I counted to three in my head, fist clenched so tight around the bottle in my hand I was surprised it hadn’t cracked. “I’m well aware of what it was. You left me and Brent here in it.”
Her eyes welled. “What else was I supposed to do? I had no education, no job, no money of my own—”
“Brent would’ve helped you.”
She dashed a tear away. “He couldn’t do anything to help me—he was just a boy.”
“Yeah. He was. But he stepped up and became both parents to me that night, just like you knew he would.”
“Whatever you think of me now, I tried. For years, I tried. I earned my due, putting up with that man for sixteen years—”
“Brent put up with his shit for longer. So did I. My brother’s due—your son’s due—was a hole in the ground after years of looking after a child he got saddled with raising while he was raising himself.”
She burst into tears and ran for the bathroom, and my head fell into my hands. I felt like an asshole. An asshole who’d kept that shit bottled up far too long. I’d never looked at my home or Wynn’s Garage as compensation for two-plus decades of taking shit from my father. Neither would have ever measured up. I saw these things as part of the life I’d built for myself. And now she was taking that, whether she admitted it or not.
Five minutes later, she returned to the kitchen. “As I said, you are welcome to stay.” She was holding some kind of hair apparatus that belonged to Pearl. It had been in the bathroom. “But your roommate”—she air-quoted—“has to go. Are you even charging her rent money?”
I learned a long time ago that feeling powerless made for rash decisions. The only way to reduce the risk of doing something asinine in such a situation was to take your power back before that moment when you reacted without weighing up your choices. Instead of answering her, I asked, “Am I expected to keep running the garage I thought was mine?”
Her chin jerked up at the change of subject. “Your father should have told you we were still married. That wasn’t my fault.”
I ran a hand over my jaw like I was mulling things over. “Maybe you’re right. But my ignorance is about to be your problem, because unless you know how to pull a transmission or change a spark plug, that garage’s income comes to a halt tomorrow, seeing as this is not only a community property state but an at-will employment state.” Thank you, Mr. Amos, for passing on that info. “And I’m about five seconds from I quit.”
It took her a moment to absorb what I’d just said. She exhaled heavily, her chin falling a notch. “What do you want?”
• • • • • • • • • •
Me: She’s here. She wants her room back, so I moved your stuff to my room and I’m taking the sofa. I’m sorry. I feel like shit about this.
Pearl: DON’T feel bad on my account. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I got used to it. I’ll be fine. Are you okay?? How is it? It must be weird.
Me: Weird, yeah. I don’t know her. She looks familiar but she left before I turned 8 for fuck’s sake. Brent was only 15. He was the age I am now when he died.
Pearl: Oh Boyce. ?
Me: I told her you were my roommate and she’s fine with it. Also you’re sleeping in my bed and I’m taking the sofa. PERIOD.
Pearl: Okay.
Me: Okay then.
• • • • • • • • • •
I hadn’t seen Maxfield since spring break, when he came home with a girlfriend for the first time. I gave him shit about settling down to one girl, but he was so seriously fucking happy it made me realize just how unhappy he’d been before her. I’d hardly ever seen the dude smile in all the years I’d known him. From the beginning, I’d figured him as one of those unstable emo types. His mood was either grim and quiet or violent and homicidal—nothing in between.
We had never spoken about what had fucked him up so bad, but he’d come here in middle school carrying some heavy shit. I’d made it worse for a while, but I liked to think I’d atoned for the dick I’d been at first—in my own way, of course. Not like I gave him candy and flowers.
He’d introduced me to his girl, Jacqueline, as his best friend from high school.
“Ah, so you’re the one responsible for all those tattoos and this?” she’d asked, reaching up to tap a finger on the ring through his lip. That thing still made me shudder to look at it. I’d had to leave the room when he got it done because once Arianna pulled out that wicked curved needle, I knew I was either going to pass out or puke.
“Yeah, that’d all be my fault. Sorry.” I’d only suggested the tattoos on his wrists. The rest of that shit was all him, but I wasn’t gonna rat him out.
Then she threw her arms around me and said, “Thank you,” while he stood there with a smartass grin on his face.
I had no fucking idea what to make of any of it, so I hugged her back until he said, “All right, that’s enough appreciation,” and pulled her back to his side. I laughed because I’d never seen him get territorial over anything but that old truck of his. It was about damned time he got to feeling that way over a girl who felt the same way about him.
Even to Maxfield, I’d never confided anything about what was between Pearl and me, but he had come close to guessing when I asked him about her last fall. They went to the same college, and I hadn’t seen or heard from her since I’d told her I thought her boyfriend was a prick. I’d always told her the truth when she asked for it, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hurt her or push her away.
When Maxfield asked about our relationship, saying, “One of these days, you’re gonna have to tell me,” I’d changed the subject.
Now they’d both graduated and he was home for a spell, visiting his dad before heading to Ohio to work. Ohio. Right there was proof of why five-year plans are bullshit. If anyone had told me five years ago that Maxfield would move to Ohio and Pearl would move back home, I’d have said they were high.
We met at the Saloon. “Shit, man—no facial ornaments and I can see your ears,” I said. “Have I ever seen your damned ears? I’m not sure. You look almost respectable.”
“Says the guy who owns his own business.” He knew better than to express sympathy for my loss. He’d known my dad better than any of my friends except the Thompson kids, who’d lived across the street and got eyefuls of his drunk-ass shit on a regular basis.
Her eyes welled. “What else was I supposed to do? I had no education, no job, no money of my own—”
“Brent would’ve helped you.”
She dashed a tear away. “He couldn’t do anything to help me—he was just a boy.”
“Yeah. He was. But he stepped up and became both parents to me that night, just like you knew he would.”
“Whatever you think of me now, I tried. For years, I tried. I earned my due, putting up with that man for sixteen years—”
“Brent put up with his shit for longer. So did I. My brother’s due—your son’s due—was a hole in the ground after years of looking after a child he got saddled with raising while he was raising himself.”
She burst into tears and ran for the bathroom, and my head fell into my hands. I felt like an asshole. An asshole who’d kept that shit bottled up far too long. I’d never looked at my home or Wynn’s Garage as compensation for two-plus decades of taking shit from my father. Neither would have ever measured up. I saw these things as part of the life I’d built for myself. And now she was taking that, whether she admitted it or not.
Five minutes later, she returned to the kitchen. “As I said, you are welcome to stay.” She was holding some kind of hair apparatus that belonged to Pearl. It had been in the bathroom. “But your roommate”—she air-quoted—“has to go. Are you even charging her rent money?”
I learned a long time ago that feeling powerless made for rash decisions. The only way to reduce the risk of doing something asinine in such a situation was to take your power back before that moment when you reacted without weighing up your choices. Instead of answering her, I asked, “Am I expected to keep running the garage I thought was mine?”
Her chin jerked up at the change of subject. “Your father should have told you we were still married. That wasn’t my fault.”
I ran a hand over my jaw like I was mulling things over. “Maybe you’re right. But my ignorance is about to be your problem, because unless you know how to pull a transmission or change a spark plug, that garage’s income comes to a halt tomorrow, seeing as this is not only a community property state but an at-will employment state.” Thank you, Mr. Amos, for passing on that info. “And I’m about five seconds from I quit.”
It took her a moment to absorb what I’d just said. She exhaled heavily, her chin falling a notch. “What do you want?”
• • • • • • • • • •
Me: She’s here. She wants her room back, so I moved your stuff to my room and I’m taking the sofa. I’m sorry. I feel like shit about this.
Pearl: DON’T feel bad on my account. I’ll sleep on the sofa. I got used to it. I’ll be fine. Are you okay?? How is it? It must be weird.
Me: Weird, yeah. I don’t know her. She looks familiar but she left before I turned 8 for fuck’s sake. Brent was only 15. He was the age I am now when he died.
Pearl: Oh Boyce. ?
Me: I told her you were my roommate and she’s fine with it. Also you’re sleeping in my bed and I’m taking the sofa. PERIOD.
Pearl: Okay.
Me: Okay then.
• • • • • • • • • •
I hadn’t seen Maxfield since spring break, when he came home with a girlfriend for the first time. I gave him shit about settling down to one girl, but he was so seriously fucking happy it made me realize just how unhappy he’d been before her. I’d hardly ever seen the dude smile in all the years I’d known him. From the beginning, I’d figured him as one of those unstable emo types. His mood was either grim and quiet or violent and homicidal—nothing in between.
We had never spoken about what had fucked him up so bad, but he’d come here in middle school carrying some heavy shit. I’d made it worse for a while, but I liked to think I’d atoned for the dick I’d been at first—in my own way, of course. Not like I gave him candy and flowers.
He’d introduced me to his girl, Jacqueline, as his best friend from high school.
“Ah, so you’re the one responsible for all those tattoos and this?” she’d asked, reaching up to tap a finger on the ring through his lip. That thing still made me shudder to look at it. I’d had to leave the room when he got it done because once Arianna pulled out that wicked curved needle, I knew I was either going to pass out or puke.
“Yeah, that’d all be my fault. Sorry.” I’d only suggested the tattoos on his wrists. The rest of that shit was all him, but I wasn’t gonna rat him out.
Then she threw her arms around me and said, “Thank you,” while he stood there with a smartass grin on his face.
I had no fucking idea what to make of any of it, so I hugged her back until he said, “All right, that’s enough appreciation,” and pulled her back to his side. I laughed because I’d never seen him get territorial over anything but that old truck of his. It was about damned time he got to feeling that way over a girl who felt the same way about him.
Even to Maxfield, I’d never confided anything about what was between Pearl and me, but he had come close to guessing when I asked him about her last fall. They went to the same college, and I hadn’t seen or heard from her since I’d told her I thought her boyfriend was a prick. I’d always told her the truth when she asked for it, but that didn’t mean I wanted to hurt her or push her away.
When Maxfield asked about our relationship, saying, “One of these days, you’re gonna have to tell me,” I’d changed the subject.
Now they’d both graduated and he was home for a spell, visiting his dad before heading to Ohio to work. Ohio. Right there was proof of why five-year plans are bullshit. If anyone had told me five years ago that Maxfield would move to Ohio and Pearl would move back home, I’d have said they were high.
We met at the Saloon. “Shit, man—no facial ornaments and I can see your ears,” I said. “Have I ever seen your damned ears? I’m not sure. You look almost respectable.”
“Says the guy who owns his own business.” He knew better than to express sympathy for my loss. He’d known my dad better than any of my friends except the Thompson kids, who’d lived across the street and got eyefuls of his drunk-ass shit on a regular basis.
