“I’m sorry. But it’s your own fault.”
He walked to the cabin and reached underneath the porch. Taking a key off a nail driven into the top step, he unlocked the padlock securing the front door and went inside.
He threw the switch, lighting a single fixture hung in the center of the room. The air reeked with a foul mixture of mildew and decay, and Hackett raised the sash on the front window. On his way to the back bedroom, he pulled the dusty bed sheet off the couch, tossing it against the armrest in a heap. He opened the bedroom window and returned to the main room of the cabin, where he turned off the light and collapsed on the couch, balling the sheet under his head on the armrest. The moon peeked under the top of the window.
Hackett stared at the ceiling, his eyes adjusting to the room’s shadowy glow as the whippoorwill took up its call once again, the seemingly endless song amplified through the bedroom window. A brief cross breeze washed through the cabin, the rustle of leaves outside the front window preceding the deafening slam of the bedroom door. Hackett sat up, his pulse throbbing audibly in his head. The whippoorwill was silent.
He got up and opened the door, pushing it wide against the wall and then resumed his position on the couch, watching the front window, listening. Checking the time on his phone, Hackett yawned and shut his eyes.
Another, more distant whippoorwill call.
Slowly and with monumental effort, Hackett opened his eyes. The moon was full in the window but seemed more distant now, its light scattered by the treetops. Transfixed, he stared at its brilliant glow, his arms heavy at his side on the couch, resisting his efforts to raise them. He yawned, stirring a blinding pain in his head as he became aware of a warm rush of blood down his face. Unable to raise his arms, Hackett rolled and twitched in a panic, his eyes darting across the shadows in the room. At his side, a man leaned over him, his arm raised, his body a silhouette rimmed in hazy moonlight. The man swung his arm and a deafening thump on the top of Hackett’s head made him seize with fear, his ears ringing.
He awoke in a sweat, bolting upright on the couch.
The moon was still full in the window and he rolled onto the carpet on all fours, retching and cursing. He got to his feet and shut the front window, mopping his brow as he looked outside. The sparkle of moonlight off his car filtered through the buck thorn, and he placed his hands on either side of the window, hanging his head. A car passed on the road, and Hackett stood aside as it took the curve, watching shadows dance on the walls and then fade. Turning back to the window, he watched the receding flicker of red as he pulled the key from his pocket.
He went outside and locked the cabin door, checking the time as he returned the key to its place. Back at his car, he shoved in the lighter and popped the trunk, watching the road. The lighter snapped and he lit up, clenching the cigarette in his teeth as he sidled to the back of his car.
His palms flat on the trunk, Hackett shut his eyes, his body trembling. With a jerk, he took hold and raised the lid, pulling the reek of vomit from inside. He gazed into the trunk, recoiling with a grimace.
Butch was on his back, his hands palms-out, partially covering his face. Hackett set his forehead on the edge of the trunk lid, staring down at the silent, lifeless form.
“This is so fucked up.”
The wound on Butch’s head had stopped bleeding. His eyes were closed.
“I’ll take you home.”
As Hackett began to close the trunk, he bumped the car, shaking one of Butch’s hands off his face and onto the carpet. His eyes opened and rolled into his head as Butch inhaled in a violent, bubbling gasp. Hackett jerked back, his legs buckling.
“Oh my god…”
Slamming the trunk, he stumbled to the front seat and sat behind the wheel, gasping as his gaze fell on the backpack on the passenger floor. Snatching the tire iron from the seat, he beat the pack mercilessly, cursing over the sound of splintering plastic, a sinister grin lighting on his face. Exhausted, his hand stinging, Hackett held up the tire iron and studied it with naked revulsion before throwing it on the floor. He grabbed his flashlight and ran to the shed, oblivious to the buck thorn catching and tearing at his shirt.
Removing a bent nail from the hasp, he flung the door wide, probing inside with his light. The grimy, decrepit space was packed to the roof with old tools and hardware, its numerous shelves teetering on the brink of collapse. Hackett cleared the ground around the shed’s center post—a massive wooden timber decorated with assorted hardware nailed around its perimeter. He worked quickly, kicking up dust that swirled in the beam of his flashlight, now clenched in his teeth. Standing in the doorway, he inspected his work, wiping drool from his mouth. He went to his car and opened the trunk, illuminating the inside with his flashlight. Butch was still awake, his breathing shallow. He turned to Hackett with a distant gaze, his throat gurgling. Hackett turned off the flashlight.
“Somebody there?” Butch asked.
Hackett looked him over from his bloodied head to his vomit-soaked flannel and untied boots. He cleared his throat.
“Yeah. Can you—do you think you can stand up? Can you get out of there?”
Raising one hand out of the trunk, Butch pressed the heel of the other into his eye, drawing a deep, raspy breath.
“I can’t see, PJ. You…can you help…?”
Hackett took Butch’s hand—cold and sticky with blood—and rolled him onto his side. Turning his head, he worked his hands under Butch’s arms and pulled him from the trunk, Hackett’s cheek pressed into his wet, encrusted shirt. Retching, he pulled away and sat him on the back of the car, holding him steady. Butch sat, swaying, his hands over his eyes. Hackett caught his breath as he checked the road and then glanced back at the shed.
“Okay. Almost there. Can you walk? Or should I carry you?”
“I can’t…”
Hackett waited, but he said no more. Turning him around, Hackett slid his hands under Butch’s armpits, locking his hands over his chest. He dragged him away from the car with occasional glances over his shoulder at the shed, its moonlit doorway framing the darkness inside. Butch shuffled his feet and mumbled incoherently, as if asking questions and protesting an inadequate, imagined reply. Inside the shed, Hackett’s shoulder struck a nail in the post and he reeled, nearly losing his grip around Butch’s chest. Hackett sat him on the floor and leaned him back against the post, massaging his shoulder as he rose, turning on his flashlight to check his hand for blood.
He found a rope on a shelf against the back wall and began to uncoil it, his flashlight propped on a ledge by the door. Butch coughed and cleared his throat, blindly inspecting his surroundings.
“Where…where are—?”
He exploded into a coughing fit and rocked against the post, his hands reaching out, searching. As the attack subsided, he tried to stand up, but Hackett put a hand on his shoulder, holding him down. Butch took a weak hold of Hackett’s arm.
“PJ, my head. You have to—”
Butch let go as he began to cough again, with Hackett working quickly to tie him to the post. Though spirited, his resistance was weak and he conceded, slumping against the rope, lowering his hands to his side. He hung his head, wheezing.
“PJ, what are you—?”
More coughing. Hackett stood, shaking his head.
“I’m not PJ.”
Butch’s head bobbed as he began to cry. Hackett turned away, taking the flashlight from the ledge.
“You should have just—” He looked outside, shaking his head as he took the pack of cigarettes from his pocket and rattled its contents. One left. He approached his captive and lowered into a crouch, extending the pack. “You smoke?”
Butch’s sobbing had faded to heavy breathing, his head still hung. Hackett leaned closer.
“Do you smoke?” An almost imperceptible nod. Hackett rose and went to the door. “I’ll be right back.”
As Hackett stepped outside, Butch called after him, his words inaudible. Hackett turned back, leaning th
rough the doorway.
“What?”
“My hat. I…”
He trailed off and Hackett nodded.
“Yeah, okay.”
He went to the trunk and found the camouflage cap, crusted over with blood and dirt. Slamming the trunk, he hurried to the front and lit the cigarette, pulling a long drag on his way back. He set the cap on Butch’s head and knelt by his side, touching the cigarette’s filter to his bloodied lips. Slowly, it was pulled from his fingers, and Hackett stood, leaning back against the door frame. Butch took off the hat and set it in his lap, searching it with his fingers. Smoke curled up and around his head. Hackett cleared his throat.
“I—”
Hackett choked and cleared his throat again.
“This isn’t your fault.” Butch tipped his head up, the cigarette clinging to his bottom lip. Hackett turned away to watch the road. “I promise I’ll…uh…”
As Hackett trailed off, Butch bowed his head again as he turned the cap slowly in his hands.
“Go to hell,” he said.
Hackett wiped his eyes and swept the shed with his light, working his way around the back of the post, where he pulled on the rope, checking his knot.
He returned to the front, lighting Butch’s swollen face. Slumped against the rope, he was still, the cap crumpled in his hands. The cigarette fell into his lap and Hackett picked it up, crushing it in the dirt. Wetting his lips, Hackett moved closer, his hand outstretched, checking his neck for a pulse, his fingers shaking. Butch moaned softly and raised his head, his eyes fluttering.
“PJ?”
Hackett jerked his hand away and backed outside with a groan. He closed the door. About to replace the nail in the hasp, he stopped short.
Son of a bitch.
Closing his eyes, he tossed his head back, thoughtfully inhaling the mingled scent of pine and forest duff. He opened the door and went back inside and untied Butch from the post. Tossing the rope into the corner of the shed, Hackett went back outside and secured the door. He walked slowly to his car.
six years ago
PJ
PJ reached into the car to grab his father’s arm. Butch waved him away. “No, I need to do it.”
PJ stepped back, pulling up the hood of his jacket against the slanting mist. He watched as Butch struggled from the passenger seat and onto his crutches, his dead legs taking much of his weight.
“Are you supposed to be doing this?”
Butch smiled, motioning to the open door with a flick of his head.
“Of course not. Grab that, would you?”
PJ ducked inside and took a gift from the center console—a perfect cube wrapped in gold paper—and shut the door.
“Just be careful, all right?” PJ said. “It’s really slippery.”
Butch led the way in rapid stride, his legs swinging in unison and then offering shaky support as he repositioned the crutches. Only by quickening his own pace was PJ able to keep abreast on the sidewalk.
“Man, you are gonna crack your head open, you know that? Would you please use the chair?”
Butch stopped at the entrance to the diner, leaning against the wall as he pulled the door to. He shook his head as PJ took hold of the door and motioned him inside.
“Not a chance,” Butch said. “But thanks for trying.”
PJ followed him inside, watching his legs bend and wobble under the strain. PJ hung their dripping jackets on the hooks above the corner booth and they sat. A gravelly voice called to them across the empty room.
“Hey! I told you punks to stay the hell out of my place! This is a classy joint.”
Behind the counter, a man was wiping his hands on a greasy towel tucked into his apron. Butch gave him a knowing glance as he ran his hand over the back of the tattered vinyl bench.
“It certainly is. In fact, is this fresh duct tape holding together the upholstery? Very elegant. Only the finest establishments would—”
“Yeah, yeah,” the man said. “You guys want the special?”
Butch turned to PJ, his eyebrows raised. PJ nodded.
“Sounds great, Bill,” Butch said, shifting further down the seat. He folded his hands on the table in front of him, drawing PJ’s attention to the gift between them. PJ picked it up and turned it in his hands. A smile tried to surface.
“You didn’t have to do this, dad. You’ve got enough to deal with.”
Butch’s expression fell.
“What? Feeling sorry for myself? Open it, already.”
PJ set down the gift, tracing its edges with his thumbs.
“It’s just—”
Bill appeared at the table, stopping PJ short. His face and forearms streaked with grease, he set two glasses of water on the table, grinning at PJ as he reached for the gift.
“PJ, you shouldn’t have. But thanks.”
PJ glanced at Butch as he took Bill’s hand.
“Then it would be my honor to shake your hand instead,” he said, scrutinizing the lines smeared on Bill’s neck and cheeks. He pointed, drawing them to Bill’s attention. “You’ve got a little…something…there.”
Laughing, Bill slapped PJ on the back with his free hand, turning to Butch.
“You did good, Butch,” he said, jerking his thumb at PJ. “Kid’s got a mouth like his old man.”
Butch smiled.
The bell above the door caught Bill’s attention, and he welcomed a young couple stepping in from the weather before turning back to the table, tapping PJ’s shoulder with the back of his hand.
“So when are you gonna get this freeloader off those crutches?” he asked, motioning to Butch with a wave of his hand. “You know he’s just trollin’ for sympathy, right?”
PJ chuckled.
“Yeah. It’s shameless.”
“I guarantee you, he’s gonna work me for free pie later.”
PJ shook his head, glancing at his father with a smirk.
“Can’t take you anywhere.”
Butch shrugged.
“What can I say? I’m a sucker for pie.”
“So, PJ,” Bill said, working his hands over with the towel. “Gonna be a senior this year, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then what? U-Dub? It’d make the old man proud, goin’ to his alma mater.”
Bill winked at Butch. PJ nodded.
“Yeah. Probably.”
“Well, that’s great, PJ. The world’s waitin’ for ya.” Letting the towel hang once again from his apron, Bill set his hands on his hips, smiling. “And hopefully you’ll start hanging out with a more respectable crowd.”
Butch set his hand on the tops of his crutches.
“Did I ever tell you, Bill, how I once took a man’s head off with one of these?”
Bill stepped back from the table, his hands raised in a plea for peace, his laughter drawing smiles from the diners in the next booth. A woman called to them from behind the counter.
“Go ahead, Butch. Knock some sense into him.”
As she gathered menus and water for the new arrivals, the woman motioned to the crutches, and then to Bill, drawing a smile from Butch.
“After the food comes, Beth.”
She crossed the room, her tired eyes fixed on Bill. She jerked her head back towards the kitchen.
“Dishwasher’s not gonna fix itself, Chatty Cathy.”
Bill turned to PJ and Butch, excusing himself with a sigh.
“Sweet talker, that one. Like the honeymoon never ended.”
Bill returned to the kitchen, with PJ and his father sharing a laugh at his expense. After renewed urging, PJ unwrapped his gift, a new digital SLR camera.
“Oh my god.”
PJ took it from the box, exploring the switches and buttons and inspecting its sleek, black finish. He took off the lens cap and raised it to his eye, framing his father in the viewfinder.
“There’s a memory card in there,” Butch said. “And the battery’s charged too. Should be ready to go.”
“It’s…wow, it’s
great.” PJ set it carefully on the table. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. You’ve been using my old thirty-five long enough.”
PJ nodded, searching the pockets of his jacket hanging behind him.
“Yeah, I definitely won’t miss these.” He held up an empty film canister, rolling it in his fingers. “They’re all over my room. I think they reproduce at night.”
“Yeah, they’re really prolific,” Butch said. “They can come in handy, though.”
PJ turned his camera around on the table, shaking his head.
The rain began to fall in earnest, and they both looked out the window, watching the street blur under a rising spray. PJ followed a thin, meandering stream down the window glass, his fingers playing on the controls of his camera.
“Happy birthday,” Butch said.
PJ shifted in his seat, the vinyl squeaking in protest. Outside, a woman crossed the street towards the diner, stopping at the corner stop, huddling beneath her umbrella as she waited to board an idling bus. Rain splattered off the fabric, the mist playing in the diffuse glow of the flickering street light overhead. PJ took the picture. He set down the camera.
“It’s never going to be the same.”
Butch regarded him with a thoughtful nod.
“I know.”
Shaking the water from her umbrella, the woman climbed into the bus. The doors folded as it slowly rolled away, fading behind a curtain of mist. PJ pulled his glass of water towards him, sliding his thumb and fingers down its length, clearing the condensation.
“Guess it hasn’t been the same for a while.”
Rain drummed against the roof, filling the silent vacuum between them. Rivulets of water coursed down the window, collecting on the sill in temporary pools. Dishes rattled in the kitchen. Butch looked around the nearly empty dining room, nodding.
“So, PJ…what are you doing for your birthday next year?”
PJ sniffed.
“You tell me.”
“Lunch at the Crosstown with your old man. A new tradition.”
PJ followed his father’s gaze around the room.
The Ascent of PJ Marshall Page 7