The exposed dirt had been carefully covered with green outdoor carpeting. It was supposed to look like grass but didn’t. All the actual grass was brown. I dropped my boutonniere onto the casket with the others. Then I stood behind his box and watched everyone cry. Tears streamed from behind sunglasses. The undertakers had thoughtfully set tissue boxes on the ground throughout the space, which didn’t have enough chairs. My own tears had dried up behind the big silver sunglasses perched on the nose splint between my bruised eyes.
Most of the mourners couldn’t fit under an awning and stood in scattered clumps between the stones and under the trees with pit stains and shiny faces. The church hadn’t had enough seats either.
Near the road, in the distance, some of Will’s friends clustered around the back of a green Ford pickup, digging beers from an ice chest. At any other funeral, Will would’ve been right there with them. Maybe he was this time too. I imagined him trying to open a can of beer with ghostly fingers and almost smiled before choking it back. I figured it was a bad idea to stand over my brother’s casket with a grin, especially when half the people on the other side of it were probably blaming me for his death.
The graveside service was blessedly short. Maybe somebody had told the preacher to take it easy on saving our souls and just stick to the point. Maybe the heat just wasn’t worth the potential lost donations in next Sunday’s plate. Some fat lady in purple polyester sang “Amazing Grace.” I remembered how Will used to sing it: “Amazing Grace, how sweet her ass, that damned a lech like me...”
Afterward, people filed past Mom and Dad with their condolences, some heartfelt, some fake. As soon as I could, I moved to the shade of three huge oak trees that might have been there when the first grave went in. I wanted to lose my old suit coat, but my shirt was probably see-through from sweat. Instead, I just stood there with sweat running down my crack while a few people came over to tell me how sorry they were. Most seemed to forget me entirely. Even when Mom and Dad headed to the limo and followed the hearse out the gate, I was still standing alone in the shade.
Two of the funeral-home guys moved the fake grass. A third turned a lever and lowered the casket into the hole. They protested feebly as Will’s friends and a couple of cousins I barely knew walked over, carrying shovels. No one responded. They just started lobbing scoops of dirt onto the casket. It was kind of a weird local tradition. At least, I'd heard some folks say it was weird. Where I lived, it would’ve been weird not to.
Somebody pulled the truck with the ice chest over and cranked up some Lynyrd Skynyrd, starting with “Simple Man,” Will’s favorite. When the guy with the backhoe drove up and complained, Rick Dodson handed him a fifty-dollar bill and a six-pack. That shut him up.
As I stood there, sweat running down my back and a little dazed, I heard a familiar engine fire up and looked toward the road. In the bar ditch on the far side, Joseph sat in his old Jeep. When he saw me looking, he took off his cap, nodded toward the grave, then slowly drove away. Orange-yellow dust rose in his wake.
Feeling oddly grateful and energized, I took off my jacket and shirt, hung them from a tree branch to dry, and walked over to the grave. Jimmy Barns, one of Will’s high school buddies, handed me his shovel. We took turns on it for the next hour as the hole disappeared. Every time I took a break, somebody handed me a beer, a flask, or a cigarette. The smoke burned, and so did the whiskey. I coughed some but accepted every glass and Marlboro.
#########
I was sunburned but surprisingly sober when Jimmy dropped me off at home. The alcohol couldn’t compete with the hole in my chest—the more I poured in, the less effect it had. The yard was full of vehicles belonging to friends and family. I suspected most had just come for the food. After going upstairs to rinse off, gargle some mouthwash, and change, I walked down to the kitchen and picked at some Mexican casserole and peach cobbler. Both tasted like dirt. A blur of faces came and went. Some spoke to me. Some didn’t. I mumbled responses when it seemed appropriate. The house had never seemed so small—or so cold.
I wandered room to room, looking for Dad. I finally found him in the backyard, surrounded by old men spitting tobacco juice from bulging cheeks and lips. He looked at me dead eyed and turned away. In that look, I saw something I’d never seen from Dad before—surrender, guilt, and maybe the beginnings of accusation. Mostly, I saw a man defeated, broken. The will to fight was gone like so much July dust. At seeing that, something in me broke too.
Mom sat in a small sea of aunts and ladies from church. She looked at me and started to reach out a hand. Halfway up, it fell back to her lap, and her tears burst out again.
You’re right, I thought. It should have been me.
I turned down the hall, heading for the side door out into the yard, planning to get lost in the trees and my own loathing. Before I could turn the handle, though, I saw smoke boiling from the back of the barn.
"Fire! Dad! The barn's on fire!" I yelled and slammed the door open, at a full sprint by the second step. I ran for the faucet and hose by the gate closest to the barn, praying I wasn't too late but knowing I was.
A barn full of freshly cut hay and flames make a bad couple. I'd just turned the faucet on when flames started peeking through gaps in the near wall. The boards had been old when my father was born, and they took to the flame like tissue paper. I stuck my thumb over the end of the hose, trying to get some pressure to spray the walls, but in minutes, everything went in a wall of raging light, and the heat was too much. I backed away slowly, still spraying frantically, but the inferno that used to be the barn lit the long grass outside. The exposed skin of my face and hands got tight and red in the heat. The cool breeze that seemed a blessing earlier became a nightmare as the fire, pushed by the wind, raced across the field, crackling. The fire spread from the barn to the shed, and our spare gas can went off with a boom and a rush of wind from the concussion. I thought of the hundred gallons of diesel in the elevated tank out of sight behind the flames and started to run. I made it back to the yard and turned just in time to see it go. The barn, the shed, and everything nearby blew to matchwood in an instant. Flaming boards and straw rained down all around. The men and some of the women and girls raced around, stomping out the wreckage before it could take the house and yard full of cars. Where the barn had stood was a smoking black ruin. The tractor, bailer, brush hog, and a year's worth of hay and feed were gone in minutes.
The volunteer fire department showed up in time to save nothing. They drove around the blackened field, spraying hot spots and preening like heroes. I'd have laughed if I had any voice left. All I could do was cough and stare.
#########
I couldn’t sleep that night and was just dozing off when the hall phone rang the next morning. I picked it up without thinking.
"Hello?"
"Shame about the barn. And the brother," someone said in a quiet voice with a hint of laughter. “That gas tank going up was a nice touch, don’t you think? Reminded me of something.”
"Richard."
"Richard?" he asked, voice full of false innocence. "Who's Richard? This is your uncle Timmy. Heard y’all had some trouble and wanted to be sure you were all right. You in particular. I know how sensitive you are."
"I don't have an Uncle Timmy, you son of a bitch."
"Best watch your mouth. Don't pay to talk about mommas, boy. Keep up that kinda language, I might just have to come see your momma. Explain what a bad boy you've been. How this little fire wasn't nothing but justice for that shit you pulled at my house before you ran like the cowardly queer you are."
"Stay away from my mother. You want justice? Come for me, Richard!"
"Looks lonely, your momma. Nice tits, though. Heard she's crazy, but they're always the most fun, all clawing and biting. Teach her what she's been missing all her life before I put her out of her misery. She'll be begging for me to give it to her harder while she bleeds."
"I swear on everything holy and unholy I'll kill you, you white trash p
iece of shit!"
"Now, that's the spirit, fairy boy! Come on and see your real daddy and end this shit like a man. Believe you know the address."
Before I could speak, he hung up, and I was left to stare out the bedroom window all day and half the night, cradling my shotgun and protecting what little we had left.
#########
The next morning, we walked around and past each other like zombies. We all smelled of smoke. Mom tried to cook sausage and eggs. They tasted like ash. As soon as she wasn’t looking, I dumped mine into the dog’s bowl.
Three hours later, I couldn’t take waiting anymore and headed for the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Thank you for coming to the funeral."
"Seemed like the right thing to do," Joseph said. “Was all over the news the next day.”
"There was a fire. Burned our barn. The field. It took everything. The hay will grow back, but the barn won't. Neither will the tractor. It wasn't even paid off."
"If you're all safe, it doesn't matter. You can always buy more stuff."
“Richard called last night, bragging. Threatened to rape and kill my mother next. It's time to end those bastards.”
For once, he didn’t seem to mind my cussing. “Your parents going to have a problem with you disappearing for a couple days?”
My throat tightened, and I struggled to speak. “I think they’d prefer it.”
“I’m heading out the door now.”
Half an hour later, Joseph showed up in his black Chevy. I didn't bother with explanations or goodbyes. I told myself Dad might try to talk me out of going because it would be too dangerous. Deep down, I was more scared he wouldn't try to stop me at all. I just left him a note about the phone call and my suspicion about the fire and said I'd be gone a while. I signed it “Your Son,” hoping he still thought so.
I stared out the window as we pulled away. Will’s lifted red Tacoma, with its oversized wheels and black rims, stared back.
“I want them to die screaming,” I said.
“Shooting a propane tank is one thing. Pulling the trigger on a man is different.”
“A gun’s too easy for them,” I said. "I want it to take a while.”
“Slow it down some, kid. Right now, we’re going to introduce you to Talia’s brothers. Want them to hear the whole story from your lips. We’re going to need them for what I have in mind.”
“Fine. But hurry. Every breath Richard and Jesse take is one too many.”
“That much we agree on.”
Two dark shapes were sitting on the porch when we pulled up to Joseph’s cabin. A white pickup sat in the shadows behind the shop. I tensed, but Joseph got out without hesitation and walked toward the men in the darkness. They were shaking hands as I walked up.
"Samuel Gunther," Joseph said, his voice oddly formal, "this is Devin and Taye Tenkiller, Talia's brothers. Let's get inside and enjoy some air-conditioning while you tell them your story."
Minutes later, we were all slouched in Joseph's living room as he passed around cold beers. Taye took a small sip and set his bottle aside. Devin downed half of his and looked at me expectantly.
I took my time and looked both of them over carefully. "Is your name really Tenkiller?"
Neither of them responded. They just stared at me with those black Native eyes. Joseph shook his head.
"He's generally smarter than this," he said.
I shrugged and studied the brothers. Both were an inch or two under six feet tall and dark-skinned, but that was where the resemblance ended. Devin’s face was round, and he was barrel-chested with a small gut—not fat, exactly, just stocky with an overall impression of softness. He wore a blue polo over stylish jeans and boots. His hair was shaved close in a burr, and diamond studs glinted in his ears. Other than his skin color, there was no obvious sign of his heritage.
Taye was wearing flip-flops, plain jeans, and a black T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Around his left bicep was tattooed a red-and-blue beadwork band with a single white feather hanging from it. Three red drops were tattooed below the black tip of the feather. On his right shoulder, he had some kind of wheel or hoop around the letters NDN. He wore his thick hair long and loose. It reached halfway to his waist, and when he moved, it flowed around him in a cloud of black silk. Instead of being smooth and soft like Devin, he was lean and hard. He wasn’t the Hulk or anything, but you could see the play of muscles even through his clothes, and his bare arms showed every vein and tendon. They looked too big for his body. I would’ve hated to arm wrestle him.
Joseph cleared his throat, and I looked my question at him.
"Tell them everything, just like you told me."
#########
I called Randy the next day and told him we weren’t going to hurt his brothers. We just wanted to put them in jail for life and help him disappear for good. We just wanted justice. I couldn't decide if he really believed it or just didn't care. He couldn’t spill details quickly enough: where to find the lab, the hidden grow houses, names, drop spots, everything.
We started on drop-off day. Once every two weeks at rotating locations far from town, the dealers left money. Since Randy was still underage, Richard had him make the rounds, picking up the cash and leaving vacuum-sealed packages of weed, pills, and meth. The dealers returned later for their orders. On that particular drop-off day, however, we took the cash. All told, we got a little over seventeen thousand dollars. That wasn’t nearly enough to put Richard and Jesse out of business, but it was more than enough to piss them off.
We hit the grow houses that night. Joseph made me watch from the truck as he and Talia’s brothers raided two old farmhouses near the town of Gene Autry. The stoners working the weed didn’t put up a fight. Apparently, they weren’t working for much more than room, board, and dope anyway. They weren't willing to die for weed. We left them tied up outside to watch the places burn. Devin wrote Out of Business on their foreheads with a black Sharpie.
The lab was harder. Randy balked at that one until I promised we would help him fake his death so that he could run and never look back. I was pretty sure we wouldn’t have to keep that promise since Joseph had made it clear Randy’s brothers weren’t likely to survive anyway.
Randy led us to the lab that same night, only an hour after we torched the second farmhouse. The lab was in an old Quonset hut off a heavily patched airstrip twenty miles outside Ardmore. The airpark used to belong to the government, but they’d closed up shop during some budget cuts before I was born. Recently, a few small aviation and cargo businesses had taken over some of the old hangars. A few belonged to locals. The rest were rusting back into the ground.
Richard and Jesse funded a crop-dusting business out of a hangar near the end of the runway and had set up their lab in the basement underneath. Randy said they’d hidden the entrance to the basement behind a false wall. They used the crop-dusting business, R & J Agri-Chem, to explain the stink and constant coming and going around the place.
They even had a cousin, an ex-Navy pilot, take dusting jobs from time to time. According to Randy, the crop-dusting business never turned much profit, but the lab downstairs might as well have been printing money. He didn’t know how much they made per month from the meth, but lately, Jesse and Richard had been talking about buying a hideout in Mexico.
Just after midnight, Randy led Joseph, Talia’s brothers, and me to the hangar in his neon-green truck. The three of them had semiautomatic pistols under their shirts, and Taye had something heavy in a backpack. He wouldn’t tell me what it was but said it was a present for the Stanglers, a surprise. Randy blew his horn three times, paused, then blew it twice more as they pulled up to the hangar. A big door slid aside just long enough for them to drive inside, then it slammed closed. As Randy had promised, they were expecting him.
A few minutes later, he came out a side door on foot and walked away. Joseph had insisted I play lookout and keep the truck engine running. So I sat in Taye’s primer-splashed Subur
ban at the end of the airstrip, watching through a pair of binoculars. I had a small two-way radio in my lap to call Joseph if anyone unexpected showed up.
Most of the buildings were dark. One hangar across the strip was still lit up with its big doors wide open. A Corvette, a couple of motorcycles, some Jet Skis on a trailer, and a small plane were parked inside. Two guys appeared to be working on the plane’s engine—some of Ardmore’s pseudo-rich, playing with their toys.
Randy walked along the back of the hangars toward me, disappearing and reappearing in the darkness between security lights. Just as he climbed into the passenger side of the Suburban, sweaty faced and pale, Joseph stepped out of the side door of the hangar and waved.
I tried to drive over slowly but ended up sliding to a stop in the gravel. Taye slammed the door behind himself as he followed Devin out of the hangar. Their dark skin, hair, and faded black clothes made them almost invisible in the night.
“Drive slow but get us out of here. We got maybe three minutes to be somewhere else.”
“What about the lab?” I asked. “Aren’t you going to burn it?”
“In a minute,” Taye said, “that lab is going up like a volcano. Cousin Kevin was in Desert Storm. He made us something special. Now drive, or we might go up with it.”
I had just pulled out the front gate when a boom sounded behind us. It was so loud the truck windows shook, and I felt it in the steering wheel.
“Hey, Taye,” Devin said, “Remind me never to piss off Cousin Kevin.”
They all laughed. Randy looked terrified, and I was beginning to feel the same.
“You sure this is going to work?” Randy asked.
“They’ll find what’s left of your truck when the flames die down, and I put that big sissy watch of yours on that punk we left on the floor. It’ll work,” Joseph said. “By tomorrow night, you’ll be free and clear.”
“You weren’t supposed to kill them!” I snapped.
A Portion for Foxes Page 15