one of the best in town because he’d done it since he was fourteen. He worked hard, expected us to work hard, and I really didn’t blame him for being so harsh. He’d grown up in the mountains of Montana in a cabin twenty-five miles from the nearest highway, he believed in self-reliance, and he lived on respect. If you didn’t respect yourself, he didn’t like you. At all.
Mom sighed, accepting the fact that tonight wouldn’t be a good night. She called out to Dad, “Honey, I’m going to serve Tate now. Would you like your plate, too?”
“You like eating at the table,” the reply came in.
“That’s okay. I have no idea when Indy will be home, and I’m sure you and he will be talking when he does get here.”
The sound went down on the TV, and in a moment, he appeared in the doorway. “I think I’ll sit at my table with my family and enjoy the nice dinner you prepared for us. Then I think I’ll clear the plates and do the dishes. Just like I do every night,” he said, using the tone that said he was on edge.
“Honey …”
“Just because our son has no respect for you or anybody else doesn’t mean I don’t. I won’t have this house run by a teenager.”
She sighed again. “I just don’t want a fight, Dan. Things are bad e
nough with him without a war.”
He growled, “Indy is going to have my boot stuck so far down his throat he won’t be able to say a word, let alone fight about it. I told him last time what would happen, and now it’s going to happen.”
“Dan …”
He shook his head. “He’s pushed it too far. It stops tonight.”
She took the roast from the oven, knowing it was useless. “Meaning that China is going to call and ask you to quiet down?”
He shrugged. “The first day I care about what other people think is the day they put me in the ground.”
She turned to him, putting her hand on her hip. “Just like your sons?”
He clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles working. “You know what I mean.”
“Yeah, and you know what I mean. We raised them to think and do for themselves and to question authority, Dan, and sometimes we have to pay the consequences for that. He’s going through a hard time. Have patience.”
The one thing my parents never do is beat around the bush when we’re in the room. They’re an open book when it comes to family, and it took a while for the crew and all of our friends to get used to it. Since then, I couldn’t count how many times Sid or Cutter had wished their parents were so cool.
Unless you cross Dad, that is. Then the world rains shit down on your head.
He finished his beer, crinkling it up and throwing it in the can. We don’t recycle because the city gets the money for it without sending him a check, and my dad doesn’t believe anything should be free, including saving the earth. “Tate, grab the cups. Three,” he said, lifting the stack of four plates from the counter and taking them to the dining room table. He put three of them at their places and brought one back.
Mom’s eyes darkened as she watched him put the fourth plate back in the cupboard, but she didn’t say anything. I filled the cups with water and set them out. “Anything else, Mom?”
She shook her head. “Dan, will you carve the roast?”
Dad opened the fridge and grabbed another beer. “You said patience, hon. We’ll wait until he gets home.”
She smacked her spoon down on the stove. “Dan, I don’t want this. Not tonight. Please.”
He faced her, his voice low and soft. “Steph, I listen to you. I keep my mouth shut when you tell me I should keep my mouth shut. I know when something is important to you and I try, but it’s gone too far, and this is between him and me. He knows dinner is ready at seven, he skipped again today, the school is going to take us to court if he continues this, and I goddamn well know he won’t have his grades with him,” Dad said, looking at me. I avoided his eyes, putting utensils on the table.
She swallowed, picking up the spoon and taking a breath. She stared at the corn simmering. “Please put his plate on the table.”
“He’s not eating at a table he doesn’t respect.”
She slammed the spoon down again, splattering corn juice on the stove, and faced him, her eyes blazing. “We already lost one person sitting at our table, Dan, and I won’t lose another! Do you understand me?” she said, choking down a sob. She breathed for a moment in the silence of the kitchen, regaining her composure, then went on. “I’m a mother and I feed my children. Set his plate.”
A moment passed, the two of them looking at each other, and I could tell a whole conversation was happening in the thin air between them. Dad got a plate and set it out.
I waited in our room, trying to do homework but obsessing about the time. Seven-twenty. Seven-twenty-two. Seven-twenty-five. Seven-thirty. Ten minutes late in my dad’s book was enough to get him pissed because late people simply didn’t give a crap about other people’s time, and I knew a half hour late was on the BALLISTIC section of the chart. Then I heard the door open.
No boom. No explosive bellow. Nothing. I wondered if the nuclear bomb went off so fast I’d died instantly and was in heaven. Then my dad called from the living room that dinner was on. I groaned, heaving myself from my bed.
Mom, Dad, and Indy were sitting at the dining room table when I came out, and as I took my seat, Indy smiled at me. I did a double take, staring at him for a second, then put my napkin on my lap. “Hey.”
“Hey.”
My dad cleared his throat. “Tate, say the blessing, please?”
I nodded, bowing my head. “Dear Lord, please bless this food. Thanks to Mom for making it, thanks for this house, and if Dad rips Indy’s head off and craps down his neck, don’t let the blood get in my corn. I’m starving. Amen,” I said.
Dad slowly raised his head, his eyes meeting mine and giving me an implicit warning. I smiled, shrugging. “Sorry.”
He grunted, adjusting his napkin.
When Indy and Dad weren’t at each other’s throats, dinner was a cool thing around our house. Sid and Piper joined us often enough, and it was a time when everybody talked and laughed about their day and what was going on. When they fought, dinner was like a silent sanctuary ruled by my mom. Dinner-table law said that if you didn’t have anything good to say, shut your trap.
As my dad picked up the tray of beef, he spoke. “How was your day, Indy?”
He rolled his eyes. “Fine.”
I looked at him in disbelief, my stomach squirming. I’d seen him like this before. A ton of times, but not in the last year. He was high. I melted inside. This was so wrong on so many levels I couldn’t even think about it.
My dad stood and did what he did every night. He walked to my mom’s place and dished her main course. Then he sat down and dished his, handing the serving plate to me. “The school called today and said you weren’t there, Indy. Was there a mistake?”
Indy sat, waiting for me to finish dishing the roast. “No. I skipped.”
“The school is going to take action through the courts if you keep skipping, and you know that. You also know we can’t afford it. So, why? Tell me.”
Indy’s eyes, fogged and red, met his. “Because I’m a loser. You know that, Dad. You tell me all the time.”
Dad seethed. “Did you bring your grades home?”
He smiled. “Can’t really get them if I’m not there, huh?”
Dad dished his potatoes, and I swear I could actually see a lightning storm brewing above his head. He reminded me of a tornado in a straitjacket, just waiting to burst the seams. “Watch your mouth, son.”
He lowered his eyes. “I can’t. My eyes won’t go down that far.”
Dad took a deep breath. A very deep and long breath. Indy was insane, and I was seeing something in him that I hadn’t seen before. Something more dangerous than anger or a willingness to fight. He didn’t care, and it scared me. After another moment, Dad glanced at Mom, then spoke. “You are high.”
Indy sat back, flipping his napkin on the table. “No shit. Who wouldn’t be if they had to deal with you every—”
For a man who was built like a tank made of muscle, I had no idea my dad could move so fast. His chair flew behind him as he bolted upright, his thighs hitting the table and spilling all the glasses. A meaty hand jabbed across the table and the next thing I knew, Dad dragged Indy over the table, yanking him to within an inch of his face. Indy’s feet dangled a few inches above the floor as dishes scattered. Mashed potatoes smeared his shirt. Mom gasped in shock, and I couldn’t believe I was seeing what I was seeing. He’d never touched either of us before.
Dad, with his nose almost touching Indy’s cheek, spoke into his ear, his voice a low and vicious growl. “You can screw with me all you want, son, but”—his grizzly voice rose into a bellow—“if you EVER sit at your mother’s table again with dope in you, you’re out! Got it? You respect her,” he said, shaking Indy roughly as he spoke.
Indy smiled. “Go ahead. Do it. I know you want to. Hit me. You’re so fucking tough. Do it.”
For a moment I thought he would. But he spoke, pointing to Mom, still face-to-face with Indy. “Don’t do this to your mother, Indy.”
Indy sneered. “Or what?”
Dad reared back h
is fist, then hesitated, time stopping as he stared at Indy. In that moment, I knew that all the barroom-brawl stories I’d heard about him before he met Mom were true. The rage emanating from him was palpable, and I knew right down to the core of what I was that any human being willing to mess with him was insane.
He didn’t hit Indy, though. He shoved him back, off the table. Indy sprawled on the floor, covered in potatoes and flecks of corn. I could see the fear in his eyes, even through the glaze of being stoned. Dad stepped around the table and stood over him. “Apologize to your mother.”
Silence. Nobody moved as we waited. Then my mother stood. Her voice shook. “Dan. Enough is enough.”
He clenched his teeth. “He’s going to apologize or he’s going to get more until he does. He knows the rules. Both boys do. He might act like some ghetto street punk, but not in your home.”
Mom took a breath, not sure of what to do because our family had just been turned upside down. “Dan, get your keys, get in the truck, and drive around until you’re cooled down. Then you’ll come home and we’ll talk.”
Dad stared at Indy, then slowly reached down, grabbed him by fistfuls of his shirt, and pulled him to his feet. He calmly brushed dinner from the front of Indy. His voice, bereft of anger, was slow and smooth. “Apologize to my wife.”
Indy looked at me, and something clicked between us. Things had changed. When we were younger and mouthed off to Mom, there’d always been hell to pay, but this was different. We weren’t six years old anymore, and I knew right then that when Dad said Apologize to my wife instead of Apologize to your mother, he wasn’t looking at Indy as a child to be disciplined. A final boundary had been crossed, and it scared the crap out of me.
Indy took a breath. “I’m sorry.”
Without another word, Dad left. After a minute, Mom nodded and picked up a dish. “Well, let’s get this cleaned up, then.”
CHAPTER FIVE
Under the Bridge Page 3