by Harley Fox
Okay. Stand up.
Planting my feet and using my hands for support, I push my heavy body up to standing. Just like I predicted my head spins immediately, and I stumble a few steps, grabbing onto the wall to stop from dropping back down on the bed. If I did, I don’t know if I’d have it in me to try again. I take a few deep breaths. The baby is kicking. I know, sweety. Just a bit longer. It’s not until I stood up that I realized my bladder is killing me. I’m gonna have to go pee soon. Or else I hope Trista has a mop somewhere close by.
Okay. Grab the door handle, pull it open. I’m hit with a delicious smell: cooking chicken, some garlic. My stomach rumbles, only succeeding in making my bladder protest further. I waddle down the hall, spot the open bathroom door next to Trista’s, and go inside. I only just make it onto the toilet, and a very satisfying thirty seconds later I hike up my pants, wash my hands, and leave.
When I step out into the hallway again I can smell it: that delicious food. My stomach rumbles again and I look to see the kitchen doorway, lights on inside. At the end of the hall is a closed door. There are noises coming from inside the kitchen. I slowly make my way over and see Trista standing at the stove, moving stuff around in a pan, her back to me. She hears me come in and turns, giving me a bland smile.
“Hi,” she says. “Are you hungry? I’m making a stir-fry.”
“That sounds great,” I say. There’s a table with chairs around it. Already my feet hurt. “Do you need a hand?”
“No no, you have a seat,” she says. “It’s almost done. Do you want anything to drink? Some tea?”
I sit down heavily in the chair. My feet thank me. “Tea would be great.”
She nods, picks up the kettle, fills it with water. On the stove is a large frying pan with chicken and vegetables. Draining in a colander on top of a pot is a mound of pasta. My stomach rumbles again, loudly this time. I see Trista give her head a small turn as she puts the kettle on to boil.
“It’ll just be a minute,” she says.
She moves quietly, the only sounds in the kitchen being her taking plates down, scooping pasta onto each of them. She still has her back to me. I watch how she moves, with a sort of awkward grace. Her wavy red hair moves when she does.
“Thanks so much,” I say, “for letting me stay here. And for letting me take your bedroom. You didn’t have to do that.”
She shrugs. “It isn’t a problem.”
She puts the colander with pasta back on the pot. A serving spoon moves chicken and veggies over to each plate.
“So you got away from the police station okay?” I ask, and she stiffens, slows down, almost stops. “I didn’t want Jake to … I mean …”
“Yeah,” her tone is clipped. “I got away.”
Nothing more to her answer. The food is served and she picks up both plates, carries them over to the table, putting one down in front of me and one down for herself. Turning around again she takes two forks out of a drawer and hands me one. I take it.
Trista sits down and tucks into her food. I do the same. It tastes amazing. Of course, when you’re as hungry as I am, almost anything tastes amazing. Still, I try not to eat too quickly. Neither Trista nor I speak. The kettle starts to whistle. She puts her fork down but I do too, laying a gentle hand on her arm.
“I’ll get it,” I tell her. She doesn’t protest so I lift myself to my feet as the kettle whistles louder. Waddle over, I turn the burner off, taking it off the heat.
“Mugs in the cupboard,” Trista points, “and there are tea bags beside it.”
I open up the ones she indicates. “What kind of tea do you want?” I ask.
“Mint is fine.”
I take down two mint tea bags and place one in each mug. Fill them with hot water, put the kettle back down. Carry them both over to the table, being careful not to spill. Trista’s chewing another mouthful as I place the hot drink in front of her.
“Thanks,” she says. I put my own drink down and then carefully lower myself back down in the chair. We continue eating.
Neither of us speak as we eat our meals. I spear chicken, broccoli, pasta, onion, each for an individual bite. Trista picks up her still-steaming mug of tea, blows the steam off the top, takes a tentative sip. Puts it back down.
“You must be really mad at Jake,” she says, and I lift my eyes to her, “for the way he acted.”
My heart feels like it’s been punched, but I try to keep the tears at bay. “Yeah,” I say, the least amount of sound so as not to give away the crack in my voice.
She shakes her head. “It was horrible. I didn’t see that coming. I don’t think anyone did. Maybe not even him.”
I don’t want to talk about this. Swallowing down the pain, I ask, “So, did you get back in touch with Flynn? Was he the one who got you out of jail?”
Trista stiffens again. Her jaw sets, her eyes locked on her plate. Finally she opens her mouth.
“Yeah. He got me out.”
Nothing more. I hesitate a moment.
“Is … everything all right between you two?”
Still stiff, but then she gives her head a tiny shake.
“No. We got into a fight. He, ah … lost his nerve. About killing Will Silver.”
“Ah.”
“Said he just wanted to run away,” she tells me. “Just up and leave town. With me.” She shakes her head again, a slightly bigger gesture this time. “But I can’t just leave. I have to do this. I have to kill Will Silver.”
I look down at my plate of food. Back up at her.
“Um, sorry for prying, but … would killing Will make a difference?” Trista snaps her head in my direction, her eyes annoyed yet vacant. “Sorry,” I say, “but … I’ve had similar fights with Jake. About the same thing. Whether or not we should try to kill Will. And I just don’t know if it’s worth it. All the fighting. Look at where it brought us. What it did to us. Jake gets angry a lot, and he has a quick trigger. I can tell that’s from stress. I wanted a more peaceful solution, but,” I let out a small laugh, surprising even myself, “I was too scared to tell him. I was too scared to tell him that I had plans for a peaceful solution. Isn’t that crazy? Just to talk to Will and sort things out that way, instead of resorting to guns.”
I shake my head, looking back down at my plate. Trista doesn’t say anything. I go on.
“I shouldn’t have been scared of my boyfriend’s reactions,” I tell her. “If I wasn’t then he could’ve helped me. I could’ve helped him. We could have come to a mutual decision. Some sort of agreement. Instead I went behind his back. Which I know I shouldn’t have done, but … I don’t know. I thought I was doing it for his benefit.”
I feel tears in my eyes and I wipe at them with the back of my hand, sniffing.
“Sorry. It’s stupid.”
“I don’t understand,” Trista says, her expression somewhat confused, “how you think that killing Will Silver won’t make a difference. Or that there’s a solution other than killing him. You, of all people. After what happened. You tried talking to him. And look where that led you.”
Ugh, you too? I sniff again, wiping my eyes dry. “I don’t want my baby to be born in a city of violence. I don’t want one of my final acts carrying our baby around to be an accessory to murder. Okay?”
“But if Will Silver remains alive, then this will be a city of violence. He’s a violent man.”
“He’s not evil,” I snap at her. “If that’s what you’re saying.”
Trista looks to the side, tilts her head. Shrugs her shoulders.
“I don’t know,” she says. “Maybe you know a different Will Silver than I do. But the one I know … I would call him evil.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t say anything. I pick up my fork and keep eating instead, Trista doing the same. The tea cools down enough to drink and I take sips, being careful not to burn my tongue. When our plates are both cleared Trista stands up, stacking them, taking them to the sink.
“Thanks,” I tell her.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’m just … everything is so messed up. I’m just stressed out. That’s all.”
She nods, opening the cutlery drawer and taking out a spoon.
“No worries,” she says, her voice flat. She opens the fridge and takes out a jar of baby food, peas and beef.
“Who’s that for?” I ask as she twists off the cap with a pop. I didn’t know Trista had a baby.
“I have to feed my mom,” she says. She places the cap on the counter and walks past me into the hallway, opens up the closed door at the end, goes inside.
I stay in my chair. Trista left the door open. I can hear her voice, speaking softly. The sound of metal lightly scraping glass. Pushing myself up from the chair I heave up to my feet, steadying myself on the table before waddling out of the kitchen to the open doorway.
I peer inside and see Trista sitting in a chair beside a bed, in a room that’s even less decorated than Trista’s. There are no pictures on the walls. Only a few pieces of furniture lie here and there. But the real spectacle is the person on the bed: a thin, haggard-looking old woman with wispy red hair. Her eyes are open and she’s staring straight ahead, out the only window in the room. Her only movements are her eyes blinking mechanically, her mouth reacting to Trista’s spoon holding the pre-masticated food. Her jaw, chewing the paste like a cow would. Her throat, swallowing the mix of nutrients and spit.
It’s a strange sight to behold, like out of a movie.
“What …” I’m about to ask What happened? but realize that’s a rude question to ask, so I start again. “How long has she been like this?”
Trista pauses long enough to hear my question, then goes back to feeding her mom.
“Ever since my brother Sal died,” she says. “From the gunfight. Between the Chains and the Bullets.”
The gunfight. I remember that. I was there. Craig and Jake were there. That was where Sal died.
This is heavy. Trista keeps feeding her, continues her duties as daughter and caregiver. Why is she doing this? It can’t be easy on her, to have to take care of her mother like this, in this state. Why is she doing this all, by herself?
And then it hits me: she’s doing it out of love. Trista is doing this because she loves her mother. She’s not acting out of hate. It all comes together. Her wanting Will Silver dead. Going undercover with the Bullets. Wanting things to change in this city. That’s why she wants Will Silver dead so badly. Not because she hates him. But because she loves her mother instead.
Flynn
The sun is starting to go down. I’ve been walking ever since I left Katie and Lance at that bar. Brilliant hues radiate out over the city. No reason to stop now.
My legs ache. My feet and ankles feel like they’re callused and blistered beyond recovery. But still I keep walking. Doors close on either side of me, parents bringing their children in, keeping them away from the dark. And from those who roam the dark. They only come out at night.
The streets of Santa Espera can be dangerous when the sun goes down. It depends on where you are, of course. And who you’re with. And who you are. The Bullets jacket I wear gives me some amount of immunity. But I’m not safe from everyone. And when word gets out that the Bullets are falling apart, that immunity will fall apart too.
A couple of hooligans standing on a corner look up and see me approaching. Their eyes take in my jacket … and they walk away.
Maybe it hasn’t fallen apart just yet.
There have been times when I’ve felt more at home in Santa Espera at night than I have during the day. There’s more freedom. More space to move around. Rules slough away like wet tissue on skin. All that exists are the rules of the gangs.
But I felt that more strongly when the Bullets were in their prime. Before all this shit started with the drugs and Will Silver and the Chains and Trista. Trista. What am I doing with her? Why can’t I get her off of my mind? She only wants what’s best for her, and yet still I find myself wanting her. Why is that? Why?
My feet keep me moving. The sun continues its descent. The streetlamps pop into life and illuminate the sidewalks below. But not the dark alleys. Not the corners, where the evil things lurk.
If Will Silver weren’t here anymore, would those dark corners still be a threat?
Questions like this plague me. This city would change — of course it would change — were the plan to kill Will Silver actually go through. But whether it would change for the better is hard to say. Maybe somebody else would come and take over? Maybe the economy would drop so low that only illegal enterprises would rise up. Who’s to say? Maybe Will ended up creating an unstoppable force, a perversion of the difference between right and wrong. Even if he went, this progeny of his might continue to thrive, might usurp his power and become something that he alone isn’t capable of?
Ah, what the hell am I talking about?
My feet keep me going. Keep walking, despite my body’s cries for rest.
Where am I going? Where do I want to go?
My bike. It’s back at the headquarters. I left it there when I went with Lance to try to bust Trista out of jail. The warehouse is about an hour’s walk from here.
Well, what the hell else am I gonna do?
I turn and start walking in that direction. As I move I see the dregs of this city start to materialize, coming out of the woodwork. They huddle together in the shadows. Others approach them, swap money for drugs, start fights on the streets and in the alleys. Spray paint mars brick walls and the broad sides of trucks and vans. Some people scuttle away when I walk past them. Others don’t.
I don’t approach anyone. I don’t interact with them. And they don’t approach me. If it weren’t for my jacket, I’d probably have been robbed blind by now. A big guy like me — I’m intimidating, but enough guys with lead pipes would take me down no problem. That all stops because of who I am. Who they think I am. Just because of the jacket I wear.
I wonder if Trista knows about all this. She must, as a former cop. At least abstractly. But I wonder if she knows. If she’s really experienced it. She told me she was in Petty Theft. It doesn’t sound like she was ever a beat cop. Maybe she never got a taste of what the seedy underbelly of Santa Espera is really like. Sal might have told her bits and pieces. But words only go so far. You really have to experience it to know.
And I wonder if she accounted for this. For the sludge at the bottom that might be stirred up and set free once Will Silver goes. If he goes. If this even ends up happening at all.
Because if she hasn’t accounted for it … then she’s got her work cut out for her.
Ah, why do I care so much? She as much as told me she has no need of me. The Bullets are done. She and I are out. Will cottoned on to our plan, so that’s out the window too. And she’s more than capable of getting something done by herself. So why do I care so much? Do I actually love her? Or is it something like, what’s that thing called? Stockholm Syndrome? Where you sympathize with your captors? Even though she’s all but pushed me away, I can’t stop myself from loving her.
Or maybe she gives me something I can’t get anywhere else. It’s true, that I haven’t felt like this about anyone since Elizabeth. I might even feel it more with Trista than I did with her. It’s hard to tell. All that happened so long ago, and my memories are getting confused. But I feel something with Trista. Something like … I don’t know. A sense of freedom. A sense of possibility.
Like when I’m with her, I can do more. I can be more. Before I was with her, I felt stuck. Stuck in my adolescence. I wanted to just be young, joke around, get drunk and go riding with the Bullets and smash things. I was never into the actual gang parts of being in a gang. Hurting other people? Nah, not my cup of tea. But breaking the law and doing whatever the fuck I wanted? Yeah, that was my shit.
But Trista showed me there was more. Even if she didn’t know that she did it, she did. When I was with her, it’s like I saw the next phase of my life light up, whereas before that it had been dark. I saw what I could be.
I saw my potential, as a high school guidance counselor would put it.
I enter the warehouse district and walk along the familiar path on my way to the Bullets’ headquarters. The moving is slow compared to being on a bike. Similar-looking buildings pass me by, over and over again, until finally I come upon our warehouse. There’s only one bike sitting outside: mine. I walk over to it. It looks fine. Part of me wondered if they were going to trash or steal it, considering what happened. What Trista and I did. How everybody was reacting.
I look around. It’s quiet out. I decide to go inside, heading through the front door. The warehouse is dark, so I turn on the large overhead fluorescent lights. They flicker on, spraying cold, white light down onto everything.
The place is a mess. It’s completely deserted, and it’s a mess.
My boot scrape against the concrete as I walk in, the only sound in this vast, open space. The table has been knocked over. There are broken beer bottles sitting in pools of spilled beer. Bullet casings are scattered over the ground, and walls and shelves show the damage those bullets made. A dark red splotch on the ground shows me where somebody died. But it’s not where Chloe and Matthias were. Somebody else died.
That Slinger. Lance told me and Katie about what happened. I look around, trying to visualize it. Jake, his crew. Trista and Lance. And then Will Silver. And Jake’s pregnant girlfriend, Merryn. And his sister. That pile of debris is by the door and I walk over to it, look behind. There are some shards of broken black plastic and bits of metal, but that’s about it.
I should have been here. I should have been with Trista.
But I wasn’t. Instead I left. Trista called to me, but I didn’t turn back. But she didn’t come after me. Is it my fault? Hers? I don’t know.
I leave the warehouse and walk to my bike. Get on. Start it up. My feet and legs thank me for the rest, and then curse me when the engine’s vibrations start. Still, I pick them up as I ride out of the lot, out onto the street, feeling the cool, slightly damp wind push into my face and hair.