Chapter 36
June 2004
Stan lay in the creek’s shallow stream, allowing the water to wash away his burdens. He wasn’t sure how long he’d been lying there but he dozed off at least once, he knew. He attempted to take another drink but the bottle was empty, so he dropped it in the water and watched as the current took it away. It was with a disappointing sigh that he remembered it was the last one.
“Fine,” he muttered as he sat up, water pouring from the back of his head and clothing.
Leslie was gone. He’d already cursed her memory and came to the conclusion that he didn’t need the whore. He was still struggling with the thought of Jake’s shooting, so he allowed another problem to fill his mind. What kind of person would steal a woman from her man? What kind of guy comes between a broken girl and a cripple? As he stared up at the night sky, the twinkling stars nothing but a blur, he imagined Sara and Ellis locked in moments of passion. It made him sick. How many times had they spit on Jake’s memory while laughing at Jake and him both? How many times had he screwed her?
Stan found his pants and shook them out, ignoring the gun lying in the mud beside the creek. He’d taken them off earlier, having tripped while trying to relieve himself. It was easier pulling them off than up at that point. Besides, it was a nice night; he didn’t need them. Soaking in the creek had chilled him, though, so now he struggled to get them back on.
“Gotta talk to Ellis. Gonna show him how it is when you steal someone’s girl.”
He snickered and fell again, laughing and shushing himself for fear of Ellis hearing; but then, as he stood, he noted the sound of footsteps approaching. He finished pulling up his pants and fastened them before cracking his fingers.
“This is it, huh? I told him to stop laughing,” he said about himself. “Let’s go, then.”
He held up his fists as if ready to box but then lowered them upon seeing who the footsteps belonged to.
“Stan?” Phil said quietly, surprised by his friend’s drunkenness.
“What’re you doin’ here?” Stan asked, waving him off and turning to pick up an empty bottle. He turned it upside down and struggled for a final drop. Once finished, he looked at Phil and saw the longing in his friend’s eyes. Stan moved the bottle from left to right and laughed as Phil’s eyes followed it.
“Puppy dog,” he said mockingly before tossing the bottle into the creek.
Phil watched longingly as it floated away. Then he slumped a bit and scratched the back of his neck.
“Got another?” he asked in a quiet voice.
“It’s bad for you,” Stan said, waving a finger at Phil. “I got it under control but not you. You’re drunk.”
“We used to come here a lot,” Phil said after remembering why he had come. He inched toward his old friend. “We used to hang out all up and down this creek. Those were sorta good times, remember? I thought maybe I’d find you here; if not here then at your dad’s grave. We used to visit him together.” Stan just eyed Phil, not knowing what he was getting at. “I’ve messed myself up pretty bad since then, but I ain’t lettin’ you get like me.”
Stan put up his boxing fists, but Phil grabbed Stan’s arm nonetheless. Stan pulled away, and then shoved Phil into the creek after Phil reached for him again.
“Oh, now you care?” Stan shouted. He pointed an accusing finger at Phil and struggled with what he said next. “Didn’t care—you told Sara, huh? Didn’t care ‘bout me—not then.”
“I’m sorry, Stan. It had to end.”
Stan shook his head and spit at Phil, missing by a good distance, but then something else caught his eye. He grabbed the object from the bank and rubbed the black metal with his thumb. The gun was familiar. He pointed it toward Phil and closed one eye, aiming it at his blurry friend. Phil backed away, but Stan just winked and mimicked the sound of a gunshot. He lowered his arm and shook his head.
“I should, you know?” he said. “You ruin me and I ruin you. I could, too. I was trained by the best.” Stan waited for Phil to reply, to insult his father, but Phil seemed frozen. “I see that look in your eye. You don’t think I could do it. You don’t think I can fire this thing, but Dad showed me what to do. I used to be good an’ everything.”
“Put it down, Stan,” Phil commanded weakly. He attempted to creep forward but Stan lifted an unsteady gun, threatening him. Phil continued his approach when Stan lowered it again, so the unsteady gun rose again.
“I hate ‘em, you know. These things—ugly.” Stan looked the gun over: the handle, the trigger, the barrel, in the barrel. “But they do what they’re s’pose to.” He aimed it at Phil and closed an eye. Phil put out a hand and Stan could see the fear that washed over his face. “They make you piss yourself.” Then he laughed and waved the gun in the air while making more childish gun noises.
“I can help you, man.”
“You can’t help me!” Stan said in a louder voice than intended.
He immediately shushed himself and wondered if Ellis and Sara had heard him. He listened but nothing had changed; so, wanting to be sure, he began climbing the slope that bordered the creek so that he might peek in on them. He cursed several times while climbing and finally slid back down. He pulled up on something and steadied himself. It took him a moment to realize that what he had pulled on was Phil’s hand.
“Let’s go back to your house,” Phil suggested.
“Why?” Stan asked as Phil helped support his weight. “They’ll get me.”
“I’ll explain everything. We’ll be alright.”
Stan didn’t answer at first. It would be nice if everything were alright again like it was before Phil ran his mouth. Then he thought about Ellis Barnes and knew things couldn’t be alright again. Not until Ellis was gone. He was about to protest when something tugged at his pocket.
“Wussat?” he asked.
He found Phil’s hand at his hip, holding something small. He began to question this when another tug pulled at the gun in his right hand. He tightened his grip and Phil struggled to pry the weapon from Stan’s hand.
“No!” Stan shouted, and they fought for the gun.
Stan was thrown from the foot of the slope and found himself facedown in the creek water. He sputtered and shook the water from his eyes before turning to find Phil attempting to climb a steep hill of mud with the gun in hand. Stan rushed after him and grabbed his leg, dragging him back down. Phil attempted to fight back and kicked Stan away; but, as Stan landed, he grabbed a rock and leaped after Phil, who’d begun climbing again. With a solid thud, the rock split open the back of Phil’s head and he slid back down the muddy hill. Stan slid with him.
He pried Phil’s fingers from the gun, and then he picked up the clip that Phil had picked from his pocket. Not knowing what else to do with it, Stan put the clip back into the gun and stared down the barrel at his friend, carefully laying a finger on the trigger. He applied pressure, but then relaxed and lowered the gun. Phil lay still at the foot of the slope, a dark concentration of blood matting the back of his hair. His legs soaked in the creek’s flow, and Stan imagined that Phil was urinating himself. He spit on his old friend and pretended to shoot him, mouthing the childish sound of gunfire once more.
“See,” he said tiredly. “They do their job. Didn’t even have to shoot.”
He looked at the gun again and a flame suddenly lit in his eyes. An idea formed deep within his alcohol-saturated mind—the solution to a problem.
“I wouldn’t shoot him. Just scare him away. I just point the gun and Ellis Barnes pisses himself.” He began climbing up the other mud-covered slope. “I won’t kill him, just scare the little liar. He’ll be gone and everything’s gonna be better. I’m comin’, Jake. I’m doin’ it like I said. She ain’t leavin’ you. I promised she wouldn’t. Just gonna scare him a little.”
He was nearing the top of the slope when he heard two people running.
“Yeah, me, too,” Ellis said from somewhere over the slope’s top. “It came from o
ver here.”
Stan struggled to climb the slope, but the footsteps were right on top of him. He pointed the gun upward just as Ellis appeared with Sara over his shoulder.
“Stan?” Sara said, obviously shocked by the sight of the gun.
Stan didn’t answer. He simply stared up the barrel at Ellis and thought of nothing save his anger regarding this man’s betrayal. Scaring him wasn’t enough. One squeeze of the trigger and Stan could make Ellis Barnes go away forever. With Ellis gone, Sara would be Jake’s again—just as it should be. Then everything would be alright.
“Back up, Sara,” Stan said in a drunken slur. “Don’t wanna get blood on your pretty clothes.”
Cicada Song Page 37