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Table of contents
- Mr. Spencer
- Table of contents
- It Doesn't MATTER What You Said - You Did FINE! - Have The Relationship You Want %
- ~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~
Raises his eyebrows right at me. I unload the truck, wondering how often he got the shit kicked out of him at school. Three stones in, my knee singing in protest, the boy materializes behind me. Take a long drink. Pucker my lips.
Complete with a bad buzz cut. Two minutes later he shows up through the bro I crackle to my feet and move his way. Scrape, cut, brush. Just making conversation, it seems. Memories bubble up and I shove them off. Brandon looks at his watch. At , a beat-up Volvo wagon pulls up and a tiny hairless figure emerges, surveying my work from behind the car. He picks up a piece of Beauty Bark and rolls it over in his hand. Not real specific.
Mr. Spencer
Specifically pertaining to the flower beds under the windows? Whitfield walks his yard, left to right. Checks the edging. Goes down the stepping stones, hopping on a few. Then he comes back over. Whitfield nods and heads toward his front door. You might want to brush him up on Stranger Danger though. Then he goes inside. I get the mower and the edger loaded into the trailer, and remember the hoe leaning against the side of the house.
When I go to retrieve it, I hear yelling through an open window, then three loud slaps and a few muted thuds like Rocky punching a side a beef. Piece-apie, my old man would have said. Little Man opens the door before I get a chance to knock. Peers at me under the chain. What it does is gets under the asphalt shingles and hangs on for dear life.
Roof is slick as snot. He disappears.
His dad was an abusive SOB, of that much I was certain; but this time no knives destroyed, no major rules broken, so far as I knew. Beatdowns happen in life, and sometimes they build character.
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At , Brandon clatters up the ladder again. I slip and slide to the edge of the roof and look down at the boy hanging from a rung between ladder and house, the picture window behind him turned to shards.
Table of contents
Just then Mr. Whitfield pulls up. He does a double take as he approaches the house. Path A, path B. I gear up and try to look sheepish. Foot slipped and shot through the rungs right into the window.
It Doesn't MATTER What You Said - You Did FINE! - Have The Relationship You Want %
I can have someone out here first thing Monday morning to replace it. Stares at me, then the ladder, then the window. Finally, nods his head. Tap, tap, tap. I cross my arms. Take your ladder and your tools and clear off my property. Whitfield follows, taking his time. Path C, path D. I load the ladder and my tools and get set to drive off, but then an inspiration hits. Thirty seconds later beauty bark coats Mr. Then I hear a high-pitched shriek from inside, and a car alarm somewhere in the neighborhood.
Brandon, you okay? A well-cared-for ficus tree takes up one corner, next to a worn Barcalounger. This time he went too far and you put up a fight. People will understand. And sometimes he cries. Maybe just around the bend. Somewhere close. Brandon stares at me and I stare back and we come to an understanding. Brandon James Whitfield looks at the line of cars stopped in front of us, the red and blue lights in the distance.
Then he turns. His face is purple, a mass of freshly bruised tissue, one eye nearly swollen shut.
~ This Month’s Top Three Posts ~
His lower lip is fat like Santa. I clench the wheel. Concrete barriers divide the two-lane, shoulderless highway.
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No turning back. This is commitment in the worst possible sense. We pull forward. He hears the squawk squawk squawk of the Amber Alert and turns up the radio. And how the hell should I know? Do I look like someone who spent time in Juvie? I can see the car at the front of the line now, a gray Ford pick-up with a white canopy. Two troopers in Smokey hats look in the cab and then move to the bed. They wave the driver on, gesture to the Chevy Cruze eight cars in front of us.
A master of shrugs. My son died when he was a little baby. Right into my. Six cars away. You got your whole life ahead, so put your foot down. The expression on my exwife when he bit her nipple. I allow his face to float right there, right in front of me. The Smokeys lean down for a closer look and something lets loose inside. Everything is bathed in a faint glow of pinprick light, a ceiling turned art installation, dangling, intertwining. Everything screams of fragility in the soft hum, all of the graininess of the world erased.
Davidson She heard someone say, you can see the mountain as a mother. A voice as smooth as river rock that burns like a fine Tennessee whisky too far from home. She turns her violin into a fiddle, flattens the bridge and closes her eyes, drags the bow across the strings — November bees hiccupping bric-a-brac notions, a sea of green and things that fall to their knees, something delicate that seeps into the skin, shutter clicks and bird songs and water cascading down window panes — an abrasive twang ripping the air in two. Look at those mountains bursting at the seams.
Finally, my father set his coffee down and looked me in the eyes. My father watched her pour it, then asked if he could tell her something. My father sat in the booth, shaking his head. Outside it was quiet. For a moment he looked at the parking lot and removed a pack of toothpicks.