He spat on the rock pathway that led to a front porch. A blue-tailed lizard moved over his shoe and dipped down through the grass, hidden in a patch of clovers.<\/p>\n
His dad had told him that those kinds of lizards could drop their tails if their lives were in danger. When he was in the fifth grade, he overheard some of the boys at school talking about how they caught one of them and took pocketknives out to test that theory. They bragged about it at lunch, and he couldn\u2019t finish his chicken nuggets and chocolate milk. All he could do was stare out the cafeteria window and watch vultures circle down an obscure drain in the sky.<\/p>\n
His parents called him Little Rambo because he liked watching Stallone manhandle the bad guys on an old VHS tape. He rewound the tape over and over until he copied Rambo\u2019s posture the right way and shot his own little arrow through the air into mimosa trees lining their property. He ran through the woods and jumped over fallen pine, charging after imaginary enemies, calling out and telling them that he was coming for them.<\/p>\n
It had been a long time since then. Thirty-odd years. He looked at the house before him and could see something waving back through the broken wooden lattice beneath the front porch. A Doberman growled in the shadows, loping back and forth as if walking an invisible line of sanctuary.<\/p>\n
He crept over the rock path and planted a foot on the first wooden step. The dog barked, and dust sneezed from the base of the wood grating. He stopped.<\/p>\n
A dauber shot from one of three dirt tunnels shouldered against one another in the corner of the porch. A cricket jumped from warped decking, next to a rocking chair, and missed its landing, bouncing and falling into a wide crevice of separated board, disappearing somewhere in the semidarkness with the dog.<\/p>\n
The screen door opened, and a woman stepped out. The door closed behind, banging against the jamb and hissing. Cicadas returned calls from maple trees.<\/p>\n
She held the last three beers noosed and dangling from a six-pack plastic ring. She tore a can loose and rested it on her forearm and opened the tab with one of her paint-chipped nails. \u201cMr. Gable don\u2019t like visitors,\u201d she said. \u201cI been watching you figuring on whether or not to come all the way up here.\u201d\u00a0 She threw her head back and put the open can to her lips, her eyes studying the wilted ceiling fan rimmed with mold as she chugged.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was under the impression that Mr. Gable wanted a visitor to take care of something,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n
She quickly lowered the can. \u201cDo what?\u201d Foam braceleted her wrist, running down her forearm and dribbling off her elbow.<\/p>\n
\u201cI was just on the phone a little while ago with a man claiming he needed help. This not the Gable residence?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cOnly Gable I know\u2019s the one named Clark with the little pencil mustache across his upper lip.\u201d She raised the can and drank again.<\/p>\n
He watched her throat pump up and down. A strand of three moles stood out near the hollow of her neck. Some lampooned mockery of Orion\u2019s belt. \u201cDon\u2019t know what you\u2019re talking about. This not the right residence?\u201d He raised his left wrist and studied the time on his watch.<\/p>\n
The drink was now empty, and she slurped up what little beer was left around the mouth of the can. \u201cYou ain\u2019t never laid eyes on such a gentleman as Clark Gable?\u201d she asked, hand-crushing it in the center and tossing it aside. She meant for it to land in a five-gallon paint bucket of other used-up cans, but it bounced off the rim and out.<\/p>\n
\u201cCan\u2019t say I have.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cNever heard of the man?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cHe a cousin of yours? Or someone I ought to be on the lookout for?\u201d He turned and looked over his shoulder, half-tensed, half-dramatic.<\/p>\n
A few yards away, a bird was perched on a feeder. Seemed like more food was falling from its beak than what it was actually consuming, and he could hear seeds dropping below and tapping on the metal rim of a deflated tire where the feeder\u2019s pole was anchored.<\/p>\n
\u201cBoy,\u201d she said, \u201cyou don\u2019t know a thing do you?\u201d<\/p>\n
He turned back around. \u201cA thing about what?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cGentlemen.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIs your last name not Gable? If not, I need to be on my way.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cCome to think of it, you look like you\u2019re a Patrick Swayze fan. Not the one from Point Break<\/em>. No, not that one. That one hangs too loose for you. Too rugged. I bet you like Ghost<\/em>. Bet you watch that one over and over, just a-hoping and a-praying those demons don\u2019t come for you. Bet you like being perfectly lit, all hollow-cheeked, acting concerned about the well-being of others without ever really givin a shit.\u201d The last word seemed to have caught her unaware, and she shuddered and looked at the crushed can on her right.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat makes you think you\u2019ve got me figured out?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou ain\u2019t no ghosthunter, are you? I\u2019m no Whoopi Goldberg. So, don\u2019t be using me to speak to the dead on your behalf. Lord knows they might come up from the grave and take me on down there with them.\u201d She removed a second can from its plastic ring and popped it open and drank.<\/p>\n \u201cWhoopi who?\u201d<\/p>\n After several gulps, she appeared off balance, and she stumbled backward, reaching out to catch herself on the screen door. Instead, her hand mashed the doorbell. \u201cYou ought to answer the door,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n \u201cAppears that you live in your own fantasy world. I work too much to sit in front of the television and watch people play make-believe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAnd it appears you don\u2019t get out much. You and your pasty self.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI get out plenty.\u201d<\/p>\n She ran a tongue over her front row of teeth. \u201cYou look rail thin and frail to me. I bet your bones is yellow, you\u2019re so sick. Bet you\u2019re the last carrier of leprosy. Why, they oughta put you in the Shiele Museum and study you.\u201d Then she sucked her teeth and let out a loud pop.<\/p>\n \u201cNow, ma\u2019am. My patience is wearing awfully thin. Where\u2019s Mr. Gable?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShould I be scared?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOf what?\u201d<\/p>\n “Your patience.\u201d She drank some more. \u201cOr lack thereof.\u2019<\/p>\n \u201cWhere the hell\u2019s Mr. Gable?\u201d<\/p>\n She swallowed and caught her breath. \u201cMr. Gable\u2019s under the porch.\u201d<\/p>\n He could barely make out the sound of padded paws roaming the dirt. \u201cThat dog there?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThere a cow under there I don\u2019t know about?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s a wonder your husband\u2019s not strangled you to death yet,\u201d he muttered beneath his breath.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNothing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSpeak up. You here to sell me some of Gideon\u2019s Bibles?\u00a0 What you got in that truck over yonder?\u00a0 Dictionaries?\u00a0I don\u2019t have no more room for that kind of stuff. My daughter don\u2019t visit no more because she thinks I\u2019m a hoarder.\u201d\u00a0 She drank again. \u201cBut I\u2019m not.\u201d She belched.<\/p>\n \u201cGot a call,\u201d he said. \u201cMan said he lived here. With you, I guess. Told me to be here in thirty. I\u2019m early. But not anymore, thanks to you and your foul mouth.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat you think\u2019s foul about my mouth?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWant to show me on back behind your house over there?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019s your name?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cRonnie.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDon\u2019t know no Ronnie.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI come here to see about your deck in the back.\u201d\u00a0 He realized that he was still standing staggered at the bottom of the porch steps, and he stepped back.<\/p>\n \u201cSays who?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSaid his name was Clayton. Clayton Gable.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s my husband.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid he not make you aware of the smell?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cClayton\u2019s upstairs asleep. Never goes nowhere. About as swollen as a tick. And as ugly and thick-headed as Herman Munster himself. I don\u2019t ever let that poor sonofabitch out. He\u2019s liable to tell the whole town about me. I\u2019d give old Christian Grey a run for his money, the pain I put that man through.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoesn\u2019t sound like a bad thing for the whole town, or the whole state to know about your tomfoolery,\u201d he said. \u201cMaybe somebody ought to come out here and get you evaluated.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFor what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWorms. And everything else.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBoy, you don\u2019t know a thing about me.\u2019<\/p>\n \u201cThen stop talking like you know a thing about me. Can I speak to him for a minute since he was the one who called me?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI done gave him his whiskey for the day,\u201d she said. \u201cFigured he\u2019d be out of it by now. What\u2019d he say to you over the phone?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat there was a dead possum up underneath that deck back there and that he was an invalid and couldn\u2019t get out of the house to clean it out.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHe\u2019s not bedridden. He can still get up and go.\u201d<\/p>\n Above her, a second story window opened, and an old man popped his head out. He regripped the windowsill for balance. Oxygen tubes snaked out from his nostrils. \u201cHep me,\u201d he spoke in a feeble voice.<\/p>\n She looked up without making eye contact and cried out, \u201cShut that window! You\u2019re letting out all the cold air. And you don\u2019t pay the bills around here!\u201d The window slid down in its frame, a squeaked shutting. Then she turned to Ronnie. \u201cHow does he know it\u2019s a possum?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSaid he smelled it.\u201d\u00a0 Ronnie reached across his stomach with his right hand and scratched a rib.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat do those things smell like?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSmell dead. You ain\u2019t ever been around roadkill?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t get out of my car to smell em. You one of them boys who bury roadkill cause there ain\u2019t nothing better to do?\u00a0 You one of them sickos?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou know one of them buried my dead cat,\u201d she said and put up both her hands, fingers clawed. \u201cUsed to rear up at me in the middle of the night.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho buried it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cOne of them crazy Pruitt brothers. The ones who got busted a while back for stealing offering from the church basement. He stuck my stray cat in the ground. Picked it right up off the road and buried it in that old pet cemetery behind the elementary school.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy\u2019d he do that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy you think?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. That\u2019s why I asked,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cCause one of those brothers got baptized down at the Catawba River. Said the preacher took his hand off him and just let him float on downstream. Preacher knew he couldn\u2019t swim. That\u2019s why he did it. Just let him go. Kirk was his name. Kirk Pruitt. Preacher Gittens waited for him to scream out for God. Well, he screamed all right. Then Gittens swam over to him and grabbed him up. Hauled him out and onto that bank. Slapped his face a few times to make sure he coughed up that water. I was there. I seen it. Damn near drowned him, but it worked. Got him saved.\u201d<\/p>\n Ronnie shook his head. \u201cOr scared, one.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSo, Kirk picks up roadkill,\u201d she said. \u201cBecause he was one of them assholes that hurt animals back in his younger days. Turned his life around. Started picking up animals that got hit by cars. To pay them back for what he done in the past to their ancestors. He\u2019s still out there somewhere. Scraping dead things off asphalt,\u201d she said and drank the last of the beer and crushed the can. \u201cYou look tense.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m not.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou need to get rid of some of that anxiety.\u201d\u00a0\u00a0\u00a0 She tore off another can from the plastic rings and tossed it underhanded. He caught it against his stomach. She wrenched her own can loose and flung the empty plastic rings into a bucket of rainwater. A mosquito leapt from the metal lip and coasted away.<\/p>\n Ronnie said, \u201cI don\u2019t usually drink on the job.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDrink on the job. Usually\u2019s today.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou\u2019re awful demanding.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, if I were havin to grab hold of something dead, I\u2019d want to be drunker than a pirate.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s my job. I\u2019m used to it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat stray cat of mine ran around spraying the whole neighborhood. Then it ran off and got run over by a tractor. You ever seen something you love get killed?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHad a bunch of pets growin up. Sure did. Hated losin them. My dad liked to paint them.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPaint them?\u00a0 Like some kind of circus side show?\u00a0 Who the hell you think you are messin with roadkill and paintin animals. You couldn\u2019t have kids?\u00a0 That what it was?\u00a0 So, you paint dogs and cats and birds and God-knows-what-else just so you can imagine it\u2019s a little human?\u201d There was an air of pride about her now and she spoke with a pneumatic chuckle.<\/p>\n \u201cHe was a painter.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll say,\u201d she said sarcastically.<\/p>\n \u201cNot like that.\u201d\u00a0 Ronnie gripped the can and traced a thumbnail over its font. \u201cPainted them on a big piece of canvas. Called himself an artist. Liked to have got himself arthritis doing it. Sold a bunch of those paintings all over Mosquito Branch and towns like it. Made a good chunk of change. There\u2019s still some out there in some galleries here and there.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cArt don\u2019t pay the bills, bud. But I guess you know that,\u201d she said, looking him up and down. \u201cCause you got a real job.\u201d She popped her new can open and drank from it while she stomped dead a praying mantis on the porch. Then she spit some of the beer on its folded body. \u201cDamn things always walking around like they got somethin better in mind than me.\u201d\u00a0 Then she looked back at Ronnie as if she noticed him for the first time and said, \u201cI don\u2019t know what\u2019s holdin you up. You should\u2019ve already gotten that possum out of there and been gone down the road by now. Go on around out back. I ain\u2019t smelled a thing.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll be quick so you can get back to drinkin.\u201d<\/p>\n She nodded and said, \u201cGo on.\u201d<\/p>\n He backed away and crossed to the corner of the house, hopping over the corrugated iron fence. A silvery orbit of no-see-ums haloed his head. A drool of sweat dripped down his forehead and sloughed off the tip of his nose. He skirted the side of the house, stepping over thickets of poison ivy.<\/p>\n Once in the back yard, he bent hunchbacked below a bough of weeping wisteria, a bumblebee hovering in a buzzing lunacy over the white clovers at his feet. In his worn leather shoes, he saw his father\u2019s own wide feet staring back at him, tempting the seams to give way. He tossed the can in the yard and pushed back old memories of his father\u2019s anger.<\/p>\n When he came to the deck, he removed a great piece of plywood leaning against the bottom rail and let it fall evenly to the earth. He removed leather gloves from his back pocket and put them on and dropped to the damp soil on his hands and knees.<\/p>\n He crawled into the darkness beneath the deck and saw something big scuttle up a post in the far corner. There, beneath the middle of the crossbeams, a man squatted in turquoise swim trunks and turned from a half-eaten apple pie in an aluminum pan that he cradled in both hands. He stopped chewing and said, \u201cI live here. What the hell you trespassin for?\u201d He sounded like he smoked cigarettes backwards.<\/p>\n Ronnie said, \u201cI\u2019m not here to ask if you\u2019re supposed to be on this land. I\u2019m here to see about a smell.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLook under there,\u201d the man said, and he nodded at a framed piece of canvas lying face down. \u201cWhere I put the scraps. That\u2019n there\u2019s my trashcan lid.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cScraps from what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFrom in there.\u201d\u00a0 He dropped the aluminum pan and wiped soggy crust from his chin with the back of his forearm.<\/p>\n \u201cThey know you\u2019re livin here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho\u2019s they?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYour parents.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNope.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cClayton\u2014your father, I suppose\u2014said he smelled somethin under here. I\u2019m gonna have to tell them that they have somebody living under here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou go on and do what you gotta do. I\u2019ll just find someone else\u2019s deck.\u201d<\/p>\n Ronnie tugged on the base of his glove and smoothed the material over a gnat tangled in his wrist hair. Then he peeled the glove from his skin and flicked away the bug\u2019s remnants. \u201cYou know they got some shelters in town.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCan\u2019t go in there. Already tried that.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThey kick you out?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe guy who ran the place knew me. Or knew of me. My last name. He grew up with my dad. Said that my dad used to push him down in the dirt in the playground. When they got older in school, he messed up his car with a nine iron, and then he took his girlfriend. So, he got rid of me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut that ain\u2019t your fault,\u201d Ronnie said.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s what I told him.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou ought to try other places.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe world\u2019s done run out of space for somebody like me. And I can\u2019t live with people. I\u2019d rather live by myself.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThis ain\u2019t livin.\u201d\u00a0 Ronnie braced himself one-kneed in the dirt.<\/p>\n \u201cYou ever play sports?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d Ronnie said. \u201cUsed to wrestle at my high school back in the day.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhen was the last time you had an adrenaline rush like that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBeen a while, man.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou remember how close to death you felt when the other guy had you in a hold that you couldn\u2019t get out of?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cSure,\u201d Ronnie said. \u201cRegionals. Senior year. Eric Lemmons. Had me in a banana split. Nearly ripped me in two.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThe hell\u2019s a banana split?\u201d<\/p>\n Ronnie smashed the heels of his hands together in a V, opening his palms and spreading his fingers. \u201cWhere the other guy throws in a leg on you and grabs the other\u2019n and then leans back and splits your legs apart. You either fight it and kick out of it, or you let your shoulder blades go flat, and let him pin you so you don\u2019t tear your groin.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat shit\u2019s legal?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIf you do it right.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, I used to be the water boy on the field.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDidn\u2019t play any sports yourself?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d the son said.<\/p>\n \u201cYou had me believing otherwise.\u201d\u00a0 Ronnie watched a sprinkling of dust in a beam of sunlight that cut through one of the gaps in the back deck above them. He hunched down and crawled in on his hands and knees toward the framed picture.<\/p>\n \u201cI was a water boy.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCool deal. I\u2019m just gonna see what\u2019s under here.\u201d Ronnie inched forward.<\/p>\n \u201cI got all adrenaline-rushed just running that bottle out to them. In between plays. At half-time. I had it perfect comin out of that spout. Right between their facemask grills. Felt like I was part of somethin. Like I was the one who helped them win those games. Had four water bottles on my little water bottle belt. Two on each hip. Put ice in those suckers. Made it way colder.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou got a point to all this?\u201d Ronnie asked.<\/p>\n \u201cAw, just get on out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI said get. You ain\u2019t gonna understand because you was a jock. Only picture I ever got with the team was the one they took at the end of the year. When the yearbooks came out, I could hardly find myself. I was on the back row and coach had flared out his big elbows and covered half of me up. I think it was on purpose. You wouldn\u2019t know it was me unless you was squintin.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s been a while back, bud. Way on back in the past.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWell, it\u2019s still fresh up here.\u201d He tapped a finger against his temple. \u201cIt\u2019s how I ended up here. Never got noticed for nothin. Only one that ever noticed me was my momma. Me and her used to go out for ice cream. I loved that stuff. She used to get me the kind that looked like a rainbow. They called it Superman. Felt like I was gonna fly every time I bit into it and gave myself a brain freeze.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe not around anymore?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s in that house.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDo what?\u201d Ronnie said.<\/p>\n \u201cShe don\u2019t know I\u2019m livin here. Thinks I\u2019m still at some kind of corporate job in the city. But I lost it.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDoing what?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDrinkin. You going to drink that thing over yonder?\u201d\u00a0 The son pointed to the sweating can that lay in the sunlight.<\/p>\n \u201cBoth you and your momma don\u2019t like to be direct. I still gotta see what\u2019s under that thing right there.\u201d\u00a0 Ronnie pointed at the rotting framework. \u201cYou sure it\u2019s just scraps?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cFrom their fridge. They like eatin a lot of rotisserie chicken. I throw the bones underneath that paintin.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPainting?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYeah. Got it in a dumpster on here a while back.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat kind of painting?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know. Was a picture of a little boy and a tractor.\u201d<\/p>\n Ronnie thought of the two versions of his dad:\u00a0 the red-faced man and the artist. \u201cWas the boy flying a kite in the background on it?\u201d<\/p>\n The stranger duck-walked over to it, jamming a thumb under the elastic band of his swim trunks and ran it around the inside, readjusting it and pulling it up higher. Then he scratched his back and inched closer to the frame and picked it up, sucking on his teeth. Beneath the painting was a small pit dug into the ground. Chicken bones and banana peels masked empty egg cartons peppered in coffee grounds.<\/p>\n Ronnie covered his nose and mouth in the front of his shirt collar. \u201cThat smells awful.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cHow\u2019d you know?\u201d\u00a0 The son turned the picture around so that Ronnie could see it.<\/p>\n \u201cBecause it belongs to me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot so fast there. How much is it worth to ya?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNot worth jack. It\u2019s a painting my dad drew when I was a kid. Don\u2019t know how it came to be in a dumpster.\u201d<\/p>\n The son propped the frame up, using his arm as an easel. \u201cThing stinks.\u201d Then he looked back at Ronnie. \u201cYou sure you don\u2019t want to throw a dollar on it?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not even worth a nickel.\u201d Ronnie stretched forth his finger. \u201cOnly painting Dad ever drew of me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cQuit yankin my chain.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cDid it after he knocked my tooth out. Had a change of heart.\u201d\u00a0 Ronnie opened his mouth and pointed at a missing bottom tooth. \u201cHand it over.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m going around front and telling your momma about you living like this. A damn shame.\u201d<\/p>\n Ronnie turned around and walked to the grass where the beer lay. He picked up the can and slung it underneath the deck. He heard a scrambling in the darkness.<\/p>\n When he reached the front porch, she was rocking in an unpadded recliner. She cradled a paper plate with fried okra and red beans, fanning away the steam with her hand.<\/p>\n \u201cYou got a man up under there,\u201d Ronnie said.<\/p>\n \u201cCome again?\u201d\u00a0 She looked up from her hot meal.<\/p>\n \u201cThere is a man living under your deck. It\u2019s your son. From what I\u2019ve deduced.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cQuit yankin my chain.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s what he said. He\u2019s been eating your food.\u201d<\/p>\n She turned her head to the side and placed her plate on an upside-down terracotta pot, soil skirting its cracked lid, and bounded off the front steps, yelling, \u201cJustin!\u201d<\/p>\n The son walked along the side of the house and crawled over the fence, the painting in one hand. He crushed the empty beer can and threw it into a rusted wheelbarrow filled with growing herbs. \u201cYou weren\u2019t supposed to know I was here,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cSupposed to know? What are you doing here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cKnew you wouldn\u2019t let me through that front door if I came back.\u201d His stared at his bare feet.<\/p>\n \u201cWhat\u2019d you do?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cLost the job in the city.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhy didn\u2019t you call?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cCut the shit. You been callin me names ever since I was yay high.\u201d\u00a0 Justin waved an open palm above the ground. \u201cYou think I wanted it this way?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI don\u2019t know what you\u2019re talkin about.\u201d\u00a0 She turned to Ronnie. \u201cI don\u2019t know what he\u2019s talkin about.\u201d<\/p>\n Ronnie reached out his hand. \u201cGive me the painting.\u201d<\/p>\n Justin side armed it like a frisbee. The frame cartwheeled across the lawn, landing face down on top of an abandoned ant hill. Ronnie hurried over and grabbed hold of it. There, in the light, he could see a piece of the back\u2019s matting taped closed. He dug a fingernail underneath and peeled it back. Inside, he saw a small leather pouch with a string looped through, forming a necklace, and removed it.<\/p>\n \u201cGet over here,\u201d she said. \u201cI thought you was dead.\u201d\u00a0 She walked over to the side of the house, turned the water spigot to the left, and chased down the hose, pulling it from the ground like a snake handler, wrenching forth the kinked thing and shucking it between her legs as she walked spraddle-legged through the yard. She found the copper nozzle drooling water and yanked some more, sending the lime green line in a traveling hump that whiplashed against Justin\u2019s groin. A passerby might have mistaken the pair for vaudeville actors from a lost piece of the theatrical who knew not the word.<\/p>\n Justin bent over, grabbing himself between the legs and pulling at his swim trunks. \u201cQuit it, now!\u201d he cried out. He danced around like a demented leprechaun.<\/p>\n \u201cCome over here,\u201d she said. \u201cWhen was the last time you bathed?\u201d<\/p>\n She stuck a thumb over the nozzle and the water shot out with more force. She nearly tripped over her own feet, but she made her way across the yard and showered her son\u2019s back, waving it back and forth with little flicks of her wrist. She gave him a shove, and he fell back on his butt, squirming in the downfall of well water. He yelled out for her to stop. Called to her for mercy. Told her how sorry he was for drinking too much. And in his yelling, she dumped the water in his mouth. He gargled and waved his hands in the air as if some olden spirit had grabbed hold of him. None of his words made sense. Only he knew what tongue he spoke beneath the rush of water.<\/p>\n Ronnie removed the pouch from the back of the frame and walked over to his truck. He threw the painting on a heap of knotted sisal rope in the bed. He walked around the truck, opened the driver\u2019s side, and sat behind the wheel. He unfastened the pouch and stared at a little tooth in the bottom. He plucked it out and moved it around between his fingers. He didn\u2019t mean to, didn\u2019t feel like he had squeezed it hard enough to warrant it, but the tooth fissuered almost exactly in half. Had it been that long ago? He could hear the sound of his own voice breaking through the fragments. He\u2019d lost the tooth back when he was only a child and his dad had almost knocked him out.<\/p>\n Ronnie had stolen some cash from his dad\u2019s wallet. When his dad found out, he took him into the back yard and told him to put up his dukes. \u201cYou think you can just take the easy way out,\u201d his father had said, \u201cand just steal my money that I worked so hard for and expect me to just sit back and not do a thing?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI needed it to take this girl on date,\u201d Ronnie had said. \u201cI can pay you back.\u201d<\/p>\n But it hadn\u2019t been the first time his dad had hit him. And it hadn\u2019t been the first time his dad drank too much. Ronnie\u2019s tooth flew out his mouth with the first fist to his jaw, and he groveled on the ground and grabbed at his mouth as if to stopper the blood.<\/p>\n \u201cThat\u2019s not who I am,\u201d Ronnie remembered his dad telling him weeks later, holding the tooth eye-level. \u201cI\u2019m holding onto it. So that I won\u2019t do it again.\u201d He put the tooth in a small faux-leather pouch and wore it around his neck. When his drinking buddies invited him to the bars, he told them he would not go because of what he had done before, clutching the pouch for security like a stuffed animal. He stopped drinking and never touched another drop.<\/p>\n Over the years, Ronnie would see his dad painting pictures of hawks, frogs, and horses, the leather pouch swinging above his navel with each brushstroke. He remembered watching his father paint that last portrait that Justin had been guarding under the deck. His father had removed the pouch from around his neck and placed it behind the canvas and then tape it shut.<\/p>\n Ronnie looked through the front passenger window, back at Justin and his mom. A rainbow flickered and disappeared in the hose\u2019s mist. Justin drank.<\/p>\n Ronnie cranked the truck and backed out of the driveway, the weakened suspension rebounding as it crossed over gravel and hit pavement.<\/p>\n He drove a good distance down the road and felt like he had once been that lizard with the blue tail. He had lost a bit of himself all those years ago under his dad\u2019s temper and rage. Some part of him felt like he was still tied to that tooth in his hand.<\/p>\n He put both hands on the steering wheel when the road curved, and he slowed down for a man who stood on the shoulder of the road, sliding a snow shovel beneath the ribs of a dead fox.<\/p>\n Ronnie watched him in the rearview mirror as he went on, wondering if people should pay for their mistakes forever. He thought that he should turn around. But then he thought:\u00a0 It\u2019s their choice. Not mine.<\/p>\n He bit down on the inside of his cheek when he remembered how painful it had been all those years ago. He rolled a fist over his left jaw, massaging it. Then he rolled down his window and chunked the little tooth out onto the side of the road with the litter and the dead things.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" His parents called him Little Rambo because he liked watching Stallone manhandle the bad guys on an old VHS tape. He rewound the tape over and over until he copied Rambo\u2019s posture the right way and shot his own little arrow through the air into mimosa trees lining their property. He ran through the woods and jumped over fallen pine, charging after imaginary enemies, calling out and telling them that he was coming for them.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":18922,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[6],"tags":[2983,2432,972,851,2098,1582,263,2982,2981],"class_list":["post-18213","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","tag-comical","tag-dark","tag-family","tag-father","tag-funny","tag-grit-lit","tag-humor","tag-past","tag-southern-gothic","writer-brodie-lowe"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18213","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/2"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=18213"}],"version-history":[{"count":4,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18213\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":18925,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/18213\/revisions\/18925"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/18922"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=18213"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=18213"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mrbullbull.com\/newbull\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=18213"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}