Christmas Cemetery #1 (Shane Muncie)

You're in a cemetery on Christmas day with me - a stranger wearing black. You don't know how you got here; you don't even know where this yard is located. Are we in Houston? Maybe Kansas? Or someplace else? London perhaps?

No. It must be Texas because it is warm; or, specifically, it isn't cold. There is an undercurrent of humidity in the air and a thin carpet of fog in the low areas, crawling over the burial plaques and clinging to the tombstone bases.

Houston, then. On Christmas day. With me - dressed as an undertaker - in a cemetery.

Yes, you know how this will end. We'll walk together for a stretch; during which time I'll make profound, oddly specific comments about your life, and then I'll point towards a stone and you'll gasp at the engravement.

So tedious.

And what comes after; even more so: You, on your knees before me, slicking my shoes with tears, begging for another chance.

What's that? A cold day in hell, you say? Maybe so. For in my heart I do believe there must be a man who will face up to his life - every aspect of it; the deep, unforgiving and shameful failures as well as the small, meaningless triumphs - and look upon his reward with clear eyes and steady nerves. Just because I haven't met that man yet....

Oh? This shovel that suddenly appeared in my hand? And a bible in the other, yes, tools of the trade.

Ha! Why would you even try to snatch the shovel away? Are you so foolish?

Well, here. Take it then.

And now? Strike me about the head? Drive the spade into my heart? What are you waiting for?

Ha ha ha! No. You hold it. Carry it for me while we walk. Here's what I promise, then, in return - no pandering speeches about your fruitless, wasted life. Not a word of the enumerable missed opportunities and mistakes you've willfully made during your brief years. Instead, I will entertain you with tales of those whom I've encountered here before.

Unseemly, perhaps, to tell stories out of school. Certainly not the behavior of a gentleman. But, fuck it. I like you. You've got spunk.

And, though you are indeed a miserable, ravaged specimen of humanity; you are not the worst I've seen. Oh, perfect! Right here, in fact - see this stone? Mister Shane Muncie; born 1972. Died December 25th, 2016. Now here's a man who was a real sad bastard....

***

She didn't have to say anything, didn't even have to move one single muscle in her face, the scorn simply radiated from her like an aura.

"It's turquoise." Lynda stated, looking at the jewelry box.

"Yes," Shane beamed. "Sabrina picked it out. She's sorry she couldn't be here, but, you know.... She wishes you a merry Christmas."

Lynda sighed.

"Try it on," Shane nudged the box towards his daughter.

She capped it with the lid and said, "Later."

"So," Shane smiled. "How are things? How is school?"

"Fine," she replied. She pushed her salad around with a fork. Found a cucumber, speared it, touched it to dressing and then decided against it. She set the fork down and picked up her water glass.

Shane guzzled wine, emptied his glass, and then refilled it from the carafe on the table.

"Did you want some?" he held the bottle out to his daughter. "I won't tell if you won't."

"No," Lynda said. "Red wine is disgusting."

Shane set the carafe down. Good thing, actually. It was almost empty anyway.

"So...," Shane started then floundered. So what? Even before the divorce, he'd had little connection with his children, now that they didn't live in the same house.... What was there to talk about?

"I've got to go," Lynda said, standing abruptly.

Shane checked his watch. "But I thought you...?"

"Stacy's waiting for me outside," Lynda said, shouldering her purse. "She just text me."

"You need to eat first."

"No time."

Lynda strode quickly out of the restaurant without even saying goodbye.

"Merry Christmas," Shane said to the empty chair across the table. He picked up the turquoise necklace and jangled it in his hands.

Must be one of those new technologies, Shane thought, where you can get a text without even looking at your phone.

He drained the dregs of the wine, draped the necklace over the empty bottle, and got up to leave, tossing $30 on the table for one salad and drinks.

***

"She loved the necklace," Shane, lying on the bed, told his wife. "She said she was sorry you couldn't be there. Wished you a Merry Christmas, too."

Sabrina didn't reply. She sat at the vanity, combing out her long, black hair. She wore only a bra and panties - both white against brown skin - and when she twisted sideways and leaned down to get at more of the hair, a strap fell loose exposing a firm, round breast.

After she'd finish brushing, she replaced the strap and adjusted the cup of the bra with a petite, delicate hand.

Shane swallowed.

"It's Christmas Eve, I thought we might-"

"-I need you to open the warehouse tonight," Sabrina cut him off before he could finish his sentence. "Jimmy needs to store some boxes there for a day or two."

"Well, but, I thought-"

"-Just for a day or two."

"Sure." Shane came off the bed. "Except I can't just have boxes sitting around the warehouse. Everything has to be checked in, logged, and registered. What is it?"

"I don't know," Sabrina sounded annoyed. "What does it matter? You own the place, don't you? It's just for a day or two."

"I own the place, yes, but I still have to follow procedure. A bunch of strange boxes around the place; what will people think?"

"They're your employees. They'll think what you tell them to." She stood up and went to the closet. Shane admired her hourglass figure as she pawed through the hanging dresses. The way her shoulder blades moved; dark skin looking warm and inviting in the soft, boudoir light....

"Look, I'm running late," Sabrina said. "You need to have the warehouse open by midnight. Jimmy said they'll be there after midnight, so have it unlocked, okay?"

"Okay, but...," Shane tried to hug her from behind, but she moved too quickly; snatching a red dress and heading for the full length mirror. "I mean, I can't just leave the warehouse unlocked all night," he said, tucking his hands in his pockets.

"Then leave the key for Jimmy." She stepped into the dress. There was a zipper in back, but she didn't need any help. A quick, deft move with practiced hands and she was ready. "Hide it under a rock or something and give him a call. Tell him where it's at."

Shane sat down on the bed. "Sure, because this is still the '70s and we haven't invented electronic security systems yet. He'll need the code, too."

Sabrina looked over her shoulder and gave Shane a withering look. "So. Tell him the code."

Shane snorted a laugh. "Yeah, right."

Sabrina turned to face her husband. With her hands on her hips, she tilted her head slightly. Her eyes narrowed. "He's my brother," she said with enough ice in her voice to freeze vodka.

"No, I know," Shane immediately lost whatever attitude he'd been building. "It's not that. I just can't because of insurance reasons. If I told anybody, I'd lose my insur-"

"-Then I guess you're spending the night at the warehouse." Sabrina interrupted. She snatched some items from her dresser and quit the room.

"Hey!" Shane called after her. "When will you be home? It's Christmas Eve-"

The front door slammed for an answer.

***

Nothing is worse, Shane knew, than being stuck in a bad marriage. Two miserable people living under one ice-cold roof; never talking, never touching.... Enter any room and feel the disdain. It's in the walls like asbestos; covered up with lead paint.

Add a couple of kids to the mix and, congratulations, you've done your part to keep the legacy of despair going strong.

No way. Not for Shane Muncie. It took a while - too long, probably - for him to figure it out, but once he saw the truth about his life and relationships, he knew it had to change.

Unfortunately, there were too many hard years, too many irretrievable criticisms between him and his wife that could never be forgiven. And so he came to understand that there was only one way to end the ceaseless flow of accusations, recriminations, and outrage in his house.

Love, Shane realized. Love was the only way out of hate.

So Shane divorced his wife of twenty years and took up with a fine young girl from the Island of Macnas.

True love.

And this time around, Shane was committed to doing anything and everything to make the relationship work.

***

That's how Shane found himself alone in a chill warehouse on Christmas Eve, sitting on a crate nursing a bottle of spiced rum waiting for some guys to show up with a truck.

But it was all good. At least Sabrina would be happy he did her this favor....

No, wait! Feel that itch? That nagging, aggravating itch? Right there in the back of your skull - not on the skin, no, inside the skull. An angry, red splotch spreading over your brain.... That itch telling you you're being taken for a fool, man! She's fucking using you - and she isn't even being subtle about it anymore! Where the hell is she going on Christmas Eve dressed like that? Her friends? Yeah, but did she even say that? No, you just assumed.... And what's this nonsense? You're going to let her criminal brother drop off boxes at your warehouse; no questions asked? Man, you know the crates will be loaded with stolen grip - ha! Stolen? That will be the best case scenario. Drugs? Hell, guns? How bloody do you want your hands, boyo?

All for what? Just because she takes you in her mouth? Because she knows some tricks? Jesus, Shane! Wake up already! Your first marriage may have been horrible; but Sabrina's going to put you in a hole.

Nope. Pour some liquor on that itch, quick. There you go, feel the warmth spread.  

You love Sabrina. Love her dearly and with all your heart.

There is nothing you wouldn't do for her.

Nothing.

So have another drink.

***

A loud noise shocked Shane out of his drunken slumber. He jerked awake with a cry; his heart hammering so hard, it felt like it was going to explode right out of his chest.

The sound again; fists against the corrugated metal bay door.

"Oh Jesus." Shane slid off the crate where he'd been slumped over, dozing with his chin on his chest. The bottle of rum fell away, but, miraculously, didn't break when it hit ground.

"Jesus." Shane picked up the liquor.

More knocking from outside. Shane heard voices, too. Impatient and angry.

"Whu whu...," Shane tried to call out, but had no breath. He paused; took a moment. Expelled a great gust of wet air. Then, finally, yelled; "Coming! Hold on!"

He staggered to the wall where the keypad swam into focus. He punched in the code then grabbed the chain to hoist the door. After a few tugs, hands appeared under the door and pushed it up fast; chain links zipping by with dizzying speed.

A truck had been backed up to the bay and three men stood in the darkness. One of them jumped into the light of the warehouse.

Shane recognized him as one of Sabrina's countrymen - a Macnasee, short and dark with lots of hair and white teeth. This one was thick in the chest, had a narrow waist, and heavily muscles arms. He wore a polo shirt, jeans, and a ridiculous red with fluffy white trim Santa hat.

"You Muncie?" the Macnasee asked. "Jimmy sent us."

"Yeah." Shane shook his hand. "Yeah, you can just set the stuff right here."

The Macnasee moved past Shane. "No, we'll put it towards the back," he said, walking around, inspecting the layout. "Somewhere out of the way."

Shane followed mutely, still trying to steady his heart and nerves.

"Here's good," the Macnasee said, and then waved towards the truck. The other two set down a ramp between the truck and the warehouse floor with a bone-rattling clang then started maneuvering cargo.

"You got some Christmas cheer there?" the Macnasee asked, pointing at Shane's hand. Shane was surprised to find he was still holding the rum. He handed it over.

The man took two large gulps then passed it back. Shane let the bottle hang limp at his side.

"Aw," the man smiled. "Don't make me drink alone. Not on Christmas day."

"Hunh?" Shane said, confused. The man pointed at the bottle.

"Or maybe you've already had enough, eh?"

"Oh, right." Shane drank. A small sip, but it helped clear his head. The Macnasee laughed and motioned for the bottle. Shane gave it to him.

"Merry Christmas," he said, gulping some more.

Shane looked at the over-sized clock hanging on the wall. It was two in the morning.

By now the other men had wheeled in a large plastic crate. Together, all three spoke in their native language, laying out a plan. When finished, the man took Shane's arm and led him away.

"My boys can handle this," he said. "Ten minutes we're gone."

Shane watched as the other two used a handcart to shuffle boxes around; moving current inventory aside so their crate could be butted against the wall.

The Macnasee drank; passed the bottle. "Hey," he said, belching. "Wait here," he swung himself out of the warehouse and went to the truck's cab. He returned a moment later clutching two joints between the knuckles of a raised fist.

"Lookit what Santa brought." He jumped back into the building and handed one of the home-rolled to Shane.

The man lit Shane's, then his own, and both men blew white smoke into the Holy Night.

"Not so bad, right?" the Macnasee said. "Yeah, it sucks having to work Christmas, but I'm sure Jimmy's paying you good for this, anyway.... Plus a little bud and rum. Not so bad a way to start the holiday."

"Jimmy isn't paying me anything," Shane replied. He took a drink and passed the bottle.

The man poured rum on smoke then sniffed. "He got something on you? Or you just doing this to jack with your boss?"

"My boss?"

"Yeah. Whoever owns this place. He must be a real asshole have you sneaking around, doing this shit behind his back. No offense, but you look a little old to be a floor jock. What are you, anyway? A manager? Or not even that? You just work here long enough to know everything, is that it?"

"No. I own this place. This is my warehouse."

An odd feeling of tension entered their space. Shane wondered why. He looked over and the Macnasee's dark eyes were staring at him intensely.

"Well Jimmy didn't tell me that," the Macnasee said. "The owner of the joint would be here."

"Why would he?"

The man shrugged. "He wouldn't. How do you know him?"

"He's my brother-in-law."

A moment passed; and then the man erupted in laughter. He switched his joint to the opposite hand so he could wrap an arm around Shane's shoulder and give him a rowdy side-hug.

"Ho, shit! That damn near makes us family, Chachi!" Shane recognized the word as Macnasee slang. It was used as a term of respect or endearment; like brother.

"You and Sabrina?" the man continued, chortling. "That is something else, man. That is really something else."

"You know Sabrina?" Shane asked him.

The man shook with laughter as he waved smoke away from their faces. "Oh.... Oh, yeah.... Yeah, we've met."

At that last comment, the man dug an elbow into Shane's side. Nudge nudge.

And what the hell is that supposed to mean? Shane's hazy mind wondered.

"Hey, Chachi, what do you earn off a place like this?" the Macnasee asked. "Much bank, right?"

"Not.... Not too much. Enough, I guess."

"Enough," the Macnasee barked out a rough laugh. "I thought I had enough once. You know what? It wasn't."

"No."

"Probably a lot of headache with a place like this anyway," the Macnasee looked around. "Upkeep and taxes and all. Paperwork. Lot of paperwork, right?"

"Some...."

"I'll bet. Hey," the Macnasee stood up. The two other men who had been arraigning the crates had come up behind them and were standing there silently. "We're all set." He reached down and offered a hand to Shane. Shane took it and was pulled to his feet.

The Macnasee toked his joint down to a nub, blew a steady stream from the side of his mouth, and then grinned at Shane.

"I guess I shouldn't just drop this on the floor. Not in front of the owner."

Shane couldn't think of a reply so he stood dumbly, looking at the fading red ember.

The Macnasee ground the remaining weed into a power between his thumb and fingers, then dusted his hands off outside the bay door. Then he grabbed Shane's hand and gave him a shoulder-bump bro-hug.

"Allright Chachi," the Macnasee said. "Merry Christmas."

"Yeah," Shane replied.

The three men exited the warehouse, pulled the ramp back into the truck, and went to the cab.

At the cab's door, the Macnasee turned and said, "So what did Jimmy tell you about the crate?"

Shane shook his head. "Nothing."

"Huh," the Macnasee grunted. "Anyway, it won't be here long. Nobody will even notice it, probably, and if they do.... Well, just keep people away from it, okay?"

Shane nodded.

"Allright Chachi." He swung into the truck. The engine rumbled and the vehicle lurched away. Shane watched it roll out of the parking-lot and onto the street; heading towards a bright Christmas star hanging in the crisp night air.

***

Sitting on a crate; joint in one hand, rum in the other, Shane killed twenty minutes gazing blankly out the open bay door. A chill breeze blew in which caused his eyes to water and blink. The joint had grown cold. Shane dropped the remains into the dregs of the rum and set the bottle aside.

'Yeah, we've met'. Shane recalled the Macnasee's words. Was that supposed to be funny?

Did I just get high with one of my wife's ex-lovers?

Ex.... How sure am I about that Ex.?

One of my wife's.... One of how many? Hell, how big an island is Macnas?

Shane sniffled then blew snot from his nose directly onto the concrete floor.

'Right in front of the owner'....

Shane came to his feet too quickly, wobbled, had to put a hand on the crate to steady himself, and then, when the vertigo passed, stood tall and erect.

And what's in that goddamned box anyway.

***

They'd done a good job squirreling the cargo away. Even though he knew the general location of where they'd been working, Shane had used his own handcart to move a lot of unnecessary wooden crates aside before he uncovered the odd, plastic box.

By the time he had, he was shaking and sweating from the booze, weed and effort.

Shane stood before the box; a curious, coffin shape with what looked like stripped vents on the side and a weird logo or emblem in red stenciled over the black lid. While looking at the bizarre print, the pattern and discord of red on black nauseated Shane. When he squinted, the red seemed to grow more vibrant and the room hitched and threatened to spin away. Shane grabbed his knees and blew wind. He closed his eyes. "Steady," he whispered to himself.

Shane gulped air. Exhaled deeply. He stood up, but didn't look directly at the emblem again. He focused, rather, on the edges - looking for a latch or handle. He didn't see any, so moved in closer.

The air around the box was colder than the rest of the warehouse. He touched it with a bare hand and the surface was freezing. Shane pulled the hand back with a hiss and tucked it under an armpit to press away the chill. Could this be some new technology? A super condensed cooling system?

Shane tried to inspect the back to see if he could spot the refrigeration unit, but if the box had one, it was internal. And, though he wasn't clear-headed, Shane knew that was completely impractical, if not actually impossible.

Also, there was no handle, latch, hinges, screws, seam or any way he could see to open the thing. It appeared to be one piece of molded plastic.

Shane stood back and put his hands on his hips. Again, the emblem blazed - the red swirls seeming to move over the surface - and Shane had to look away.

To hell with this.

Shane went to the storeroom and snatched a heavy crowbar from the toolbox. He staggered back to the coffin shaped box. Was it his imagination, or had the crates he'd pushed aside moved in closer. It seemed like he didn't have as much room to maneuver around the box as he'd had just moments ago.

Crazy. Drunk.

Pissed off.

Shane held the crowbar like a spear and jabbed it against the lid of the box.

A plum of fog escaped from the vents. Inside the box, something groaned; like metal being bent or a crank turning over.

Shane wedged the crowbar into one of the vents and pushed. He felt it give, just a little, and the groaning sound intensified.

"Goddamnit....," Shane said. He removed the crowbar and smacked it hard against the side of the box.

The groaning became a wail.

Shane hit the box again.

Thick, black tendrils of plasma seeped from the vents. They curled like corkscrews in the air.

"What the...?" Shane stepped back.

The living smoke hung suspended for a moment. Then, suddenly, it flew at Shane's face, blinding his eyes; filling his mouth and nostrils.

The crowbar clattered against the concrete floor. A moment later, Shane's dead body thumped down next to it.

***

Yes, Mr. Muncie was indeed a sad, sad specimen. Just think of all the mistakes he'd made; every poor decision and cowardly action taken over the course of so few years that let him to such an end on Christmas Day. But then, you yourself are no stranger to cowardly acts and poor decisions, are you?

Of course. You're right. I promised not to belabour the point. Forgive me, please.

But we still have time. To kill, as they say.

Maybe I can find another stone; another story worth telling here.

In the Christmas Cemetery....

Dumping Ground

She was at the window again that night, leaning over her desk, studying a book in the light from her green shade lamp. Her room was on the second floor of the house, a renovated anti-bellum structure that joined the line of houses on the Esplanade, overlooking the Missouri river. Rich people lived in those houses, officers from Fort Leavenworth, or maybe professionals from Kansas City who didn’t mind the commute. She was certainly pretty enough to be an important man’s daughter, Chad thought as he stood on the sidewalk and shamelessly looked up at her window. He wasn’t peeping, or invading her privacy, or anything sinister, he was just out walking his dog and there she was, a vision of natural beauty, like a sunset or a harvest moon. He couldn’t help but stare at her while Santana, his Shepard mix dog, studied the fire hydrant conveniently located across from her house.

            She was wearing a sweater because it was a little chilly, but she had the window open anyway. It was a perfect night for open windows. The crisp October breeze blowing off the river was amazing, it filled the lungs and cleared the head. Chad stood on the street and breathed deep as he watched the wind move her hair, soft brown bangs brushed against her high forehead. She frowned and her brown wrinkled, then she started flipping back through the pages of the book. Chad turned away, looked out at the river, then started walking again, pulling his dog behind him. He wondered if she’d noticed him when he started moving, if she was watching him now as he tugged at his dog’s leash. He stopped slouching and raised his head, just in case, but by the time he’d reached the end of the block, his hands were back into the pockets of his sweatshirt and his head hung low.

            An important person’s daughter. A beautiful girl….

            She might as well be the harvest moon for as close as Chad would ever come to her.    

            David watched the stupid boy dragging his stupid dog down the street. Goddamn dog stopped at every single street sign, every single lamp post, every single anything that could be pissed on, and the boy had to constantly tug the leash to get the mutt to keep walking. David noticed, however, that the boy didn’t tug the dog away from the fire hydrant in front of Amy’s house. Oh no, the dog was allowed to sniff that particular landmark up one side and down the other while the boy craned his neck and got a good peek at David’s girl.

            His girl!

            He was the one who had noticed her sitting on the bench as he cruised the Esplanade in his Chrysler model K. He was the one who had circled around to make sure she was as young and pretty as his first impression led him to believe. Then he was the one who had parked on a side street, walked all the way to the river with his heart pounding in his chest, sat on another bench about 50 yards down from where she sat, and waited to follow her home.

            She had been busy with a book so she hadn’t noticed David sitting on the bench next to hers which made it easy for him to spend a lot of time gawking at her. Jesus, but she was pretty! Soft brown hair braided and draped over her shoulder, the tip of the braid coming to rest on the swell of her breast which was round and full under the cream colored knit sweater she’d been wearing. When she flipped a page, her lips moved as she read the first few lines, then stayed slightly parted until she needed to flip again. David rested his hands on his lap and pressed down, trying to stop his growing erection. It didn’t work and he had to tear his eyes away and look at the river to calm down.

            She was so young…. Dare he think it? Dare he believe it? A beautiful virgin?

            It was getting too dark to read so she closed the book and leaned against the bench, hanging her elbows over the top plank. This caused her chest to stick out and David once again had to turn away, his acne scarred face flushing red.

            She watched the sunset behind the trees on the far side of the river. Soon the water was dark, the sound of it rushing west to meet the Mississippi being the only noise in the otherwise peaceful dusk. In the diminished light, her cream sweater took on an unusual glow, like the first star visible in the night sky.

            She arched her back and stretched at she stood up, twisting her torso left and right. Stuck to his bench, David watched the luminous sweater shift around the curves of her body with his jaw slightly agape. Oh, she was going to be his girl, no question about it.

            He followed her home, careful to remain as inconspicuous as possible, and when she entered the elegant two story house on the Esplanade, David just kept walking, making a point of looking the other way as he passed. He’d had enough for one night, he would start the real reconnaissance tomorrow.

            Her name was Amy, she lived with her father, John Rodgers, who was a prison guard at the State Penitentiary in Lansing. The mother, Pam Rodgers, had died in some kind of work related accident two years and John had bought the nice house with the insurance payoff. John drank too much and Amy had a thing for Russian literature. Her room was on the second floor facing the street. She didn’t keep a diary, or if she did she stored in on the computer which David didn’t know how to operate. She favored plain white panties and plain white bras. Her dirty clothes went in the laundry shoot and wound up in the basement.

            David had discovered all these facts and more when he broke into the Rodgers’ house one day while the father was at work and the daughter at school. Well, he didn’t really break in as the side door leading into the garage was unlocked. The father kept a secret stash of booze in the garage and was careless about locking up. So David, disguised as a repairman with overalls and a toolbox, casually entered the house in the middle of the day and helped himself to Amy’s secret life. The poor thing, loosing a mother at such and early age, with a drunk for a father…. Oh, what the right man could do for a sad child like Amy!

            David had spent an hour snooping then left the house with a pair of unwashed panties he’d taken from the pile in the basement.

            He had the panties with him now, balled up in the pocket of his black sweatshirt. He rubbed the fabric between his fingers like a talisman as he watched her from afar. She was his girl, all right. She just didn’t know it yet.

            That’s why it was very irritating to have the stupid boy looking at her through the window every night. The boy hadn’t planned for it, he hadn’t done any research; he just shuffled down the wrong street one day, walking his stupid dog, and got a good long look at what David had worked so hard for: the fantasy of Amy sitting at her window. Now the boy walked by her house every night, lingering too long with his dog at the fire hydrant. David, who was hiding in the foliage of the riverbed, felt violated by the intrusion.

            She was David’s little virgin girl, and the stupid boy was ruining that fantasy with his shaggy dog and horny eyes.    

            David waited until the boy had walked passed the furthest streetlight and disappeared in the darkness before turning his attention back to Amy’s house. She was leaning out the window now, also watching the stupid boy and his stupid dog. After the boy had gone, her shoulders sagged and she looked at the moon for a moment before closing the window and drawing the shade.

            David’s mouth went dry and he shook with anger. He had to put a stop to this!

            It was another perfect night, cool and crisp with a half moon floating in the sky, and Chad was more than happy to take Santana for his nightly walk. The excitable dog jumped all over him when he came out the back door, making it difficult to hook the leash to the collar, but he managed and they were on their way. Santana scrambled to get to the first streetlight, choking himself on the collar with a painful wheezing sound. Chad walked a bit faster to accommodate the dog and soon they were stopped at the streetlight on the corner, Santana’s back leg lifted high.

            When Santana finished his business, Chad turned right and headed towards the river. It was the long rout, taking at least an hour to complete the circle that ran from his neighborhood of rundown single story shacks through the wealthy mansions on Esplanade then back down 5^th street, but he wasn’t in a hurry. In fact, he was glad to be out of the house as his parents were fighting again. It was about money, of course, and how his father wasn’t responsible enough to hold on to it.

            Last summer Chad worked at the hardware store in the mall. He tried to keep that job during the school year but his mom said no when his grades started slipping. Yet here he was, wasting the evening walking his dog while homework sat undone on his desk. At least with a job he could make some money so Mom wouldn’t have to worry as much and he wouldn’t have to leave the house to get away from her nagging.

            Besides, if he was going to go to college, it wouldn’t be for grades, it would be for art. He had dozens of oversized notebooks filled with charcoal sketches and colored pencil drawings which were as good as any work he’d seen in the graphic novels he read. He liked drawing action heroes and busty, half naked women with guns, but he was good at scenery too. His sketch of a catfish on the riverbed won second place at the State competition, and his design for the new Parks and Recreation logo won honorable mention. The way Chad figured it, he could either get a scholarship for his art, or he could just work until he made enough money to start his own comic book. Either way, he didn’t need all that Math and English nonsense. It was nothing but a waste of time.

            Lost in thought, Chad almost forgot about the girl in the window. Her house was coming up and he straightened his posture, giving the leash a tug to pull Santana away from another streetlight. He wanted the dog to have enough left to make a good show at the fire hydrant, give Chad some time to look at the girl if she was there again tonight. Such a pretty girl, Chad fantasized about striking up a conversation with her, maybe telling her he was an artist and that he’d love to draw her someday. Maybe even half naked. Holding a gun…. Or maybe not.

            Santana never made it to the fire hydrant. He started sniffing the ground about ten feet from the land mark then pulled Chad off the sidewalk to the edge of the shrubby where he snatched something in his mouth. Chad bent down to take a look but Santana growled, low and menacing. Chad scolded the dog and grabbed his chin to get a look at what it was he’d found that was so interesting. It was an entire rack of rib, almost too large to fit in Santana’s needle nose mouth. Slobber dripped from the edges of the meat and Chad didn’t want to touch it but he figured it was probably soiled and not good to eat so he tried to pry it loose from his dog’s mouth.

            Santana growled aggressively and jerked his head around when Chad touched the piece of ribs that was showing.

            “Okay,” Chad told the dog, wiping his hands on his jeans, “but don’t blame me if you get sick.”

            Chad turned around and took Santana straight home. The dog had lost all interest in walking anyway.

            Chad found Santana the next morning, laying in a pool of bloody vomit, dead.

            The problem with prison guards is they tend to work odd shifts. For example, during his first week of stalking, David hadn’t seen Amy’s father once. He wasn’t there in the morning when David watched Amy’s silhouette behind the window shade getting ready for school (she put her bra on first, then the deodorant, which David found fascinating) and he was never there at night when David watched Amy do homework by the light of her green shade lamp. He felt sorry for her, being alone so much, but he had plans to fix that problem soon enough.

            Then the next week John Rodgers was home all the time, waving to Amy from the front door when her ride picked her up for school in the morning, and coming home at night in time to cook a warm diner for his daughter before she finished with her after school activities. Some nights Daddy would go out again, presumably to a bar, but it wasn’t consistent enough to establish a pattern. David sat in his hiding place, wrapped in a black blanket with a thermos of hot coffee between his legs, and considered his options. He’d missed his chance that first week, it would have been so easy to sneak in the side door again and wait for her to come home. Then it would have been just the two of them alone in that great big house, with all the time in the world.

            Now he had to think of something else, or wait until John Rodgers started working second or third shifts again. But who knew when that would be? And it was already getting uncomfortably cold at night. David didn’t want to find himself freezing his ass off in these goddamn shrubs come November.

            At least he hadn’t seen the stupid boy in a few days. Stupid boy and his stupid dog, eat any old shit he found laying on the ground. If only the problem getting Amy alone could be solved that easy.

            Santana’s death hit everybody in the Redding house pretty hard, even Chad’s father who refused to cry openly, but spent a very long time in the detached garage cleaning up after he had buried the dog. There was some discussion about calling the police, or putting up fliers with a reward for information, but in the end they just let it go. Even if the meat had been deliberately poisoned, it obviously hadn’t been meant for Santana as nobody could have known he would be walking there that night. The dog happened upon it by accident. It was just bad luck.

            The question then became one of if they should immediately replace Santana. Chad’s mom said no, they should give themselves time to complete the grieving process. The argument being that if they bought another dog, it would just postpone the painful emotion of having lost a loved one, making it even harder to cope when the next dog died. Dad then suggested that when the next dog died, they rush out an buy another one real quick, thus postponing the grief for another ten years, an so on. He reckoned that as long as dogs kept fucking in the streets, there would always be enough puppies for them to avoid dealing with that particular painful emotion.

            Mom told him to watch his mouth, then asked if he would be so eager to replace her if, God forbid, anything should happen. Dad apologized and assured her he could never love another woman after her. Besides, he said, he couldn’t remember the last time he saw her parents fucking in the street.

            The very next day Chad came home from school and found his father in the back yard playing with a brand new, jet-black Rottweiler puppy.

            “Isn’t he great?” Dad asked, when the puppy trotted over to greet Chad.

            Chad took a step back.

            “Dad,” he said, “That’s a Rottweiler.”

            “Right,” Dad agreed, “I’ve named him Stevie Ray.”

            “Rottweilers kill people, Dad.”

            “Nah, only people who deserve it. They are gentle as lambs to good people.” Dad whistled and knelt down, Stevie Ray turned and waddled over to lick his face, “See? He won’t hurt you. Come here and pet him.”

            Chad approached the young dog slowly. He remembered hearing somewhere that you should never try to pat a dog on the top of its head as that could be taken as a sign of aggression, so he reached under the dog’s chin and stroked it’s massive chest. The dog started panting and looked at Chad with warm brown eyes.

            “It’s big for a puppy,” Chad remarked.

            “He’ll be a big dog,” Dad replied with undeserved pride, “His dad is a champion show Rottweiler, wins all sorts of awards around Kansas City. You buy a dog like this, it’ll cost you thousands. I’m not kidding. Thousands.”

            “How did you get him?”

            “I work with the brother of the guy who breeds them. When I told him what happened to Santana, he arranged it so we could get this dog for free. They are dog lover’s too, and they hate to hear about stuff like what happened to Santana. And the guy who breeds them, he’s been having trouble selling them lately because of all the bad press, like you said, people think these dogs are killers.”

            “Yeah, well, they are killers dad. Just last week, remember? The boy in Westin?”

            “Ah, bullshit,” Dad tugged the dog’s ears and Stevie Ray shook his head playfully, “the only way these dogs are killers is when they aren’t trained well, abused, or if they are inbred. Stevie Ray here is 100% pure bred , so all we have to do is bring him up right.”

            Chad bit his lower lip. They had never even completely trained Santana not to shit in the house. And now they were going to have to train a dog not to kill?

            “Mom’s not going to like it.”

            “At first,” Dad said stoically, “but just look at his eyes? How could you not fall in love with those puppy eyes?”

            Chad and Stevie Ray looked at each other. There was something undeniably compelling about the dog’s eyes, they had an alertness to them, a certain spark. Chad couldn’t say he immediately fell in love with them, but he did feel an unusual respect for the dog. There was intelligence in Stevie Ray’s eyes, like the dog was determining Chad’s place in the ranking order of the pack. By the look in the dog’s eyes, Chad could tell he wasn’t a lock for third place.

            Chad’s dad was working the graveyard shift the first week of Stevie Ray’s induction into the Redding family, so he was able to join his son for the ritual evening walks. Dad had talked to the breeder and was full of information on how to train Rottweilers, all of which he shared with Chad while they paraded Stevie Ray around the neighborhood.

            Apparently training a Rottweiler was as easy as programming a computer to calculate pi to infinity. There were hundreds of rules and rituals which needed to be obeyed if Stevie Ray was to become a trusted family companion and not a blood thirsty killer. Some of them made sense (“never hit him with your bare hand”) and others were just confusing (“one day this week, when you come home from school, take a nap in his dog bed… no, I’m not kidding… that’s how you let him know that he is below you in the pack.”) And by the end of the week, Chad was totally overwhelmed by the dog, but felt closer to his dad than he had in a long time. So, even though he knew it was a bad sign when he found Stevie Ray napping in his bed when he came home from school, he grew to love the dog if for no other reason than he’d given him and his dad something to do together.

            After his week of graveyard was up, Dad had to work second shift which meant Chad would be responsible for walking the dog by himself for awhile. The father and son sat at the breakfast table and went over the rules one more time while Mom stood at the electric range and rolled her eyes. Stevie Ray lay silently on the kitchen floor, head resting between his paws, arching an expressive eyebrow whenever he heard his name.

            “And you don’t want him pulling on the lease, but don’t let him dictate the speed of the walk either.”

            “Okay, dad.”

            “If you want, try to get him to walk behind you, you know, like we taught him to heel the other night.”

            “I don’t know….”

            “Only if you think he’s ready. Otherwise, just make sure he doesn’t stop at every streetlamp. We’re walking him for exercise, not so he can piss on everything west of the Missouri.”

            “So I should tug on the leash?”

            “Right. Don’t be afraid to give it a good yank. Stevie Ray is tough, he can take it.”

            “You think I can walk him a different path? Or should I stick to the neighborhood?”

            “Good question. I’m not sure…. He  might get confused or overly excited, with the new smells and all…. But he’s a smart dog, he should be able to handle it. Just don’t let him stop at every streetlamp.”

            “Okay.”

            “Hey, you’re not thinking of walking him down Esplanade? Where Santana found the ribs?”

            “Well, I was….”

            Dad looked thoughtful for a moment, then said, “I’d rather you didn’t. No without me. Just in case.”

            “Okay,” Chad said and they both turned to look at Stevie Ray. The dog raised an eyebrow and snorted through his big black nose.

            From his hiding place in the bushes, David watched Amy’s father leave for work. The big, slump-shouldered man stood at the car for a moment, staring at his shoes, then opened the door and threw himself behind the wheel, the car tilting noticeably to the left. The interior light went on and David could see John Rodgers reach over to the glove box, take out a flask, bring it to his mouth and toss his head back. He wiped his mouth with his forearm and shuddered, then returned the flask back to the glove box and put the car in reverse.

            It was 7:55 at night on a Wednesday. This was the third night in a row he’d left at around this time. David focused his binoculars on Amy’s window and saw her looking down the street after her father’s car. Through the magnification of the binoculars, David could tell she was very sad, no doubt concerned about her father’s alcoholism.

            David felt an overwhelming surge of emotion for his poor, sad little girl.

            He was tempted to walk right up to her front door and knock, then explain himself to her when she opened the door. How he knew everything about her, how he had been following her and watching her, and how he understood her more than anybody else. If she would just give him the chance, he could make love to her that was so sweet and gentle, she would forget about all her problems, if only for one evening.

            Then he could peel off the ugly latex mask he was wearing, revealing his true, Tom Cruise handsome face, and serenade her like Barry White while he carried her up the stairs with arms that were much stronger than the two shapeless, plastic-man appendages he really had.

            No, the better plan was to come back tomorrow night with all the right tools and wait until the father left for work. Then he could sneak in the side door, show her the knife to let her know he was serious, make her swallow a few flunitrazepam pills, and spend a nice, relaxed evening alone with his special girl.

            David took the binoculars away from his face and grabbed the thermos, enjoying the feeling of warmth in his hands. He would finish the coffee then leave, no point in waiting for her to turn out the lights tonight. Tomorrow he would be able to use his hands to see her in the dark, every soft, young inch of her….

            Chad had to admit, walking Stevie Ray was a lot more dignified than walking Santana. Dragging Santana up and down the streets of Leavenworth had been a chore, and not a very pleasant one either as that dog had to constantly lift his leg against anything that wouldn’t roll away. Stevie Ray, on the other hand, took care of business early then spent the rest of the walk striding purposely ahead of Chad, scanning the scenery with his head held high, ready for anything. And the guys who stood around fixing cars and drinking beer at night, they used to blow kisses when Chad walked Santana in front of their driveways, but they kept their mouths shut when Stevie Ray passed by. They just nodded their heads in admiration.

            Santana had been a fine dog, and Chad missed him and all that, but Stevie Ray…. Stevie Ray was a bad-ass motherfucker dog.

            Chad grabbed the leash as he passed his father who was in the kitchen getting ready for work.

            “Taking Stevie Ray for his walk?” Dad asked, “A little early, don’t you think?”

            “It’s a nice night,” Chad replied, “I’ll take him around the neighborhood twice.”

            “Next week I’m back on day shift. We’ll take him down Esplanade. Maybe get him in the truck and take him to the VA park. See how he does without the leash.”

            “Sounds good,” Chad said, the screen door slamming behind him as he jumped down the steps to the back yard. Stevie Ray was waiting there, his little stub of a tail wagging ferociously. Chad hooked the leash to the dog’s collar and off they went. Stevie Ray stopped at the first streetlight and did his business, drenching the post with a day’s worth of saved urine, then turned left like they always did. Chad yanked him back and started walking the opposite direction, headed towards the river. It was such a nice night, and he was bored of the same old path. He wanted to smell the river and walk on the Esplanade. Besides, what were the odds of there being another hunk of poisoned meat on the sidewalk?

            And Chad was wondering, if that pretty girl should happen to be sitting at her open window again, what would she think of his new dog?

            It was past 7:55 and John Rodgers’ car was still parked in the driveway. Had he called in sick? Was he too drunk to go to work? David watched the house from his hiding place in the undergrowth of the riverbank and started shaking to release pent up energy. His stomach flipped and he felt nauseous. If the father didn’t leave for work tonight, would David ever be able to trust his schedule again? Would he ever get to be alone with Amy in that nice roomy house? What other choice did he have? Drive up along side her when she was walking home, “hey little girl, would you like some candy?”

            No. She wasn’t stupid, and David wasn’t strong enough for anything bold. It had to be in the house. And it had to be tonight! David felt the bile rise in his throat and his eyes started tearing. He couldn’t stand the thought of loosing her, after he’d done so much preparation.

            When the big man finally staggered out the front door, tucking his prison guard uniform into his pants, David actually let out a slight cry of relief. He picked up the black gym bag he’d packed special for tonight and clutched it against his chest. It wouldn’t be long now.

            Chad kept a brisk pace behind Stevie Ray and found his breath a little heavier than usual. With Santana, he never got the chance to work his heart rate up because of the constant stopping and starting, but Stevie Ray didn’t let much distract him from the joy of exercise. The dog kept his head up and paws moving, like a pony or a mini-bear, lumbering down the sidewalk. As they approached the house where the pretty girl lived, Chad realized the drawback of having such an obedient dog. Stevie Ray would trot right past the fire hydrant, not allowing Chad any time to sneak a glance at the window. He made a quick decision to force the dog to stop by pretending to tie his shoe in front of her house. He came all this way, it would be a shame is he didn’t even try to see if she was still sitting like a goddess behind the window.

            Two things happened as Chad drew along side the pretty girl’s house. One; he saw a man he assumed to be the girl’s father walking to the car in the driveway. Chad noticed the man wore the same uniform his father did, which meant they worked together in the prison, which made Chad reevaluate his assessment that they had to be fabulously wealthy to live in that house. The second thing was Stevie Ray started growling, a low, menacing sound that sent a chill down Chad’s back. His first instinct was to drop the leash and run, but when he saw Stevie Ray’s head pointed at the shrubs lining the river bed, he figured the dog was simply menacing a possum or raccoon or something.

            “Relax, boy,” Chad sighed with relief, “come on.”

            Chad looked at the house again and waved to the man who was standing at the end of the driveway now, watching them. The man waved back, curious as to what the dog was making a fuss about. Chad took the opportunity to look up and saw the pretty girl watching them from the window. She was absolutely fantastic, with a flawless heart shaped face framed by the softest brown hair he’d ever seen. Their eyes met briefly and Chad’s jaw dropped. He wanted to say something, or at least wave, but before he could raise his arm Stevie Ray lunged, jerking Chad to the ground and breaking his hold on the leash.

            Stevie Ray flew into the shrubs and a man started screaming. The girl’s father ran across the street as Chad scrambled to his feet, shouting after his dog. The father put a hand on Chad’s shoulder to stop him from following Stevie Ray into the bushes.

            The commotion coming from the darkness of the foliage was terrifying. The man kept crying out in pain and Stevie Ray sounded like an entire army of feral dogs, growling and barking with a terrifying fury.

            Eventually the man and dog stumbled out of the underbrush, the man crawling on his hands and knees, trying to protect his head from Stevie Ray’s wildly snapping jaws. The dog was jumping all over his back and the man begged them to call him off.

            “Stevie Ray!” Chad cried, “Stop! Stop it!”

            The dog backed off long enough for the man to crawl a few feet, but never stopped growling and circling his flanks. The man whimpered in pain.

            “You’d better leash your dog,” the father told Chad, then asked, “do you know that man?”

            Chad shook his head as he slowly approached the angry Rottweiler.

            “Stevie Ray, Stevie Ray, good boy, calm down now….”

            The dog let Chad grab the leash, but wouldn’t budge when the boy tried to tug him away from the stranger who was bleeding on the grass.

            The father came to the side of the stranger and knelt down. The stranger was dressed in black, he even had a ski mask rolled up as a cap on his head. The father noticed a black gym bag hooked around the stranger’s arm and grew suspicious. He pulled the bag away, unzipped it, and dumped the contents out on the sidewalk, sifting through them with his large hands.

            The father started breathing heavy, stooped over the scattered debris from the bag, then stood up fast and ran back to his house. Chad kept trying to pull Stevie Ray away, but the dog was relentless, insisting on staying within striking distance of the strange man.

            “Oh, Stevie Ray,” Chad begged, “please boy, come on, let’s go.” Exasperated, he looked up and saw the girl using the phone, no doubt calling the police. He had a sickening feeling that Stevie Ray was in bad trouble. Don’t they kill dogs who attack people? Chad risked touching his beloved new dog on the haunch, hoping to draw his attention away from the stranger, but Stevie Ray only growled louder, letting Chad know this wasn’t a game.

            Shortly, the front door of the house slammed open and the father stormed across the street, eyes wild with anger. Chad saw the gun in his hand and fell to the ground next to Stevie Ray, holding his hands up, ready to plead for his dog’s life. But before he could say anything, the father started shooting the stranger. The thunderously loud explosions caused Chad and Stevie Ray to recoil instinctively, rolling away from the stranger’s body. Chad clung to the dog, burying his head in the warm fur Stevie Ray’s chest. He cried out, certain that the next sound he’d hear would be his last, wincing at the thought of a bullet ripping through his back, exploding out his chest, probably killing Stevie Ray too.

            When the ringing in his ears died down, Chad lifted his face and Stevie Ray took a cheap shot, licking him from chin to forehead with a massive, slimy tongue. Chad hugged the dog again, sobbing with relief.

            Chad stood up on wobbly legs and turned around. The father was looming over what was left of the stranger, holding a smoking gun. He looked at Chad and Stevie Ray then nodded and started walking slowly back to his house. Sirens wailed, growing nearer.

            Chad staggered to the sidewalk and knelt down to inspected the stuff that the father had dumped out of the stranger’s bag, wondering what had set him off. At first nothing made sense, then he started putting pieces together;  a knife, binoculars, a bottle of pills, a pornographic magazine, plastic gloves, a pair of white panties…  a box of condoms….

            Even though the night air was bordering on cold, Chad suddenly felt very hot. He looked around and saw neighbors joining together in small groups, talking and pointing at the father who was crossing the street with a big gun in his hand. On an impulse, Chad slide the knife from its sheath and surreptitiously tossed it so it landed next to the mutilated body that had been the pervert stalker.

            Chad stood up as the flashing red and blue lights of police cruisers turned the Esplanade into a carnival.

            When the police searched David Cotton’s apartment, they found plenty of incriminating evidence to suggest that he had raped before, most of it in the form of trophies such as panties, pictures, or hair clippings. Add to that Chad Redding’s testimony that David Cotton had tried to kill him with a buck knife, and it was easy for the court to find John Rodgers’ multiple shooting of David Cotton on the night of October 27^th a justifiable, if not excessive, act of self defense.

            Chad’s father called the breeder and verified that, just because Stevie Ray had tasted human blood, he wasn’t going to become a vicious killer. That was strictly a myth. But the breeder did suggest that they try not to make a habit of it, saying “you never know what kinds of diseases people carry.”

            Hearing that, Chad’s mom let Stevie Ray sleep in the house again.

            “Taking Stevie Ray for a walk?” Chad’s father asked as Chad grabbed the leash from the coat rack and opened the back door. It was 8:30 at night and Dad was dressed for work, sipping coffee and reading a magazine at the breakfast table.

            “No,” Chad said, “I was thinking of going to the opera.” He held the leash up to his neck, letting it dangle down his chest. “Does this tie match my shirt?”

            Dad looked around, making sure his wife wasn’t watching, then gave his son the finger. Chad snickered as he leapt out the back door, screen slamming behind him.

            Stevie Ray double timed it to the first streetlamp, did his business, then turned right and headed for the river. Chad talked to his dog as they walked, explaining the human world to the feral beast who had become a polite, if not responsive, listener. As they approached the familiar two story house overlooking the river, the dog pumped his powerful legs faster, pulling Chad behind him.

            Stevie Ray let out a happy barking sound, “roof!”, and got a response from the back yard of the house they were approaching. As they turned into the driveway, another Rottweiler came charging around the corner, barking at Stevie Ray. The two dogs wagged their stubs and greeted each other with Eskimo kisses.

            The dog’s name was Angel and she was Stevie Ray’s sister.

            Amy came around the house moments latter, holding a leash in her hand.

            John Rodgers stood in the doorway and sipped his coffee. He was also dressed for work, waiting a few more minutes before swinging by the Redding’s house to pick up Chad’s father for the ride into Lansing. It was Mr. Redding who gave him the number of the Rottweiler breeder who sold them Stevie Ray. When the breeder heard the story about how John’s daughter had been saved by one of his Rottweilers, he was going to give them a dog for free, but John insisted on paying. He had the money and couldn’t think of a better way to spend it, not even on the twenty-five dollar bottles of whiskey he used to buy twice a week, or the countless wads of fives and tens that had gone to beer almost every day.

            John watched his daughter walk down the street with the two dogs and the boy who lied under oath for him. He wasn’t worried about her at all, and that was the best feeling in the world.

Red is a Tried and True Favorite

Uncle Chris spent his last two months working a filling station in a hillbilly town outside of Nashville, Tennessee. He had been dying of the big C for awhile, but none of us knew it until we got a letter from a gal named Rebecca who owned the station where he drew his last breath and paycheck. She sent a note saying Uncle Chris hadn’t wanted a ceremony, just his ashes dumped into the black woods, and we should make donations in his name to the GCCA instead of sending flowers. From the tone of the letter, you could guess gas hadn’t been the only thing Chris spent his last days pumping in Tennessee. The long red hair that fell out of the envelope with the letter was another dead give away. Chris always liked them red. 

            So the entire Rodgers family came together at the farm in Beaumont and we had a proper send-off. All the brothers, sisters, cousins and in-laws came from all over Texas to pay their last respects. We made a weekend out of it, with barbeque and beer, and the more sentimental Rodgers’s cried enough tears to give the Rio Grande a run for its money.

            Personally I thought Uncle Chris had been rather selfish, denying us a proper ceremony. He should have had enough respect to come home one last time, at least to say goodbye. But that was Uncle Chris, literally dodging responsibility to the very end. Still, you weren’t supposed to think such things at a man’s memorial. So I toasted his memory like a good nephew and did my best to keep the hamburgers hot and the beer cold.

            There were some off-color stories told about the dearly departed, and one fight between Aunt Patti and Aunt Angela, but on the whole it was a respectful blowout worthy of the Rodgers clan. Most of the family left on Sunday, needing to travel back to Houston, Austin, Port Arthur, or wherever their jobs were and by Monday the only ones left at the farm were Aunt Patti and her son, Cousin Al.         

            We spent the morning sitting around staring into our coffee mugs until Aunt Patti reared up and slammed her fist against the table and swore, “goddamn that little slut!” She was, of course, referring to the Rebecca gal who’d written the letter. As I said, from the tone you could tell there was more than an employee/employer relationship going on between the two, what with sentences like “He didn’t want his family to see him in pain” and “he was full of life, up to the very end.” Well, Aunt Patti must have picked up on it, even without knowing about the guilty red hair which Dad and I judiciously let float away in the breeze when it first fell from the envelope.

            Aunt Patti pulled her own long red hair into a tight, painful looking bun and tied it with the rubber band from the Sunday paper while she cursed Rebecca and her witchy ways. By Patti’s reasoning, Rebecca trapped Uncle Chris in some God-forsaken Tennessee shit-hole and kept him away from his family while he died slowly and painfully. She started crying again as she described him withering away, aching for one last look at the people he truly loved, but that big hunk of Tennessee Trash wouldn’t let him leave. Mom went over and gave her a hug and they left the room together. Dad and I exchanged looks then smiled over at Al who was still staring at his coffee with a blank expression on his face. He too had a lock of red hair that fell in a curl across his forehead. With the red hair, pale skin, and face full of freckles, he obviously did not fit in with the rest of us Rodgers’s who were dark and dusty Texans by way of Italy.

            Aunt Patti is my mom’s sister. About twenty years ago she married some Greek from Louisiana and had Al. The Greek died shortly after Al was born and that freed Aunt Patti up for Uncle Chris (my father’s brother) to hound. With the Greek gone, Uncle Chris started showing up at the yearly family reunions with a consistency that wasn’t in his nature. At one reunion he made a lame excuse to take Patti out for a tour of some local sight and they stayed out the entire night, scandalizing mom and causing dad to whisper and laugh with his other brothers.

            After that night Uncle Chris started staying at Aunt Patti’s house in Corpus Christi during his frequent trips up and down the coast. Once he stayed with her long enough to actually fill out a change of address form with the post office. That lasted nearly two years then we started getting his junk mail at the farm again and we knew he was back on the road. He still spent a lot more time in Corpus than Beaumont when he was in Texas, but Uncle Chris had wandering bones, always looking for his fortune in some stupid scheme usually involving selling overpriced junk to working people who couldn’t afford it and didn’t need it anyway: Shark repellant life jackets to east coast fisherman, organic pesticides to Midwestern farmers, coats made from the same fabric as the astronauts’ space suits; anything that wasn’t practical. The closest he ever came to success was an organic misquote control treatment which caught the imagination of some of the wealthier neighborhoods in Houston. He sold out of that business when it looked like it might actually turn a profit, no doubt afraid of blowing his perfect track record of failed enterprises.

            Through it all, Uncle Chris was the good natured, born looser you just had to love. When he was around, he was all laughs and hugs, able to disarm the most determined critic of his vagabond lifestyle with a lopsided grin and goofy story. The only one he hadn’t been able to charm was my mother who thought it a disgrace the way he treated her sister. Dad figured Patti was a grown woman and came to the choice on her own. But mom would reply, yes, well, what about Al? What kind of example was Chris being for Al? Dad would counter with the observation that Al was born strange and will always be strange, and any scrap of normalcy the boy shall exhibit in the future will be solely due to Uncle Chris’s influence, however uneven it might be.

            Now, with the poor red headed Al sitting across the table from us, lost in his coffee, neither Dad or I had any words to comfort him. The link he’d had to us through Uncle Chris was gone, and he didn’t really fit in. Sure, he was still our cousin and nephew through Mom’s family, but that was not a true Rodgers connection. He would always be welcome at the farm, and anything he could ask, we would surely give, but you can’t change a man’s blood. Al had some long dead Greek guy’s blood in him, and no matter how many times Chris had laid with Aunt Patti, that blood wouldn’t change. 

            Dad muttered something about having to fix the car and stood to leave. I wanted to go too but Dad told me to stay and make more coffee, nodding his chin at Al as if to say, “Keep the boy company.” I frowned and shook my head no, I wasn’t any kind of grievance counselor, but Dad gave me a hard look and I knew I was stuck.

            I hummed a country song while I scooped coffee into the filter. Al never looked up. I changed from country to rock, whistling a CCR song while the water boiled. I took the fresh pot to the table and poured myself another cup, then I leaned over to top off Al, but he hadn’t even taken a sip yet, so I set the pot on the hot plate and grabbed the Sunday paper.

            I was flipping through the sports page when Mom and Patti returned. Mom stood behind Al and put her hands on his shoulders. He looked up for the first time that morning and gave her a weak smile. Patti sat next to me and grabbed my hand. “John,” she said, sniffling, “I want you to go with Al to Tennessee. I want you to meet this Rebecca gal and find out what kind of person she is.”

            “You can go because you don’t have a job,” Mom reminded me before I had a chance to think up an excuse, “and Al doesn’t start school again for another week. Plus it will give you two a chance to get to know each other.” If Al had any opinion of this plan, it didn’t show on his face which was once again pointed at the black surface of his coffee. I looked at my own cup and saw my reflection in the liquid: a twenty five year old, unemployed, roustabout with nothing better to do than waste some perfectly good summer days farting about the southeast with a college educated distant relative. But, as Mom said, I did not have a job, and since this was a constant point of contention between us, I knew better than to argue with her. I just nodded while Mom and Patti left to plan the trip. Al and I made quite a pair, sitting across from each other at the cheery breakfast nook, lost in our coffees.

                       

            Since neither of us had to worry about scheduling days off, we started out early on a Tuesday morning. The plan was to get through Louisiana as fast as possible. As with any journey traveling east, getting through Louisiana is the worst part of the trip and should be done without delay. The experienced traveler knows this and will make a habit of stopping somewhere in Orange County to pee before crossing the boarder. With enough self discipline to lay off the RC Cola and a strong bladder, it is possible to get through Louisiana without having to stop at all. This was the type of luck we were hoping for.

            We had only been driving a couple of hours, and had just crossed the Louisiana/Texas border when there was a loud pop from the engine and the air started blowing hot through the AC vents. Al, who was driving, looked at me with an arched eyebrow. I shrugged. He pulled off to the side of the road and popped the hood. I half expected a great cloud of smoke to come billowing from the engine, but when we lifted the hood nothing appeared to be wrong. We stood there with our hands on our hips, looking at the guts of the beast while I-10 traffic zoomed past, blowing hot air around us like we were in some trash filled Louisiana wind tunnel.

            “See anything?” Al asked.

            I shook my head. I never was keen on cars and Al was driving one of them foreign jobs. A Honda Civic it was called. Apparently it was a requirement for all college students to buy this car after graduation. Like a status symbol for those posed on cusp of middle class. Not that I had any room to complain, it was a smoother ride than my ‘88 El Camino which couldn’t have made it to Tennessee in a dream.

            “Well I don’t know anything about cars anyway,” Al finally confessed. “Let’s just see if it’ll still run.”

            I waited for a truck to pass then climbed back in the passenger’s side. Al had fired up the car and the engine was humming along just fine so we traded shrugs and pulled back onto the highway. I noticed the air blowing from the vents was warm even though the AC was on. I closed the vent on my side and rolled down my window. Al turned off the fan. “I guess the AC blew out,” he said, rolling down his window. A blast of hot air ripped through the car and we lost a hamburger wrapper that caught the express current out the window. I gathered the rest of the loose trash; fast food bags, receipts, and some college lined papers, and crammed it under my seat where it wouldn’t fly away.

            “Well, I guess it could be worse.” Al said, squinting into sun rising over the horizon.

            Five hours later we crossed the Louisiana/Mississippi boarder. Both of our shirts were soaked with sweat and we were about as gritty and tired from driving with the windows down as a coalminer would have been from riding the shafts all day. Al pulled into a Mississippi Wal-Mart and stopped the car.

            “Guess we can stop for a while,” he said. I had an urge to kiss the ground when I stepped out of that goddamn car.

            We entered the Wal-Mart and made a B-line for the washroom which was right behind the little cafeteria. On the way past I noticed they sold Icee’s. Finally, some good news.

            I stood two urinals down from Al and we took care of business. I snuck a glance at Al who was twisting his neck around and sighing heavily. “Oh man,” he moaned, “that feels good.”

            I don’t like guys who talk in the men’s room. I could make allowances for Al however because he was family and he had just driven through Louisiana with no AC without stopping. Nevertheless I finished my business, washed my hands and left before he started singing American Pie or some such nonsense.

            I was standing in front of the Icee machine, considering my options when Al came out, wiping his hands on his jeans. They had blue and red flavors. Red was a tried and true favorite, but I might be in the mood for blue. The sign said blue stood for Pena Colada, but that didn’t seem right some how. I’d seen blue as either blueberry (awful) or bubblegum (not bad) but I’d never seen it as Pena Colada before. Come to think on it, I couldn’t recall for the life of me what Pena Colada tasted like. I motioned for Al to join me. Hell, ought to get something out of traveling with a college student.

            “What’s Pena Colada taste like?” I asked.

            “Coconutty, I guess,” he answered.

            Red it is.

            I got my Cherry Icee and a hamburger with fries while Al got the fish sandwich with a salad and iced tea. I’d never had the fish at Wal-Mart before, but it looked pretty good when Al was eating it. Thick and breaded, dipped in tartar sauce…

            “That any good?” I asked.

            “Try some,” Al tore off a piece, dipped it, and handed it too me. It wasn’t bad at all. Got me thinking I just might try eating healthier if it all tasted this good.

            We finished eating and hit the aisles to refresh our supplies. Things would be easier now that we were through Louisiana. It was even possible to think of picking up a six pack of beer. If you get stopped in Louisiana with an open container and Texas plates, that was your ass. In Mississippi you maybe get a warning. I grabbed a two dollar Styrofoam cooler, a bag of ice, a six pack of RC and another six of Stroh’s. Driving through Louisiana during the middle of a sunny September day with no AC had been hell. Mississippi owed me a smooth ride behind a cold beer.

            Al insisted that he was still good to drive and got behind the wheel with no argument from me. I don’t much like driving on freeways.

            I popped myself a Stroh’s and offered one to Al, but he pointed at the RC Cola. Must have read something about drinking and driving at that college of his. He took a good pull, settled his butt into the seat, and we were off. I tried getting my feet propped up on the dash, but the car was too small and my belly kind of got in the way. I took another gulp of beer and figured I should get around to doing something about that.

            A couple hours latter and we both had to stop. Something about drinking in a car, works hell on your bladder. The sun was setting when we pulled into a gas station outside of Tungston. The attendant was a scrawny looking specimen, long ostrich-like neck with a patchy shave job and greasy clothes made him look yokel, but he kept a nice store. He even sold the hard stuff behind the counter. A short of Jim Beam caught my eye. I didn’t have enough money of my own to buy it so I looked over at Al. He was looking at the nutritional information on a bag of mixed nuts. 

            Ah, hell. I had four more Stroh’s in the car, no need to get greedy. They did have a big ol’ machine over by the Soda that sold something called Parrot Ice which looked like a super Icee. And it came in an assortment of flavors, at least four tanks with the colors visible, swirling inside like a rainbow waiting to happen. I read the instructions which suggested you mix and match the different flavors for a tasty treat.

            “Hey Al,” I called my cousin, “C’mere. What do you make of this?”

            “Parrot Ice. It’s pretty good.”

            “What’s the best flavor?”

            “Go with the fruit punch.”

            “What about mixing ‘em?”

            “Nah, just get the punch. Start mixing them and they just run together, can’t make out any flavor at all.”

            Maybe there was something to this college thing, make a boy smart like that. Besides, fruit punch happened to be red, which was a tried and true favorite.

            I put the Parrot Ice with Al’s nuts and bottled water and he paid for it all, which didn’t bother me because I was doing him a favor by taking this trip anyway.

            It was still hot in the car, but getting better by the minute. With the sun disappearing on the horizon, I could feel the first tease of night air through the open windows. I leaned over, lifted my chin and closed my eyes. Mississippi smelled clean. Not like Beaumont. Certainly not like Louisiana. I sucked on the straw of my Parrot Ice and thought about Mississippi. It wasn’t such a bad state, all things considered. And it had that river. And the delta where blues music came from.

            “Do you remember…” Al started saying something then let the words peter out. I gave him a few seconds then turned back to the window. Actually, Mississippi wasn’t any prettier than Texas. The air probably wasn’t any better either. What had I been thinking?

            “Do you remember…” Al started again. I looked at him and saw his throat working, like he was trying to swallow a peach pit. He was blinking fast too. Lord a’mighty, Al was going to cry! Which meant I would probably have to drive.

            “Remember when Uncle Chris saved that pelican?” Al wiped his face with his sleeve.

            “What pelican?” I braced myself for another Uncle Chris story.

            “When we had that picnic at Galveston that one time. Corpus Christy, actually, Jeff knew that lady who owned the house on the beach?”

            “Okay…”

            “Uncle Chris found the pelican caught in a silt fence.”

            “Yeah?”

            “He set it free.”

            “Okay.”

            “The thing was, that pelican fought him tooth and nail. Stupid bird thought Uncle Chris was trying to kill it.”

            Well, how smart was a pelican that was going to get stuck in a silt fence anyway? I kept my mouth shut and reached for another beer. We drove in silence for awhile until Al got himself under control. I had to hand it to him, he was a driving fool. Almost twelve hours with only two breaks. I looked at his profile in the fading daylight. You could see my mother’s family in him, Irish to a fault with his red hair and freckles on fish belly white skin. But he also had a very classic Greek profile, like you would see on one of those sculptures of famous philosophers. Except Al had a full head of red hair whereas I seem to recall all those old Greeks being bald or having weird halo hair. They were all queer too, from what I understand. I gave Al the benefit of the doubt on that one.

            Three beers and three hundred miles into Mississippi and the sun was almost gone. Al and I started trading yawns, gradually increasing in force, until Al swerved onto the shoulder and pulled the car back in a panic.

            “Almost lost it there,” he said, checking the mirror.

            “You want me to drive?” I offered even though I certainly didn’t feel like it. One thing I hate more than driving on interstates is driving at night. Just the thought of it made me reach for another beer from the cooler.

            “Nah,” Al said, watching me pop the top and take a pull, “we should stop for the night. Keep your eyes open for a place.”

            I nodded and belched, rolling my head to look out the window. It was full on night now and the vegetation by the side of the highway absorbed the light from the car’s headlamps. The darkness crept onto the road ahead of us, leaving only with great reluctance as we sped through. It was pretty spooky out there. Who knew what strangeness lurked in the shadows of a Mississippi highway on a moonless night? I had an urge to roll up my window, but even though a slight shudder ripped through my body, I knew it wasn’t nearly cool enough to go without air. I took another sip of beer and rested my wind-blown eyes for a second.

            When I opened them again, Al was pushing my shoulder telling me to wake up. We were parked in front of a cheap motel, a flashing neon sign reflecting off the roof of the car. The time on the dashboard clock read 11:36. I’d been sleeping for over two hours.

            “Man, I guess I knocked out there for awhile,” I yawned.

            “Yeah,” Al agreed, “I already rented the room so we can just go in.”

            I scooped up the cooler and my backpack and followed Al into the room. It was a dump,  like every other interstate motel, but there were two beds and an AC blowing cold air. Shangri la. I grabbed the ice bucket and told Al I’d be right back.

            The ice machine was in the main lobby on the other side of the parking lot. I strolled across the blacktop looking at the license plates of all the cars. I saw another Texas plate, it was on a dented up Chevy truck. Typical, but it made me feel better. Like I had a friend here, another exhausted dude reclining on an uncomfortable mattress, drinking beer and watching late night TV until he just couldn’t keep his eyes open anymore.

            I opened the door to the lobby and saw a sleepy-eyed lady standing in front of the ice machine. She was wearing an oversized T-shirt that hung down to mid thigh and nothing else, not even shoes. She gave a startled look when I entered the room but I immediately put her at ease with a pleasant smile and a nod of my head. Friendly guy, comin’ through.

            She smiled back, pushing limp red hair out of her face as she continued filling her ice bucket. I looked at my shoes and waited. I didn’t want to stare at her, but through sneaking a few glances, I could tell she had a nice body under that shirt. And, although I couldn’t be certain because there was a stupid, oversized Mickey Mouse logo covering the front, I suspected she wasn’t wearing a bra.

            The last few cubes of ice rattled into her bucket and I stood away from the door to let her pass. She smiled demurely when I said “Goodnight” as she left. I watched her walk across the parking lot, stepping gingerly in bare feet. She pulled the back of her shirt down as it started riding up and I turned away.

            I thought about it as I filled my bucket; a midnight run for ice? Dressed like she was? Oh, you know she’d been doing something wrong. She’d had red hair too… I wondered if that was some kind of omen. Maybe I should have told her I was looking for a red headed woman, given us something to talk about. Then maybe we could’ve found something better to do in this depressing motel than watch cable TV.

            I chuckled to myself as I lifted the bucket from under the ice shoot. I could get arrested, the way my mind works sometimes.

            The door had one of those automatic locks so I knocked for Al to let me in. He had changed into long swimming trunks and a t-shirt, and after opening the door he went back to his bed, propped himself up on a pillow, and looked at the Tennessee map. I put the bucket in the sink and opened the cooler. There were two beers and four RCs floating in the icy water. I fished out the Stroh’s by the plastic gasket and held them up to Al.

            “Two left,” I said.

            He looked at me for a second, then nodded. I pulled them from the gasket and tossed one to Al. He caught it, but just barely, and had to slurp the foam away when he popped the top. I took the other one and collapsed on my bed.

            “So,” I asked, “how much further?”

            “It’s only a couple of hours from here. We should be there well before noon, depending on when we leave.”

            I turned on the TV and flipped through all the channels once to get a feel for things. They had basic cable and HBO, but the movie starred Julia Roberts so it wouldn’t have any sex or violence. Worthless. I settled for an old Elvis movie on the local station. It was Jailhouse Rock, the only halfway decent movie the man ever made. I watched it for awhile and had a thought.

            “Are we going to be close to Graceland?” I asked Al who had settled into watching the movie.

            “Yes.” Al answered. “Why?”

            “No reason,” I said. It probably cost money to get in, and I had better things to do with my cash than keep those useless parasites rich off the man’s memory. Elvis was all right, but you could take Priscilla and that daughter of his and send them into outer space. That’s where they spent most of their time anyway, Jesus, marrying Michael Jackson? What the hell had that been about?

            Elvis was doing the song now, dancing around the cells. You just have to smile at that. I looked over at Al, but he wasn’t smiling. He was staring blankly at the screen, holding the beer against his chest. Again, I felt bad for the guy, but what could I say? Sorry that Uncle Chris shacked up with your mom, then died?

            The Elvis movie ended and they started a Charles Bronson flick that looked pretty good, but I fell asleep before James Coburn could match Charlie up with the “best” street fighter in  New Orleans. It was an uncomfortable bed and I woke up five hours later stiff, hungry and a little groggy from the beer. Al was already awake; what’s more, he’d already gotten breakfast. He was sitting in bed, working a plastic fork into a stack of pancakes, watching the TV with the volume on low. I swung my feet over the side of the bed and rubbed the back of my head.

            “I bought you some pancakes,” Al said, handing me a large Styrofoam container. I set it on the pillow and went to the bathroom, slapping my bare feet against the dusty tile floor. I took care of business and returned to the room, grabbing an RC cola from the ice bucket as I passed. I turned up the volume on the TV, watched the morning news and ate my breakfast while Al showered. When Al finished, I got in there to wash my face and brush up. I wasn’t going to waste a shower on another day in a car with no AC.

            Not an hour had past before we crossed the border into Tennessee. I kept fiddling with the radio to find some good country music, but I couldn’t find a goddamn thing that wasn’t “New Country” or “Hot Country Hits”. What’s the point of having Nashville in your lousy state if you can’t get Johnny Cash on the radio? I switched over to AM and found some old timey Bluegrass music that sounded like it was being played on a record player with a blunt needle, being transmitted over the airwaves by tin cans and strings. I sat back and enjoyed the hell out of it.

            About an hour into Tennessee, Al took an exit off the freeway. “Won’t be long now,” he said. I reached back and took a strawberry cola and Baby Ruth from the cooler. I offered them to Al, but he shook his head. I noticed he was doing that thing with his throat again, and his eyes were tearing up. I turned the other way and looked out the window. We were headed into some pretty thick woods. The road became a narrow two lane black-top with no shoulder but plenty of pot holes. The only vehicles we passed were old and dirty pick-up trucks, the drivers of which glared at us for the intruders that we were. I finished the Baby Ruth and started on a bag of mini Famous Amos. I needed to munch something to take my mind off the fact that we were driving a Honda.

            Two candy bars and a bag of honey roasted peanuts later we came upon a wretched little town called Bloom, which, from the main street, seemed to be nothing more than a series of connected trailer parks and a post office. It didn’t take more than five minutes to get from one side of town to the other. On our way out Al slowed the car almost to a stop as he passed a run down gas station. Hanging over two old pumps was a rusty sign that simply said “GAS.” Al stared hard as he crept forward, but there were no signs of life in the lobby. He turned his head and stepped on the gas.

            That was it; the only gas station in Bloom, Tennessee, which must have been owned and operated by the Rebecca gal who we came to see. But Al didn’t turn around. He just wiped his face with his forearm and kept driving. I grabbed another candy bar and let him have his moment. He drove until the blacktop turned to gravel then came skidding to a stop in the middle of the road.

            “Hard to drive on gravel, coming right off pavement like that,” I said, “Heck, hard to drive on gravel, period.”

            Al’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The trees made a tunnel around us and I was nervous being in the middle of the road. What if one of those shit-kicker trucks came by? They’d plow right through us if we didn’t move.

            “Al?” I leaned forward to get his attention. “Hey, Al? Let’s go, huh?”

            Al put the car in reverse and backed up to the pavement. Then he turned around started driving back to Bloom.

            “I knew he had cancer,” Al said, his voice no more than a whisper. I looked in the back seat. The only snack left was a bag of red Twizzlers. I fucking hate Twizzlers.

            “He told me he was dying,” Al continued, on the verge of tears. “Last year when he came to visit, he took me fishing and told me on the boat. He said a Houston doctor looked at him, and he had lung cancer, even though he hadn’t smoked in ten years.”

            “Jesus,” I said, thinking that was a pretty rotten deal, having given up smoking and all.

            “Yeah. Well. He was going to join that class action suit, you know, get some money out of it, but he couldn’t stand the thought of being kept alive by machines and having his family moping around feeling sorry for him. So he asked me if, when the time came, if I would help him….”

            Oh, Uncle Chris, you stupid sonofabitch.

            Al lost control, his whole body collapsed with a big, wet sob which sent the car swerving across the road. I grabbed the wheel and eased the little Honda to the right hand side and put it in park while Al cried into his hands. He tried to apologize between sobs, but he couldn’t get the words out. I tried to console him, patting his back and telling him it would be all right, but I’m not much for emotional outbursts. When a truck appeared on the road ahead, I moved back into my seat so the driver wouldn’t get any funny ideas about us.

            The truck driver waved as he passed and I waved back, letting him know we weren’t in trouble, hoping he thought Al had just lost a contact or something. It took awhile for Al to pull himself together, but when he did, he looked straight ahead and confessed; “I couldn’t do it. He asked me if I would, and I said I couldn’t. Then he left.”

            “Well, you know what,” I tried to be comforting, “he had no right asking you to do anything like that in the first place.”

            “But he did!” Al turned to me and I recoiled from his fierce red eyes, “He did have a right! We never told anybody, but he paid for my college. He wanted me to become a business major so we could open a corporation together. He said with my brains and his selling abilities, we could become millionaires.”

            Al looked out the window and sighed, a sound of pure exhaustion. I hadn’t known Uncle Chris was paying for his college, but it didn’t surprise me. Sounded like another one of his crazy schemes. I suppose I could have been upset that he never offered to pay for my school, but then I wasn’t much on book learning anyway. Still, even without four years of college, I knew enough not to listen to anything Uncle Chris ever said. Poor Al, he must have skipped class that day.

            The silence in the car became unsettling and I was getting antsy. “Listen, Al,” I said, snapping him out of his funk, “You want me to drive back to the freeway?”

            “No,” Al swallowed and put the car in gear, “I’m okay. I’m okay now. I’m sorry I… I just needed to tell someone, that’s all.”

            “Hey, don’t worry about it.”

            “I feel like I let everybody down. Like if I had agreed to just… just help him. Or even if I told somebody… He would not have gone away. He would have been able to spend his last days with his family, like he wanted… He could have said goodbye to my mom.”

            “Al,” I said, shaking my head, “you can’t blame yourself. You know what? I’d bet Chris would have run away no matter what you said or did. That’s the kind of guy he was. You should feel special he even told you, shows he thought a lot about you.

            “Hell,” I continued, “if he’d have told my mom, he wouldn’t have had a chance to run. She’d have helped him right then and there.”

            That got a chuckle out of Al and he smiled for the first time in days. I reached in the back seat, grabbed the Twizzlers and a lemon lime soda, and handed them to Al. He thanked me as he peeled a strand of licorice from the block and put it in his mouth.

            “Chris was a lot of fun,” I concluded, “but he wasn’t much for responsibility.”

            “Who is?” Al mumbled, still down on himself. I couldn’t really say much as I hadn’t exactly set any records in responsible living since graduating from high school. For the first time since hearing about his death, I had an unsettling feeling about Uncle Chris. I mean, at least he went places and did things. Wrong things, lots of the time, but he didn’t just sit around the farm. I choked up a little thinking about that.

            “I know who,” Al continued, talking mostly to himself, “Rebecca. She wasn’t afraid of the responsibility. She did what had to be done.”

            Great. Al’s guilty, grief stricken, college educated mind was turning this white trash pump jockey into a merciful angel of death.

            “You don’t know that,” I said, “it might have happened just like she said in the letter, ‘died peacefully in his sleep’”

            “You don’t die peaceful from cancer,” he said and I couldn’t argue. We drove in silence back to the gas station on the edge of Bloom. Al pulled up to one of the old pumps, a bell rang twice as the car wheels rolled over a rubber cord. A young man appeared in the store window, he scowled at the car before putting on a red baseball cap and making his way around the counter to help us.

            Al took a breath and got out of the car. I did the same, stretching my arms across my chest and rolling my head. The young man never stopped scowling as he came to the car and asked, “He’p you?”

            “Is Rebecca here?”

            “I don’t know no Rebecca. You need gas or what?”

            “Yes, please. Fill her up. I’m talking about the owner. Her name is Rebecca?”

            “Owner? Mr. Scruthers own the place. No Rebecca here.”

            “Well, do you remember a Chris Rodgers who used to work here?”

            “Mister, I just started here myself but two weeks ago. I don’t know anything ‘bout what yer askin’. You want I should check the oil?”

            Al turned away and walked to the road with his hands in his pockets. I told the attendant not to bother with the oil and asked him where the bathroom was. He told me to go through the lobby, into the garage all the way to the back. There wasn’t much to the lobby, just a large barrel with coke and beer cans floating in icy water and a wire rack with Little Debbie snack cakes and chips. I passed all that up and went into the garage which was empty save for a motorcycle missing its back wheel. The smell of oil and gasoline turned my stomach and I stepped lively to the back of the garage where a sign over a narrow hallway promised restrooms.

            It wasn’t what you would call a clean restroom, but I’d been in worse. After I finished, I opened the hallway door and heard a short, terse laugh come from another room further down. The door was open so I went to have a look. It was a makeshift office with a computer sitting on a folding table and a line of file cabinets against the wall. Sitting at the computer was a red headed woman. She had a tired face with dark bags under her eyes and crows feet raking her temples. Her red hair hung loose and wild around her shoulders, contrasting against the clean white of her T-shirt. She was looking at the computer screen with a frustrated expression when I poked my head around the door.

            She sat up straight when she saw me and flashed her crystal blue eyes. She may not have been a beautiful woman, but when those blue eyes hit you, you couldn’t help but catch a breath. “Can I help you?” she asked.

            I noticed a poster on the wall. It was for an old movie, something I’d never seen before but the title was easy enough to remember. Big, bold words imposed over a burning mansion that spelled out “Rebecca.”

            “I’m, uh, looking for Mr. Scruthers?” I said, certain I sounded like the liar that I was.

            She looked me over with a skeptical eye, finally saying with a note of caution, “I’m Mrs. Scruthers….”

            “Sorry to bother you,” I retreated quickly, jogging through the garage, out the lobby, to the car where Al was waiting. He paid the attendant, and we got in the car and drove away.

            “There’s got to be another gas station in Bloom,” Al said, once again driving down the main street of that depressing hillbilly town. “Keep an eye out for it.”

            Al lost heart after turning down too many dead end streets, seeing too many hostile stares, and having the car chased by too many packs of wild Bloom town dogs. He gave up trying to find the other gas station owned by the saintly Rebecca and pointed the car back to Texas, much to my great relief.

            We stopped for the night in Mississippi again; and after we’d watched all the cable TV we could stand, Al turned it off with a mighty yawn. We lay in the dark for a while then Al asked, “If I had cancer, and I asked you to help me die so I wouldn’t suffer all the pain, would you do it?”

            “Sure,” I answered. “Goodnight, Al.”

            A minute passed in silence then Al laughed. It was a real, hearty laugh that sounded weird in the dark hotel room. “Goodnight, John,” Al said when he finished laughing.