Halfway

by Tom Macher

  But he couldn’t find anything. And never stopped thinking of that teller. He hadn’t mattered. That’s how quick she shot him down. His anger boiled. He was nothing to her. Nothing. He passed a Walmart, unthinking, circled back, stole duct tape, panty hose, a laundry bag. Then he returned to the bank and waited.

  When the woman got off work, he pulled the bag over her head, stuffed her in his trunk.

  This was in one state, he said, near the state line. A bridge connected the two, and he drove through a valley of farms, passing university towns and former industrial centers, all abandoned and rusted over, and ascended a series of hills and another valley and another set of hills and switchbacks, until arriving at a national forest. It was very late at night. An empty ranger station greeted him at the park’s entrance—it was closed for winter, its gate locked. Ray used a rock to free the lock and drove into the woods, continuing until the road was no road at all, just woods. He got out, popped the trunk, pulled the bound and blindfolded woman up, and set her on her feet.

  She stood there, legs bent, back stooped. It seemed, he said, she might have been trying to listen or hear, or was thinking about running, but couldn’t tell which way to go. He laughed suddenly and then stopped. He had a look on his face. Pure terror.

  This was it, I thought. Whatever Ray had left to tell us would surely be the worst. No one could top it. It was a real conversation ender.

  Go on, someone said. What happened?

  Nothing, he said. I left her there.

  * * *

  CONCERN SWELLED FOR SWEET DADDY. It seemed he didn’t want to leave. He wouldn’t get a job, refused to make Phase. Program got involved. He came into group one night, clearly upset. Tell you what I know, he told Sweet Daddy. No one goes through my house without getting into some shit. What are you hiding?

  Sweet Daddy turned in his chair. Me?

  Why the fuck ain’t you made Phase? Program said.

  I haven’t found work.

  Are you looking?

  Sweet Daddy shrugged. What am I supposed to do, flip burgers?

  Yup. That’s exactly what you’re supposed to do, Program said.

  Later, after group, Sweet Daddy rolled the tip of a Newport across his lips. We’d all gathered around him, quiet and respectful of his shame.

  The fuck, he asked, do I even want with Phase?

  That’s how you get out, someone said.

  I know what’s out there, he said.

  Well. You can call your woman. Tell her you love her.

  She knows I love her.

  Maybe she wants to hear you say it.

  She don’t want to hear from me, he said.

  You don’t know that.

  I’m older than you, Sweet Daddy said, and I do.

  But then, I guess, a nearby retirement home called Program and asked if he knew anyone old but not that old, who might like to sit in their lobby and talk with clients, as if one of them. So Sweet Daddy went down there. Pretty soon he made Phase. Once he made Phase, he got on the phone. Once he got on that phone, he never got off. For five days, he did nothing but gab. We’d see him sunrise to midnight, the heels of his side-zipper gators up on the wall, ashes piled beneath his chair, rag on his shoulder, 409 nowhere to be found.

  Five days.

  Five whole motherfucking days.

  At the end of five days, Program came into group, portable phone in hand, looking strangely washed out, gray. His eyes seemed wet, as if he might soon cry or had been crying or was thinking of crying, if crying were something he could do. Dulled somehow, melancholic, lugubrious, he blandly waved the portable phone at Sweet Daddy.

  Phone call, he said. For you.

  Me? Sweet Daddy asked.

  Yeah, Program said. Why don’t you take it in the office.

  Okay, Sweet Daddy said, and he got up and began shuffling across the floor.

  Program set the phone on the bookshelf. And then he did something I’d never seen him do before—when Sweet Daddy got close, he averted his eyes.

  Sweet Daddy reached for the phone, but Program told him no, take it in the office, and again, he could not bring himself to look at the man.

  Oh, Sweet Daddy said.

  And I have wondered about this “oh” for years. Did he know already? Did he think to run, had he considered all the possibilities?

  After Sweet Daddy walked outside and shut the door, Program apologized. There was nothing I could do, he said. I’ve been negotiating all week how they’d handle it. The last thing I wanted was a bunch of cowboys shooting all y’all up.

  I heard shouts, then saw uniforms rushing by the window: US Marshals, FBI, DEA, a lot of them, all wearing Kevlar over their fatigues, with bright white or yellow lettering. They carried machine guns. I could just make out the static from their walkie-talkies.

  Sweet Daddy killed a cop, Program said. They been tapping his woman’s phone for years.

  The Edge

  I got a job at McDonald’s that paid $4.25 an hour. After deductions, I saved $45 a week. When I didn’t work, I hung with Mike outside the library. Always we had girls coming around. They’d take his fingers into their mouth, swallow to his last knuckle. What do you think? he’d ask me. Is she talented? He was having fun.

  A few front-runners emerged. They had to be wild, gritty. A car was mandatory. We’d ride one in front, one in back, ducking so no one saw us, drive out to the woods or a swamp, or the prairie, lie on the hood, walk the old cypress docks and stare at pylons, the girls cooking pot or crank, all of them more impossibly fucked up than whoever came before. When new brothers enrolled in school, we’d take them with us, have them sign a Negative Contract, all feeling safe with us, each one making some decision that brought them closer and closer to the road again.

  One girl had a Bettie Page haircut, stark blue eyes, defined cheekbones. She used to kiss her finger and touch the roof while driving over the tracks. Once she kissed her finger this way and Mike kissed his and they touched each other’s fingertips at the roof. I felt uncomfortable, like I’d seen something bad beyond the ordinary of what we were doing here, as if it were one thing to mindlessly bang or pursue banging, but this here, whatever it was, this touching-of-the-finger business, was something else. Later, they disappeared into a field. For a while I sat on the car’s hood, this other girl with me, a very small girl. She might have weighed seventy-five pounds. She had one of those southeastern Louisiana names, Boudreaux or Guidry, and she told me about her family: many, many generations all lived in a compound nearby, a very large compound, hundreds of people in her family, maybe more.

  The scenario repeated itself. Frequently. After a while Mike got absentminded, distracted, began slacking in his area. He’d crouch down, rag in hand, but never run his rag across the molding. He swept the toilet rim clean but did not discard what came loose. He accumulated Hours. Our conversations suffered. We no longer talked about life after the House. Had no more matched dreams, no more fantasies of far-flung travel to Thailand, Greece, or Antarctica. I took it personal, thought it was about me. He’d decided I wasn’t cool, I lacked that thing. But what really happened: Mike O. was in love.

  A dude calling himself Cash Money arrived on the scene. I don’t remember his real name. No one called him Cash Money, I can assure you. He was seventeen with straight white hair, not unlike Vanilla Ice. I think he came from Florida, maybe. He decided to do school with us but then quit going. A few days later, he moved into this Bettie Page girl’s house. Now brothers joked about it. Said where is “Cash Money”? Have you seen “Cash Money”? Always their fingers curled in quotation marks. I felt bad for Mike.

  What do you think? I said. Should we go by there, break his legs or something?

  He rolled his eyes at first but, after I kept asking, got that old Mike O. smile.

  We knew the girl lived in a trailer park on the prairie somewhere near the highway in wet, slumping earth east of the river, and so we went to find the little mousy girl at the library.

  W
here y’all been? she asked. Who y’all been hanging out with?

  It was just too unknown for me to handle. Where’s Bettie Page? I asked. Where’s that piece of shit Cash Money?

  The mousy girl began crying. That’s all y’all care about.

  I looked at Mike. He looked away.

  It doesn’t matter, the girl said. They’re gone. Went to Florida. Both of them. You’ll never see them again.

  * * *

  THE MORNING MIKE TURNED SIXTEEN, I went into his bedroom and pulled his foot, but he refused to get up and we had words. It was the first time we’d had words. His roommate was Jack Rehab, who’d left and come back, and, even though that slight dogleg had lowered his standing in the House, and was something we considered whenever he opened his mouth, he still found occasion to be confrontational.

  What the hell are you doing? Rehab asked.

  What’s it look like?

  Let go, Rehab said. Live and let live.

  And what now? I asked Mike. What will you do?

  Sleep.

  Then what?

  Get my GED.

  Tell him, I told Rehab, but Rehab pushed by me into the bathroom.

  There came a stream of piss, some moaning. Then a trickle. Rehab sighed. The trickle gained momentum, grew to full-bore, died completely, and then began again. Jesus, Rehab said. And sure enough, he kept pissing.

  Mike smiled at me as we listened. It was funny.

  The toilet flushed. Pipes sputtered. Rehab was taking a shower.

  Mike, I began, but he cut me off, his smile gone.

  I don’t care. I’m tired of this. I can’t explain it if you don’t want to listen. I been in here, one way or another, all my life. You don’t know what that’s like. It’s just inside. You stay inside. You got nothing to look forward to but what the next inside is like. You aren’t like me. You take smart classes. You’ll go to college and have a job, but not me. I’ll be inside. Right here.

  It doesn’t have to be that way, I told him.

  You know what I want. I want to be a grown-up. I want to make my own decisions. I don’t want to be told anymore what to do.

  It’s just pussy, I said.

  What’s this? Rehab was back, toweling off in the doorway. Have y’all been banging ass at that damn high school? Group, he yelled. Group! Wearing only a towel, he marched up and down the front porch, opening doors and yelling, Group!

  Looks like I’m getting up now, Mike said.

  In group we did Hats, Rags, and Verbals. I am not who I claim to be. I don’t care about you at all. We clapped, said prayers, sat down. Half-dressed junkies with snipes behind their ears, coffee mugs in hand, grumpy, slightly amused, same old shit.

  Rehab began. I called this group out of care and concern for Mike O. and Tommy M., who’ve been banging ass down at the high school.

  Brothers seemed impressed, genuinely interested. Several shouted: I support that!

  Tommy, Ray said, really? This shouldn’t be a Care-and-Concern Group, he argued. We should be stroking him.

  Guys clapped. Others yawned, bored with it all. Normal day.

  Well, I said.

  Oh, Rehab said. Sorry. Only Mike’s been banging ass. Tommy, I guess, has just been downstroking in the corner.

  Right, I said, and got up, signed out. C’mon, Mike. We got school.

  I’m not going, he said.

  Whatever. I left. Didn’t see him all day. No one called. Vic didn’t show up. No one told me get back to the Property. When I got home, Ray and Program were huddled by Program’s truck. I tried to walk by them. Really did. Head down, eyes elsewhere.

  Where the fuck you going? Program asked.

  Signing in, I announced. Then I plan to read my Big Book.

  Still got your jokes, he said. Come see. When I walked over, he laid hands. This okay?

  Sure, I said. Though I didn’t want his hand on my shoulder. His hand knew everything.

  How do you feel?

  Across the road, in a usually vacant lot, a prefab had been dropped on cinder blocks.

  Tommy, he said. Look at me. Are you scared?

  Yeah.

  That’s a good thing. Tommy?

  Yeah?

  Did you see Mike at school today?

  No.

  Do you usually?

  Yes.

  Any idea where he might be?

  I looked about the Property, saw some of the brothers gathered about the Coke machine, slouching and spitting, chewing their nails and sucking down butts. I could just walk right into the group room, I thought, and out the back door and into the field and woods and beyond. Is he not here? I asked.

  Do you think I don’t know what goes on at that motherfucking school? As many junkies as I’ve sent through that place. You think y’all are the first brothers in my house to catch a whiff of pussy?

  Uh.

  His tone shifted from incredulous to instructive. I want to be clear with you. Do you know what I’m saying? About Mike and you?

  I mean.

  Some pussy is just pussy, Tommy. But some of it is special.

  Uh.

  Some girls, he said, like fuckups. They’re sick, too.

  I . . .

  And you know what sickies don’t do? They don’t learn lessons. Normies touch a hot frying pan once, they don’t touch it again. Understand me?

  . . .

  Nod if you hear me.

  . . .

  Tell me.

  I toed the loose pebbles.

  It’s three-fifteen, he said. You have until Staffing at five to find him. Ray will drive.

  * * *

  RAY WANTED CIGARETTES. Then a cold drink. Outside Circle K, he told me what he knew. Mike had disappeared that morning. Hadn’t signed out. Never showed at school. Rehab thought depression. Chad H. reported Mike claiming he’d leave, first opportunity. I’d never heard Mike mention this. Only in the abstract, in that way we all did—this place sucks, or I can’t wait to bounce—which didn’t need to be said.

  Ray suggested McDonald’s, a happening place in that town. Girls buzzed around cars filled with boys, dope smoke wafted from the trees. Inside, people wolfed down burgers and fries, sucked their soft drinks. I asked about. Have you seen my buddy? Little guy? Mike?

  But no one had.

  This girl, Krystal, an assistant manager, came out from behind the counter, brushed against Ray’s arm, and walked outside. Ray winked. Then followed her. Andy C. worked the fry station. We made small talk while he turned and burned. Will F. manned the grill. Facedown, sweat dripping off his nose onto the meat. Couldn’t or wouldn’t scoop, NCs and all. It was 3:40, 3:45. I walked outside. Ray had disappeared. His car was empty. I looked for Krystal’s car. I looked in the trees, but the smokers had gone. I went back inside: 3:50. I told Andy to tell Ray I’d be on Magnolia, near the swimming pool.

  I began running through the woods. A slight incline led to a narrow creek, and then the land rose. These woods were unlike the rest of southeastern Louisiana—the ground firm, unsaturated. Rocks pushed out from the earth. It reminded me of Georgia, when I used to run through the woods from my house to a friend’s, running because I liked the burn of it. I emerged on maybe the only street in town without a gully. A cracked hard curb ran the length of it. A half-block down Magnolia, across from the swimming pool, was a house where the second-prettiest girl in school lived. Slender and big-eyed, with pale skin and delicate wrists, she possessed all the coveted hooks and valleys and would glance up sometimes in fifth-period civics and stare right over my shoulder out the window behind me. She lived in a small brick ranch, nothing extraordinary. Her car in the driveway, flag on her mailbox up, no lights on.

  Across the street, Ray leaned against his car, arms crossed, cigarette gritted in his teeth, a curious squint—are you fucking kidding?

  And he was right. I knew Mike wasn’t there. That’s the sad part. I just wanted to see this girl one more time before they kicked me out.

  She wore a pair of small denim sho
rts and a pink tank top and greeted me at the door, cordless phone in hand. She couldn’t have been more surprised. We’d spoken only once before. In the cafeteria. She’d been playing cards with some friends, and I’d awkwardly asked her what game they were playing. Boo-ray, she said. Is it like spades? I asked. Yes, she said. Then she turned away.

  Now she eyed me suspiciously. You’re one of those group-home boys, she said, tapping her heel. Well, go on. What do you have to sell me?

  I’m wondering have you seen my friend, I said, my hand nipple-high. You know. Guy I’m always hanging out with.

  She pointed at Ray. Who’s he?

  Ray sauntered over. I’m his Big Brother, he announced. Now, where’s Mike?

  She eyed the ground. I’m—

  I need to use your bathroom, Ray said. And your phone. Walking past me, he whispered, Nice try, virgin.

  Inside was like every other ranch. They’re all the same. Doesn’t matter what you do to them. I can walk through blindfolded and drunk and not bump anything. A sliding glass door in the den opened to a small and weathered wooden deck. The backyard had a doghouse but no dog, a clothesline, a plastic kiddie pool. Two lawn chairs faced the pool, one towel, a backpack—not Mike’s—a pair of flip-flops, a tube of, I think, tanning cream. There was a cold drink in the grass, something in a glass, the glass sweating, ice melted.

  You’re just staring, the girl said. Then: You are so weird.

  I wanted to say something, but Ray shoved by me, shaking his head. Let me see that phone, he told her.

  She stiffened against the sliding glass door, hands clasped behind her.

  Yeah. Ray spoke into the phone. The motherfucker went to Magnolia, just like you said. Headed to Prairieville next, I guess. He rolled his eyes at me. I’ll call from the Ten.

  The road to Prairieville stretched out like all the other country roads around here—lined by pines and cypress, pastures and swamps, with gullies running along each side of the asphalt. We passed barns, stables, churches. Puffy cumuli floated below a soft blue sky. Little details bothered me. Ray had known which house was hers. He hadn’t been at all surprised. He’d mentioned Prairieville. How the fuck did he know about Prairieville?