Maggie Boylan

by Michael Henson

  The monitor let the door fall shut, then muttered down the hall and cursed his way around the corner. Out in the snow, the voices, half-hushed and argumentative, rose and fell and rose and fell and Maggie could not make out a word of it from the distance and from the muffling of the snow. But she could make out the voice of a woman from out in the field and the voice of a man from the car and she could hear the voices coming closer together.

  Oh my God, she thought. Oh, please Jesus, no.

  The voices argued closer until the woman came into the range of the headlights and Maggie could see that the woman was small, that she wore an oversized, dark coat, and that, in the headlights of the car, her hair looked white as the snow around her.

  Please Jesus, no, Maggie thought again.

  The woman sputtered and cursed as the man helped her over the barbwire fence and they got into the car and left.

  Please God, no, Maggie prayed. Over and over, she shivered and cursed and prayed.

  The car was long gone when the monitor came off his rounds. “Come on, Maggie,” he said. “You’ll catch your death out here.”

  Maggie shivered once more and stared toward the road.

  “Maggie,” the monitor called. When she turned to go in, her face was damp with tears and snot and snow.

  Acceptance Is the Answer

  MAGGIE BOYLAN got out of treatment at nine in the morning. The third shift monitor was going her way, so he stuck around for the coin ceremony and the speeches and the hugs, and then he took her up to town and dropped her off on the courthouse square. She took a look around, took a deep breath of the open air, and walked straight up to the jailhouse door.

  She walked straight back out when they told her that her husband was gone. “We turned him loose a week ago,” said Tim Weatherstone.

  She had amends to make to Tim Weatherstone. She had amends to make to nearly every deputy on the force. And she was ready. But when she heard that Gary had been released, it took her by surprise. Why didn’t he call? Why didn’t he visit? She blazed a path of curses straight out the door and onto the courthouse lawn. Why hadn’t he come to see her like she had come to see him?

  After she had cursed Tim Weatherstone and her husband and her luck from the lawn of the courthouse, she calmed down and thought. She had learned in treatment not to ask so many useless questions; she had learned not to make assumptions. Hell, she thought, Gary’s got no license and he’s got no car. And nobody’s paid the phone bill for three months.

  Edie O’Leary let her call from the Square Deal Grill and, sure enough, a recording told her that the phone was disconnected.

  So she walked to the edge of town and stood on the highway with her thumb out. It was nine miles and a side road to home. It was early spring. The dogwoods were out but not yet the redbuds. There was still some bite in the wind. There were still patches of snowmelt in the shady places along the fence lines and in the ditches. Some girl in treatment had stolen her jacket and her good shoes and left her with these girly thin things that pinched her toes and a little thin jacket that wouldn’t hold out the wind. Someone else had left behind a backpack like what a schoolgirl might carry and she had packed it with her Big Book, her clothes, her toothbrush, and other odds and ends. She shivered and stamped, but she was happy to be out on her own and anxious to see Gary again.

  It was only a few minutes before a pickup truck pulled over and she thought maybe her luck had begun to turn. It was a big-shouldered, diesel-motored F-350 lugging a stock trailer. She ran down to catch up and the driver opened the door to let her in.

  But when she saw who the driver was, she thought, Oh no, this is trouble. It was Joey Ratliff, a boy she knew for all the wrong reasons.

  “What’s cracking, Maggie?”

  “Not much,” she said. She hesitated before she climbed up into the cab. He’s gonna want me to get him some dope again, she thought. Two hours out of treatment, and I’m already in a risky situation.

  “Come on, Maggie,” Joey said. “These girls in the trailer aren’t too happy with me.” The cattle in the trailer were miserable. They moaned and bawled piteously. They pressed their snouts against the slats in the trailer and looked out at Maggie with dark, wet eyes.

  “Come on in, and get yourself out of the cold,” the boy said.

  This won’t look good to the judge, Maggie thought. Miller had told her, no contact with known users or dealers or else she would serve the prison time he had suspended. But Miller was not out here standing in the wind with her in a little thin jacket and these little, thin, girly shoes. So she mounted the step into the cab.

  Joey Ratliff put the truck into gear and they pulled off with a great rattle of pistons and a mantle of diesel smoke behind them. The boy had the heater cranked up good and warm. The seats were leather and the console was lit up like a small city. Maggie was glad for the warmth, but she tried to keep her head low so no one could see her.

  “So what’s new, Maggie?”

  “Not much at all,” she told the boy. “I been away.”

  “I heard,” the boy said. “And you just now got out.”

  “So you heard that too?”

  “Word gets around,” he said.

  “I reckon so.”

  “You can’t cuss out half the sheriff’s department on the courthouse square without people knowing Maggie Boylan’s back in town.”

  “Well, damn.” She fell silent and wanted to think. But it was hard to think with the poor cattle bawling in the trailer. The boy was none too steady on the road and the trailer lurched back and forth across the lanes. The cattle bawled and moaned with every lurch.

  “Hell,” he said. “It ain’t nothing.”

  It was something to Maggie. It could be three years in prison if the judge heard. And how would Miller not hear if this boy had heard already?

  “Just party hearty and forget about it.”

  “I can’t, Joey.” Maggie surprised herself by finding the words so easily. “My party-er’s broke.”

  Joey Ratliff pondered this a moment. “That’s rough,” he said. “I reckon you’re just gonna have to accept it. Acceptance,” he said, “is the answer to all my problems.”

  Joey Ratliff had done his time in treatment too.

  They were on a downhill curve and the boy had to snatch the wheel hard to the left to keep out of the ditch then to the right to get out of the path of an oncoming car. The trailer behind them rattled over the shoulder gravel and swung into the opposite lane and nearly clipped the car.

  Maggie had to grip the door handle to stay in her seat. The cattle, the poor cattle, bawled the louder.

  “Damn,” Maggie shouted. “You’re gonna kill us all.”

  “It’s all right.”

  She saw, now, that the boy’s eyes had an OxyContin glaze on them. His words had an OxyContin loop to them. He drove like someone in an OxyContin haze.

  “Joey, you sure you need to be driving?”

  “I’m all right,” he said. “Acceptance.”

  I’m about to accept getting run into one of these telephone poles, Maggie thought. She kept her grip on the door handle and watched the road. Joey wasn’t driving fast, but he was nearly always half a beat behind each dip or swerve. Neither spoke for an uncomfortable minute or two. Finally, to make talk, Maggie said, “Your daddy’s got a nice truck.”

  The boy was the son of a county commissioner and things had looked good for him all through high school. College offers, scholarships, all that. But after graduation, he had got caught up in OxyContin, so all his luck and privilege came to nothing. She was not surprised when he asked, “So, Maggie. Can you help me get hold of some Oxy?”

  “Can’t do it, Joey.”

  “How about some Vicodin? Percocets?”

  “Can’t do it.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “Does the word prison mean anything to you? I got three years setting on the shelf. I’m out of that game altogether.”

  “Maggie, you know I’m cool.”<
br />
  A truck, passing, barely missed the corner of the stock trailer. “You ain’t looking any too cool right now, I’d say.”

  “Well, if you won’t get me some yourself, can you hook me up with those boys on the hill?”

  “What boys on what hill?”

  “Across the road from your house. Those boys from the city at the old Stephens place. Pillhead Hill.”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “You could help a fella out.”

  “Joey, you’re gonna have to help yourself out on this one.”

  “Come on, Maggie. They don’t know me.”

  “Just ride on up there and get to know them.”

  “Maggie, you know I can’t just do that.”

  “I don’t know what you can and can’t do. I just know I can’t do that no more.”

  “Maggie, you never used to be like that.”

  “I thought you was all about acceptance.”

  Joey Ratliff geared down to take a hill. “They done something to you in that program. You used to be cool.”

  “And being cool got me a lot of jail time.”

  “I can make us some money. I’ll pay you.”

  “I don’t need your money. I don’t need nothing from you.”

  “You’re gonna need something sometime, because . . .” He paused.

  “Because what?”

  “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this. . . .”

  “But you’re gonna tell me anyway.”

  “It’s probably none of my business, but . . .”

  “You’re right, it’s none of your business.”

  “What I’m trying to say . . .”

  “If it’s some kind of bullshit, I don’t want to hear it.”

  “How long has Gary been out, Maggie?”

  “What difference does it make?”

  Joey Ratliff shrugged. “I’m just trying to tell you something.”

  “You’re trying to stir up some bullshit is what you’re doing.”

  “I’m just trying to say . . .”

  He did not finish what he was trying to say. They reached the top of the hill at a point where the road curved away to the left. Again, the truck swung right and the trailer with it, and again the boy had to wrench the truck off the shoulder. Again, the trailer swung off the gravel of the shoulder and across both lanes.

  “Damn,” Maggie said. “You’re gonna kill us all for sure.” The cattle bawled the louder. “These poor cows are getting beat to death.”

  “They’ll be all right.”

  “They sure don’t think so.”

  “Those old whores’ll be hamburger before the week is out.”

  Maggie looked back at the trailer, then to the boy. “Joey,” she said. “I know you don’t have no cattle of your own.”

  Maggie heard just the slightest hesitation in his voice. “Dad told me, take these girls to Hillsboro.”

  “You don’t lie good, do you?”

  “What’re you saying, Maggie?”

  “You don’t lie good. If you’re gonna lie, do it right.”

  “Who says I’m lying?”

  “It ain’t hard to tell. You’re stealing your daddy’s cattle.”

  “Maggie, that ain’t true.”

  “You owe some money to the boys in town.”

  “Naw, Maggie.”

  “Them boys is out to hurt you, so you’re gonna sell your daddy’s milk cows.”

  “Maggie . . .”

  “But you still want your Oxy, so you want me to hook you up with the boys on the hill cause you ain’t burnt them yet.”

  “Oh fuck, Maggie.”

  “You’re a damn thief.”

  “Look, Maggie, don’t be talking this shit to my dad.”

  “I got nothing to say to your dad, but I’ll say it again to you, you’re a fucking liar and a thief.”

  The boy shot a look at Maggie. “You’ve got a lot of nerve talking about me after what you did to Gary.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Everybody knows he sat up there in jail for six long months so you wouldn’t have to go back to prison.”

  “Joey, shut up.”

  “Everybody knows he took the rap for you and now he’s got a record and he’s lost his job and it’s all on account of you.”

  “Shut up, Joey.”

  “And while he’s setting in jail, you’re still doing what you do till you get a whole new charge.”

  “Cause some bitch lied on me.”

  “And Judge Miller thinks he can save your ass, so he gives you treatment instead of prison.”

  Maggie clenched her jaw and looked straight ahead.

  “So you can talk like you got yourself together. You can talk all you want. But I know you’re still the same Maggie Boylan.”

  “You can stop now, Joey.”

  He would not. “So don’t you be talking about me,” he said.

  Maggie pressed her hands to her ears, but he would not stop.

  “Don’t be surprised,” he said. “Once you get home. You won’t find what you think you’re gonna find.”

  He looked her way to emphasize the point. But it was the wrong moment to take his eyes off the road. A rise, a dip, a curve, one after the other and the trailer lashed back and forth across the lanes.

  “Oh, my God,” Maggie called.

  The truck’s right front tire tipped over the shoulder and the shoulder was too deep. The steering wheel ripped through the boy’s hands to the right and the truck tilted down into the ditch and mashed to a stop in the buttery mud.

  Maggie’s seat belt held, but she felt like she had been punched. The cattle bellowed like a grade school band. Maggie glared at the boy but did not yet have the breath to speak.

  “Oh, Jesus,” the boy said. “I’m screwed.”

  “I reckon so,” Maggie said. Her heart was pounding through her temples.

  “How are we gonna get out of this?”

  “Ain’t no we to it, Joey. I’m gone.”

  “Wait a minute, you gotta help me get out of this ditch.”

  “I didn’t put you in this ditch, I ain’t gonna get you out.” There was no one out on the road just now, but it would not be long. Someone was sure to come by and call 911 and here would come the Highway Patrol. Maggie unclipped her seat belt, pulled her backpack from the floor, opened her door, and stepped out.

  The ditch was half full of runoff and she soaked her feet and the cuffs of her jeans.

  “Good luck, Joey,” she said. “I got to go.”

  “You can’t leave me like this.”

  “Just you watch me,” she said. “There’s nothing I can do to help you and I’m screwed if I stay.”

  “Maggie, you’re a bitch.”

  “Accept it, motherfucker.” She slammed the truck door and climbed out of the ditch.

  “I’m gonna call the judge and let him know you was with me.”

  “Joey, you’re gonna do what you’re gonna do and I’m gonna do what I’m gonna do.” She stepped to the back of the trailer and peered through the slats.

  There must have been half a dozen milk cows crowded one on another. The largest of them raised her head and bawled out a long loud lament.

  Maggie drew back the slide bolt that held the tailgate closed, opened the gate, pulled out the ramp, and stood back. Not a one of the cows moved. A coffee-eyed calf lowered her head at Maggie and stared.

  “Well, cows,” she said. “You’re on your own from here.” She started up the road toward home. At a hundred yards down the road, she looked back. The coffee-eyed calf stood on the shoulder grazing. Joey Ratliff was still in his seat in the cab with his head against the steering wheel. He was either cursing or praying. Maggie could not tell which.

  * * *

  THE HOUSE was cold, but not empty. Gary had taken only what he needed and left the rest to her. He also left a note on the kitchen table.

  Sorry, Maggie, but enough is enough.

  I done all I c
ould and I can’t do no more.

  I’ll be back some time for the table saw,

  But I won’t stay

  Good luck to you,

  Gary

  She couldn’t blame him. If she had wanted to, she couldn’t blame him. They had taken blame away from her in treatment. They had taken her blaming, her lies, her drugs, her thieving, and even, for now, her curses. Her curses on the courthouse lawn were her last.

  She was as close now to nothing as she had ever been.

  She was wet and chilled through and her pinched feet were sore. She found some dry shoes and socks. Gary had left her some firewood and she fired up the kitchen stove and the wood stove in the parlor. She fixed herself a plate of food but she could not eat. A familiar, queasy, low-feverish feeling had gripped her at bowel and bone.

  She could not get rid of the chill, no matter how high she stoked the stove. No matter what she did, she could not rid herself of the daunchy feeling in her gut.

  Damn, she thought, I come all this way through the program and I’m dope sick all over again.

  It did not help that, every hour, cars came back and forth and up and down to the boys on the hill across the road. Somebody was buying and the boys on the hill were selling. All she had to do to get well was cross the road and climb the hill. She wouldn’t even need a dime. They would front her, surely, if only so that she would come back later and pay.

  The thought brought her relief and terror all in one.

  Call somebody, she remembered. But she had no phone. Go to a meeting, she remembered. But she had no car. She was stuck in this little farmhouse where every hour, all through the afternoon and into the night, cars from all across the county rumbled over the creek bridge and rattled the gravel of the lane up to Pillhead Hill.

  The hours ached by. She tried to read her Big Book, but the sickness fuddled her cross-eyed and she could make no sense of the words. She forced herself up off the couch and fretted around the kitchen with her broom and a rag until there was nothing left to clean. She stood and pondered, What do I do now? How am I gonna get through the night?

  From somewhere in the woods or fields nearby, a coyote set up to howl. It sent up a long, lunar lament, made up of sirens and saw blades trailed by a ragged string of yodels and yips. It drew all the dogs up and down the holler out to the ends of their chains to answer back with barks and growls.