Barbed Wire Heart

by Tess Sharpe

  He coughs violently, his body convulsing. The flames are only inches away now. If I just give him a little push…

  It’s what Duke would do.

  But I am not Duke.

  I am not Momma.

  And I am not Springfield.

  So I bend down, slip the knife under the zip ties, and cut him free. He tries to rise to his feet, but the smoke’s too much for him. Coughing, he falls to the floor.

  I grab his arm and pull him away from the fire, out of the house, onto the grass near the fence. He rolls over onto his side, choking, spitting, trying to clear his mouth and suck in some air.

  I stand tall over him, my lungs burning from the smoke, my heart split in two from the hurt.

  He stares up at me, bewildered, coughing.

  “I want you to remember this moment,” I tell him. “I am not him. I am not you. I am better. That’s the only reason you’re still alive. You remember that while you’re rotting away in your cell. You remember how I spared you. Not because of blood or any of that shit you think matters. But because I chose to be better than you and him and all of this.”

  He struggles to his elbows, panting. “I’m in you, girl. You can’t outrun me. I’m your father.”

  “I’m a goddamn woman,” I say. “And Duke McKenna’s my father.”

  I lash out, the butt of my gun smashing against his temple. He goes down like a sack of rocks.

  I loom over him for a second, half-sure he’s going to leap up, like he’s playing possum or something. But he stays down.

  I put him down.

  Smoke is pluming in the sky, and I can hear sirens in the distance. Someone’s called the fire department.

  I need to move.

  I sprint to the shed behind the house, pull out the boxes of drugs, and cart them over to Carl’s truck, where I open them and stuff the Ziplocs in the toolbox and under the seats. I grab the bottle of spray paint from one of the boxes, and along the fence, where Carl’s lying unconscious, I paint DEATH TO MCKENNA on the grass. Then I press the can into his hand.

  The sirens are getting louder. The fire’s leaping and climbing. I can see flames soaring out of the kitchen window now.

  It’ll reach the gas line any minute. Then it’ll blow.

  I run. Across the meadow, the star thistle pricking my legs as I cut a path through it. I’m almost to the tree line where my truck’s hidden when I hear it, that terrible boom from my childhood, and the blast of heat washes over my back.

  I don’t look back. I just keep running.

  It’s time to focus on the future.

  The storage place is empty, like it was the night before when I locked them up. The gate’s still wide open, and I drive through it, pulling up to the unit.

  There’s no banging on the door as I unlock it, heaving it above my head. I step back immediately, my .45 in hand.

  Caroline squints in the bright light. Her boys are in the corner—Bennet’s asleep. Bobby glares at me, but he doesn’t move.

  I toss two bottles of water near them. “You.” I point the gun at Caroline. “Come with me. We’re taking a drive.”

  She steps out of the unit, and I lock Bobby and Bennet up again. She gets in the truck, watching me warily. And I drive us through the gate and toward the west side, where there’s a bluff that overlooks town.

  That’s where I park the truck, the headlights shining off the cliff, the lights of the town flickering in the night. It’s a beautiful sight. Peaceful.

  I look over at her, my gun still on her.

  “You gonna shoot me?” she asks.

  “I could’ve done that in the storage unit.” I let out a long breath. The weight on my chest keeps pressing hard, but I keep breathing. I keep moving.

  If I stop, then it’ll really hit me.

  He’s gone.

  Keep moving. Keep talking. Don’t think about it.

  “Carl’s been arrested,” I say. “He’s going away for good, Caroline. I made sure of it.”

  Her eyes narrow; she sucks in her lips, hate written on her face. “You little bitch. You and your daddy—”

  “Duke’s dead,” I interrupt her.

  She sputters, her mouth hanging open like a dead fish. “What?”

  “Duke’s dead,” I repeat. “And I’ve taken Carl out of the equation. No more men telling us what to do. So now you and I are going to talk. About your boys. And about your future.”

  She shifts on the bench seat of my truck, angling toward me, still in shock, I can tell, but already calculating as the new reality starts to click into place in that head of hers.

  Caroline’s smart. She knows how to play the game. I’m pretty sure the only reason Carl managed to hide out from Duke for more than two years was because of her quick thinking. Not that it would’ve ever occurred to Duke she was the mastermind behind it—she played him, too.

  But she won’t play me. Because Caroline and me? We’re alike. Out to protect ourselves and our own. At any cost.

  “The truce holds,” I say.

  She snorts. “You locked me and my boys up in a storage locker for over a day.”

  “Your boys kidnapped Will,” I countered.

  “You framed Carl,” she hits back. We’re just airing our grievances now. Laying them out, so we can see: who has more, who has the leverage, who has the upper hand.

  “Carl needed to be framed,” I say. “Jesus, Caroline. He’s a fucking anchor around your neck. He made you a target. He’s useless. Nothing but trouble. You really telling me you’re gonna miss taking his bullshit? Weren’t you better off when he was inside? I know your boys were.”

  “Your father took the business away from us,” she says between clenched teeth.

  “And I’ve taken the business away from him,” I say. “Catch up. The past is the past. It’s a new world. My world.”

  “And what does your world look like?” Caroline asks.

  “No more meth,” I say.

  She laughs. “Girl, I knew you were crazy, but I didn’t think you were stupid. People are always gonna be cooking up that shit. Hell, I bet they’ll be moving in before your daddy’s cold in his grave.”

  “They won’t get far,” I say, and she laughs some more.

  “You gonna be your daddy?” she asks. “Be the McKenna? You can’t—they never take women seriously.”

  “They’ll take me seriously,” I say, because I have to believe it. I burned it all to the ground, and the only way to atone is to build something better—safer—from the ashes.

  “Good luck with that,” Caroline says, sarcasm dripping from her words like honey off a spoon.

  “I don’t want to fight you,” I tell her. “You’ve never done anything to me.”

  “My boys have,” she says.

  I know I have her then. She needs to keep them safe.

  And with me around, they won’t be—unless the truce holds.

  “I’m willing to overlook that,” I say. “As long as you stay out of the business. Run the gas station. Be happy you have that. No cooking. No dealing. Not even weed.”

  Her eyes narrow. “Is that what you’re doing?” she asks. “You taking up gardening, Harley?”

  I ignore her and turn the key in the ignition. The engine purrs to life.

  “We should be getting back.” I look over at her. The lines of her face tell a story I can’t quite read, her eyes full of anger, but I think I see a hint of resignation.

  “So, what do you say, Caroline?” I ask. “Truce holds. Your boys walk away free, unhurt. You stay out of my business, I stay out of yours.”

  She gnaws on her lower lip, her pride warring with her logic. “Fine,” she says finally.

  I hold my hand out, and she takes it.

  I squeeze her fingers, too tight and too long. “If your boys put one toe out of line, I will kill them,” I tell her, my voice serious. I let it show on my face, how much I mean it. How I could put Bobby or Bennet down like a rabid dog—a necessary act, for the greater good. “You ma
ke sure Bobby understands that especially.”

  I can hear Caroline’s teeth grinding, holding back what she wants to say. “I’ll do that,” she says.

  I let go of her hand. There are red marks on her fingers.

  I remind myself it’s necessary. I think about the Rubies. About Brooke and Will and Cooper and Wayne. About the kind of damage Bobby Springfield could do with his violence and his neo-Nazi bullshit. About how Bennet had already drawn Jessa into the Springfield crosshairs unwittingly.

  I won’t allow that to happen again.

  We drive back in silence. I pull up to the gate of the storage space and unlock the truck door.

  She gets out, but she turns back to me, staring through the open window with an expression I can’t quite place. Bitterness? Regret? Both?

  “You have his eyes, you know,” she says.

  And there it is, out in the open. An acknowledgment of a truth we both know but won’t ever speak of again: that when it comes down to it, she and I are family. Not just through blood, but through experience. We’ve weathered the storms of the men who came before, and now we’re both free.

  “I know.”

  I press on the gas. And I’m gone before she can say another word.

  Fifty-Five

  June 9, 1:00 a.m.

  I want to go home. To sleep. To do anything to escape the ball of grief in my chest that’s growing with every breath.

  I drive home on autopilot, barely aware of what I’m doing until I get through the gates. When I turn the final curve of the driveway, the house comes in sight and my body relaxes.

  This is what I fought for, I remind myself as I unbuckle my seat belt. This is what I betrayed Duke for.

  Home. The Rubies. Will.

  Safety. Family. Sanity.

  There’s a light on in the living room and a motorcycle parked in front of the porch, and I should have expected he’d be here.

  He’s always chasing after me.

  I walk up the porch steps and through the door.

  Busy starts barking when she hears me and stops when she sees me. She leaps forward and plants her front paws on my stomach, smiling like she knows I need it.

  There’s a creak from the third stair from the top. I look up, and Will’s there, his eyes red and tired. He hasn’t shaved; there’s rough stubble on his chin. It makes him look older.

  Or maybe losing Duke made us older.

  He doesn’t say anything and he doesn’t touch me, which I am so grateful for. If he touches me, I’m going to cry. I have years of tears to make up for, and if I start, I don’t think I’ll ever stop.

  I can’t think anymore. I’ve been stamping it down, planning, moving forward, getting shit done, ignoring, ignoring, ignoring it.

  But now he’s dead.

  And now I’m alone.

  I’m all that’s left of the McKennas. Of Momma and Jake.

  It’s a strange feeling, being lost. It’s not one I’m used to. I always know where I am. Where I’m going.

  It’s how he raised me.

  He was true north and I was the compass, so now I’m just spinning in circles with nothing to point to.

  “I just want to go to sleep,” I say.

  “I’ll lock up,” he says, and it almost hurts to breathe around how grateful I am that he’s here. I don’t know what I would’ve done if I’d come home to the dark, empty house I expected.

  I make it up the stairs, Busy at my heels. I’m so tired it takes almost all the energy I can summon up. But when I pass Duke’s bedroom door, I pause, my hand hovering over the knob.

  I know it doesn’t look the same. The antique brass bed he and Momma slept in every night is gone. I packed it up and put it in one of the barns for storage. In its place is the hospital bed I bought the second month when I still thought I could do it—give him his peaceful death at home.

  If I open the door, I’ll see it, taunting me. Reminding me what kind of daughter I am. Reminding me that I don’t deserve that title. Reminding me that I don’t even have his blood.

  I force myself to move past the room into my own. Busy hops on the bed, her tail wagging back and forth against the quilts Miss Lissa stitched.

  My entire body aches as I pull off my clothes, leaving them in a pile on the floor. I know I should shower—I reek of sweat and smoke—but I can’t bring myself to move. I just stand there, frozen, exhausted, spinning, spinning, always spinning, with nothing to grasp on to.

  I hear his footsteps coming up the stairs, pausing to turn off all the lights but the ones in the hall, and then my bedroom door swings open, and he’s there, in the room.

  A wash of warmth goes over my bare back as he comes to stand behind me. “Wait a second,” he says. I force myself to stand still in the middle of my room, the cool air hitting my back as he steps away. I hear the scrape of my dresser drawer opening, and then he’s behind me again. I shiver, I can’t help it. He presses his forehead against my shoulder before he drapes the folds of the flannel shirt over me.

  I button the shirt—his shirt—over my chest, and when I turn around, he’s stripped down to his black boxer briefs.

  Busy jumps off the bed, trotting over to the rag rug next to the bookcase she likes.

  I walk to my side of the bed and pull back the quilt and sheet, and he does the same on the other side. I slide in first, lying on my back, and he brings the quilt over the both of us before settling on his side facing me.

  I’ve slept next to him dozens of times. In the back of trucks and high up in deer blinds. Snug in a tent, side by side in sleeping bags. Drooling on his shoulder on the couch after watching those old musicals Miss Lissa likes. Out in the backwoods, with nothing but a blanket between us and the sky.

  Never in a bed. Never like this.

  “Hey,” he says softly. His palm stretches over mine, but he waits until my fingers thread through his to pull me toward him. We’re lined up together, shoulder to shoulder, chest to chest, a tangle of thighs and calves, my always-cold feet pressed between his. Our noses brush. His legs are scratchy with hair; it tickles. His arm drapes over my waist, his hand settling at the small of my back, and I tuck mine over the curve of his hip, where cloth meets skin.

  “You did so good,” he murmurs. “You are so good, Harley.”

  I press my face into his neck.

  “He’d be proud,” Will whispers. “I know you don’t think so. But he would be.”

  “He’d hate me,” I say.

  “No.” He brings me tighter against him. “Never.”

  I wish I could believe it. But that’s not the woman he raised.

  I close my eyes.

  And finally, the tears come.

  Fifty-Six

  June 16, 10:00 a.m.

  We bury Duke on a sunny Friday morning.

  I walk through the graveyard like I’ve done too many times. I’ve taken this walk to bury Momma, to bury Jake, and now to bury Duke.

  It’s strange, being the last one.

  It doesn’t matter whose blood is in my veins. I am a McKenna. The only one left.

  Will walks next to me, Cooper and Wayne close behind. We walk down the main path of the cemetery in silence, crossing the lawn to stand in front of my family’s line of graves, where his headstone already sits.

  The service is private, just the four of us and Pastor Evans. He says lovely things. Pretty lies and half-truths, about Duke’s loyalty to his family and his entrepreneurial spirit. It’s nice of him. And when it’s over, he hugs me and tells me he’s here for me.

  As he walks away, I think about Molly, wondering what he’d do if he knew what a fighter his daughter is under her sweet surface.

  Fathers underestimate us. Duke and Springfield underestimated me.

  And now here I am: the last one standing and free. I have control.

  I just have to hold on to it.

  “Do you need a ride to the Tropics?” Cooper asks me.

  I shake my head. They’re throwing Duke a wake. Something nois
y and loud, with too much whiskey and too much weed and not-so-exaggerated stories about the mean old son of a bitch. He’d love it.

  “I’ll be there later,” I tell them. “I just need some time alone.”

  “Of course,” Cooper says. “Honey.” He pulls me forward, hugging me tight. “I’m so sorry,” he says. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise.”

  I nod, pulling back. Wayne hugs me, too, but he doesn’t say anything. He just presses his palm against my cheek, and it says everything necessary. I cover his hand with my own for a second.

  They head down the path toward the Tropics, where they’ll celebrate Duke’s life in style. If there isn’t a fistfight by the end of the night, it’ll probably be considered a failure.

  I turn back to Duke’s grave. Now it’s just Will and me.

  His arm goes around me and I lean my head against his shoulder. “Do you want me to stay?”

  I shake my head. “I need some time.”

  “I’m going to head to the house, then,” he says.

  “You’re not gonna go to the wake?” I’m not really surprised, though people—Paul and Mo in particular—will miss seeing him.

  He’ll be gone soon. Back to college. I try to push it out of my mind.

  “I’ll pour one out to him at home,” Will says. “Build him a fire in the fire pit.”

  He would’ve loved that, too.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Will’s eyes glint as he presses a kiss against my forehead. “You don’t have to thank me for anything. I loved him. And I love you.”

  I kiss him, a quick meeting of the lips; it’s there and gone, but it eases the tightness in my heart just a little.

  “I’ll see you at home,” Will says.

  And then I’m alone. Just me and Duke.

  Like it should be.

  I sit cross-legged at the foot of his grave, the black dress Brooke went out and bought me drifting up my thighs like cobwebs. I pull the silky fabric down over my knees, staring at the blank headstone.

  They’ll take it away to engrave it soon. And then it will be back for good. My father’s final mark on the world.