The Ascent of PJ Marshall

by Brian J. Anderson

  With the job done and his hand sore and tingling with exhaustion, PJ dropped the hammer and fell forward against the stone, clawing and pounding its polished face as he screamed and cursed at the ground, his knees sinking into the mud. As he weakened, PJ’s hand slipped from the top of the stone and he collapsed to the ground, his anger turning to loud, shaking sobs. He rolled to his back, his grief rising into a hoarse scream.

  “You fucking bitch!”

  Blindly, he swung his fist aside, grazing the corner of the stone. He curled into a ball, clutching his hand in a breathless rage. The graveyard spun as he rocked his head side to side in the mud, trying to lock his stunned gaze on the canopy above. All at once, the pain in his hand swept over him in a rending wave and PJ’s body seized, his eyelids fluttering on the brink of consciousness. The world became a muted blur—reduced to a faint metallic patter on the roof of the car and fading shades of gray.

  Tentative, mocking laughter brought him back.

  PJ rolled to a sit and squinted at his hand through a briny haze, gasping for breath as he studied the dark rivulets of blood flowing down his fingers. His knuckles were scraped raw and oozing blood, some of them clutching flaps of skin that lay open and glued back against his hand. Drawing his sleeve over his eyes, PJ clamped his hand between his thighs and turned to look around the stone.

  Joe Baker—Middleton High dropout and self-proclaimed leader of the ‘Bake-O Boys’—was propped against the front quarter panel of Butch’s car, flanked by his brother Tommy and their goon squad, Kyle Morrow and Dave Simmons. Glancing at his friends, Joe lurched forward, tipping his chin at the stone above PJ’s head.

  “Dude, that’s fucked up.”

  PJ got to his feet, coughing as he steadied himself against the stone, blinking them all into focus.

  Christ, just what I need.

  They passed around a joint, watching as PJ bent to pick up the hammer, chuckling and trading amused glances with each other as they inspected the car with light kicks to the fender and door. Swallowing the bile rising in his throat, PJ watched them sidelong as he went to the trunk, his blood running onto the handle of the hammer. Joe Baker made to follow him to the back of the car, blowing a smoke ring over his head and passing the roach back to Tommy. He pointed to the hammer.

  “I’ll take that,” he said, flashing his brother a mischievous smirk. “We can use it on the old man.”

  As Tommy—followed obediently by the rest of the Bake-O Boys—began to laugh, PJ dropped the hammer into the trunk and slammed the lid, his nervous gaze bouncing from one amused Boy to another.

  “Leave me alone,” he said.

  Joe’s sneakers squeaked on the wet asphalt as he stopped short, his arms spread in astonishment as he watched PJ round the far side of the car to the driver’s door.

  “What the fuck?”

  With his hand frozen on the door handle, PJ watched as the group reorganized around the front of the car. From the opposite side, Joe calmly searched PJ’s expression, shaking his head.

  “Relax, dude. I’m just fuckin’ with you.”

  PJ’s grip tightened on the handle as Joe walked around the front of the car, and his anxious gaze moved to the younger Baker, who was pulling happily from the joint and trading amused glances with the rest of the group, his foot resting on the front bumper.

  “You’re PJ, right?” Joe asked, throwing his brother a knowing glance. “You and Tommy were pretty tight once.”

  Joe drew up beside PJ and leaned back against the car door, holding it shut. With a sigh, PJ released the handle.

  “Yeah. Once.”

  Joe nodded.

  “What happened?”

  PJ looked at Tommy and then turned away, leaning back against the door, mirroring Joe’s stance. He inspected his hand, turning it over as he opened and closed his fingers. They were coated with a sticky layer of blood that resisted his attempts to separate them. He closed them into a fist, looking first at Joe, and then Tommy.

  “Something about…being done with nature-boy shit,” he said. Tommy was trying to stifle his laughter under the back of his hand, the joint pinched in front of his face. PJ drew his attention with a tip of his chin. “Right, Tom? Something like that?”

  Tommy’s expression fell as he looked from PJ to his brother and then back. He set his foot on the ground and handed the roach back to Kyle and Dave, who had busied themselves by absent-mindedly tossing pieces of gravel at some of the closer headstones. He stepped around the front of the car with a shrug.

  “I dunno. Probly.”

  PJ leaned towards Joe.

  “Called my dad a pussy.”

  Joe turned to catch a confirmatory nod from PJ. Together, they studied Tommy’s slow, measured approach as Kyle and Dave dropped their stones and huddled in the background—watching the proceedings as they traded drags on the joint.

  “You really say that, Tom?” Joe asked, his expression blank, unreadable. Tommy flashed his brother a nervous smile and shrugged again, slowing his approach.

  “I dunno. Maybe.”

  PJ snickered.

  “Trust me. He did. I should’ve kicked his ass for that.”

  Tommy stopped to regard PJ with a toothy grin.

  “Guess that makes you a pussy too.”

  His face drawn in surprise, Joe turned to PJ with an expectant air. Jerking forward off the car, PJ looked from one brother to another, his gaze turning venomous as it settled back on Tommy.

  “Maybe,” he said. “Wouldn’t have been a fair fight, though. You’d have sat on me and it would’ve been over.”

  Tommy’s grin turned to ice and he continued once again to close in on PJ, his face flushed, his fists clenched at his sides.

  “Fuck you.”

  Behind him, Kyle and Dave glanced around the cemetery, muttering as they followed at a distance. As PJ and Tommy Baker drew closer, Joe stepped between them and pressed his palm to his brother’s chest, stopping him short. They stood in a silent exchange of tense, mutual conviction, their eyes locked.

  “Don’t be an asshole,” Joe said, gently pushing him back. “His old man’s in the hospital. Show a little fuckin’ compassion for chrissake.”

  Tommy’s expression slowly softened as he stood in grim silence, Kyle and Dave standing frozen as statues behind him. Eventually raising his hands in compliance, he returned to the front of the car, snatching the roach from Kyle’s fingers as he shuffled past.

  “Shit. Whatever.”

  Tommy set his foot on the bumper—more forcefully this time—causing the car’s front end to sag with a metallic groan. Joe reclaimed his spot against the door and fished a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. He lit one for himself before offering the pack to PJ.

  “No,” PJ said, motioning to the car door. “I’m late.”

  Standing his ground, Joe held the cigarette in his lips as he ran his hands up and over his head, pushing the wet hair off his forehead. With a sigh, PJ watched the soggy collection of Bake-O Boys huddle around the dying joint, whispering and glancing furtively at him as they passed it around.

  “You know…for school?” PJ said, turning to find Joe regarding him with a blank stare. “Maybe you guys should give it another shot.”

  Joe laughed and pulled from his cigarette.

  “That place is a fuckin’ joke,” he said. “Full of fuckin’ retards who don’t know shit about real problems.”

  PJ looked over the roof of the car to his mother’s headstone. The fresh scars on its polished face were already running dark with water. A momentary breeze stirred the canopy, releasing a raucous barrage of heavy drops onto the car and surrounding blacktop. Joe tipped his head back and blew a smoke ring skyward. He went on.

  “I mean, I don’t give a shit who’s goin’ to the prom or who’s fuckin’ the goddamn quarterback.”

  Through subsequent waves of falling water, PJ and Joe studied each other in thoughtful silence, their eyes flitting, searching. Joe Baker’s soaked flannel shirt hung loos
ely on his thin frame, revealing a wedge of his soiled and threadbare Metallica t-shirt underneath. Sporting a week of patchy stubble, his pocked cheeks sunk deeply into the contours of his angular, chiseled face as he pulled from his cigarette. His eyes, piercing and bloodshot, were tired beyond their years. He lowered the cigarette to his side and blew a column of smoke over his head, regarding PJ with a questioning lift of his brow.

  “Do you?” he asked.

  PJ dried the weather from his face with his sleeve and turned to lean back against the car, listening as Tommy cursed his friends for pulling the last hit from the joint. This started a volley of obscenities that rose above the near constant patter of falling water. PJ turned to Joe with a smirk.

  “You have no idea who our quarterback is, do you?”

  From Joe, an annoyed glance.

  “What’d I just fuckin’ say? I…don’t…give a shit. You sayin’ you do?”

  Silence. PJ looked down at the front of Joe’s flannel shirt, pursing his lips.

  “No,” he said, pointing to the bulge in Joe’s pocket. “Let me have one of those.”

  Joe took the cigarettes from his pocket and flicked one out the corner of the pack and slipped the lighter from behind the plastic wrap. He lit PJ’s smoke and returned everything to his pocket, watching PJ’s first pull before turning away. Together, they stared across the road and through the fog as Tommy joined Kyle and Dave in a new round of gravel toss. Joe turned a thoughtful stare on PJ.

  “She fucked him up pretty good, huh?”

  PJ emptied his lungs with a slow, smoky hiss. His head spun and then cleared.

  “Yeah.”

  Nodding, Joe looked away.

  “He still in a fuckin’ coma?”

  PJ nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  Joe sighed.

  “Shit,” he said, his expression growing heavy as he shifted his gaze to the ground, idly flicking the ash from his cigarette. “She really do it on purpose?”

  PJ blinked. He raised the cigarette to his lips and then lowered it back to his side, untouched.

  “Is that what everyone’s saying?”

  Joe nodded.

  “Yeah.”

  PJ pulled from his cigarette, studying Joe’s blank expression and then glanced aside, watching as Tommy, Kyle and Dave enjoyed the untainted innocence of their game.

  “I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head. He turned back to Joe. “Is it true what they say your old man did to Tommy?”

  Joe’s typically hard and stoic façade crumbled slightly, allowing PJ a brief glimpse inside. The moment passed, and Joe recomposed himself and looked away.

  “Yeah,” he said. “‘Course it’s fuckin’ true.”

  With a sweep of his hand, Joe pointed to PJ’s cigarette with his own.

  “Let me know when you need something stronger.”

  chapter fourteen

  PJ

  Lightning struck the mountains above Concrete with a rending crack, causing PJ’s startled captor to jerk the muzzle of the gun deeper into the back of his neck. Slowly raising his hands, PJ got to his feet, dropping Jim’s revolver into the mud. He turned, a half-smile settling on his face as he met Mrs. Harrison’s frightened gaze.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said. “I’m here with Jim.”

  Straining to lift the heavy vintage shotgun, Mrs. Harrison could aim only as high as PJ’s groin as she regarded him in drenched bewilderment. She shook with the cold, her gray shoulder length hair matted against her face and neck, her voice frail.

  “Where’s Jimmy?”

  “He’s inside. Please, Mrs. Harrison, put down the gun.”

  With a hoarse groan, she hoisted the barrel level with PJ’s chest, halting his attempt to approach, the gun wobbling in her shaky hands. Slack from decades of use, the trigger rattled above the din of pouring rain as Mrs. Harrison studied PJ’s face.

  “Who are you?”

  PJ turned his head, yelling over his shoulder to the house.

  “Jim! Get out here!”

  Mrs. Harrison’s arms began to tremble uncontrollably and she lowered the gun, its shifting weight throwing her momentarily off balance. PJ took a cautious step forward.

  “It’s PJ, Mrs. Harrison. I was here the day before yesterday. Remember?”

  Her eyes flickered, searching and confused.

  “Why did you come here?”

  “I was looking for Jim.”

  “Why are the police looking for you, PJ?”

  She threw her weight backwards and raised the gun with a grunt, awkwardly working her finger through the trigger guard. PJ reared back, lifting his hands higher, cursing under the rumble of torrential rain. Blinking water from his eyes, he looked up from Mrs. Harrison’s questionable grip on the gun.

  “The police were here?” He asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. They broke Jimmy’s door. What have you gotten Jimmy into?”

  PJ looked away, glancing uneasily up the gravel road to where it curved out of sight into the woods.

  “Nothing. Look, Mrs. Harrison, I don’t have time—”

  “Jimmy! Jimmy!” Mrs. Harrison was shouting over PJ’s head, shifting her hands on the gun’s slippery wooden stock, her gaze scurrying helplessly across the front of the house. “I don’t know what you’re up to young man,” she said. “But I don’t like it. I’m calling the police.”

  “Mrs. Harrison, please. Jim can explain everything if you just—”

  “Jimmy’s not here!”

  She managed to keep unsteady but determined aim on PJ’s chest.

  “Okay. But…please, Mrs. Harrison, can we just calm down? Let’s go inside and figure this out.”

  She replied with a cold, exhausted stare, her entire body shaking with cold, wet fatigue. Unable to raise it any longer, she lowered the gun, dropping the muzzle to the ground. The impact forced her trigger finger and she discharged a shell into the grass, sending her scuttling backwards as a blast of water and mud sprayed PJ’s face and neck. Lunging forward, PJ tore the gun from her spent grip, and Mrs. Harrison twisted aside, crumpling to the ground in a muddy heap, sobbing.

  PJ threw the gun under the hedge and knelt beside her. Mrs. Harrison pushed away his repeated attempts to help her stand, her cries unintelligible over the muffled pounding of rain and the steady ring in his ears. A hand clamped around PJ’s arm, pulling him aside.

  “Joan! Joan! Are you okay?”

  Jim crouched by her side, inspecting Mrs. Harrison for injuries. Her cries quickly softened and she clung to Jim’s neck as he lifted her from the mud and carried her inside. The screen door slammed, snapping PJ from his stunned watch over the fresh hole in Jim’s lawn—already overflowing with water. He rose from his knees and hung his now soaked change of clothes over the porch railing and went to his car, passing his hand over his face, cringing as grains of sand dug into his raw skin.

  Shivering, his skin tingling under his matted shirt, PJ drove to the end of the lane and parked beside the wood pile in back of Mrs. Harrison’s house, covering the car with a shredded canvas tarp crumpled against the pile. He crossed the front yards back to Jim’s porch, where he paused under the gusher pouring off the corner eave to rinse the mud and grit from his face and clothes. Shaking water from his hair, he climbed the steps and took off his shirt, wringing it out as he sat on the bench. He turned and glanced through the front window, finding a set of muddy tracks retreating across the living room carpet and disappearing into the back hall. With a sigh, he turned away and dried off with his shirt—still clinging to grains of sand that tore at his face and neck—watching the road. The screen door flew open, slapping against the front of the house as Jim sat beside PJ on the bench, his phone pressed to his ear.

  “Yeah, I know we have, Mr. Paulson, I—” Interrupted from the other end, Jim looked at PJ, dismissing Mr. Paulson with a masturbatory gesture. “All right, are we done? Because I have better things to do than—”

  Jim’s expr
ession of bored frustration turned furious as he sat forward on the bench, his mud-caked fingers turning white as they tightened around the phone.

  “Mrs. Harrison is fine! Fuck off!”

  Jim hung up and dropped the phone on the bench.

  “So,” he said, flashing PJ a pinched smile. “All’s well with the neighbors.”

  “She isn’t hurt, is she?”

  Jim shook his head as he wiped mud from his hands onto his pants.

  “No. Just a little spooked.”

  “She’s spooked…” PJ said, shaking his head.

  Jim rose and went to the porch railing and reached out into the water cascading from the roof to clean the mud from his hands and arms. He scanned the front yard and driveway as he shook the water from his hands.

  “You hid the car?”

  “Yeah.”

  Jim took his phone from the bench and peeked through the front window on his way to the door.

  “I’ll give Skagit County a shout. Get ‘em off our backs. I’m sure Paulsen’s already givin’ ‘em an earful.”

  PJ gave Jim an uneasy glance.

  “Maybe we should try your guy at Hansen first. Before we get too—”

  “Nah, we’re fine. I got no beef with the cops,” Jim said, pulling the screen wide. “They’re probably just lookin’ for you or your dad.”

  PJ stood and collected his clothes from the railing.

  “Or both,” he said, motioning through the open door with his chin. “Is she gonna be all right?”

  His expression grave, Jim shook his head as they went inside.

  ***

  Conversation over Mrs. Harrison’s pot roast covered everything from the weather to the Harrison family tree, with Joan frequently steering the discussion back to Jim and Butch. After downing his second piece of apple pie, PJ leaned back in his chair with a groan, his cheeks puffed as he blew a heavy sigh.