Home Sweet Home

Home Sweet Home was first published in China Grove, Issue #4 in the Spring of 2016. 

It's included in the short story collection An Unsated Thirst available for PURCHASE.

My wrist clenches tighter and the screw driver twists, pushing the screw deeper into the wood I hold against the door frame.  Force and torque, tools and energy, that is all it takes to attach the rough cut pine board to the back door of my house.  The edge of the board is broken.  Two straight lines created by a hacksaw that never meet in the middle, connected by a jagged break.  A hacksaw is not made for sawing boards, but it’s what I have, so I make it work.  The jagged middle is a sign of my impatient nature.  The sawing of the board with the hacksaw is slow compared to the quick downward thrust of a leg.  I smile as the screw spins deeper.  A homeowner’s work is never done.  

My house is a nice house.  It has a nice bedroom.  The bedroom is the largest that I’ve ever had.  The wasted space is a luxury.  My bed is awash in a sea of hardwood.  My bedroom has a large closet which does not have doors.  Inside are my clothes, hanging in rows and sitting in my dresser.  My clothes are not alone inside the dresser.  Inside the top drawer is also six Durex condoms, Trojans always seem to break, and a sock stuffed with a huge roll consisting of one-hundred-and-twenty-nine one dollar bills.  My wallet always inexplicably fills with one dollar bills to the point where it can barely close.  The sock seemed like a good solution.  Plus it feels pretty badass to have a huge roll of money, even if it’s only small denominations.  

The board is attached and I move back to admire my handy work in the dim light of the garage.   The board sits squarely on top of its twin across the top of the door’s window, blocking the inrush of cold night air from outside.  Each of the two boards is held on by four screws.  Each screwed in by hand.  My electric drill no longer works, its battery is aged long past its expected lifespan.  The boards block the night air, but they also block the entry of the outside light, which illuminates the patio.  Not perfect, but it will work for now.  Only a temporary scar on my house.  

My house has a nice second bedroom, but I use it for an office.  The office is slightly smaller than my bedroom, but still comfortably sized.  It also has a large closet, though this one is just full of random junk.  Things that need a space, but have no specific place to go.  A small futon loveseat sits in one corner.  Two bookcases cover one wall.  The left one overrun with classics, renowned authors, and books of thought and depth.  The right one is filled with Star Wars books, a monument to a youthful obsession.  A desk sits in one corner.  On top of it is my new PC computer, an impulse buy, an amazing step forward in our world of technology.  Inside the top drawer is my laptop.  In the lower drawer are my taxes, credit card statements, passport, and social security card.  All of the documentation that proves that I actually exist.  

I open the door and the cold darkness rushes into the garage.  I shiver involuntarily.  A pane of glass sits outside on the patio, delicately placed, a large piece broken off one corner.  It should be replaced, but it is all I have tonight.  Clear packaging tape provides the answer to the question of how to fix the problem.  It has the combined attributes of both working and being available.  Plenty is still lying around from the move several months ago.  It’s a simple fix.  Put the two pieces of glass together and tape.  Is it enough?  Probably, but I put another two pieces of tape across the whole pane in an X anyways.  It doesn’t hurt, and it will at least hold everything together if the glass breaks again.  

My house has a nice living room.  Four floor to ceiling windows wrap a corner, letting in the light each morning.  Before moving into my house I use to never own much furniture, but the little bit that I had seemed so alone that I felt the need to purchase it more companions.  Two chairs, a couch, and a coffee table.  It almost looks like the home of some kind of responsible adult.  Two lamps light the room, one tall one in the corner, and one small green one sitting on an end table next to the easy chair that I rarely sit in.  The easy chair was once my uncle’s, but he has made a journey and now it is mine.  A fireplace sits in the center of one wall, its mantle covered by knick-knacks from my travels.  A television and gaming console sit on a stand in one corner.  Two closets open onto the living room.  One holds games, camping supplies, and other random things.  The second holds coats, a vacuum cleaner, and a twenty-two caliber rifle.  

I hold the glass up to its place on the door frame with one hand, pushing it up and under the top and left side edging.  My other hand picks up and holds the lower edging in place, trapping the window, making it part of the door.  The lower and right side edging have been ripped aside.  Large pieces of paint from the door hang from their sides.  The small nails that once held the lower edging in place slide back into the holes from which they had been wrenched.  The paint lines up perfectly with the areas of door once bare.  It’s no longer enough to hold it in place.  My hammer and three penny nails quickly solve the problem.  I reach down and pick up the right side window edging.  My belly grumbles.  I’m hungry, it is late, already past midnight, and I have not yet had a chance to eat.  

My house has a nice dining room.  It is small, with only a round table surrounded by four chairs.  I am quite proud of the table.  You can unlatch a few clasps and pull it apart, turning the circle into a large oval.  The extension piece is part of the table, it simply folds out into place, attached by hinges which hide it underneath when not in use.  In one corner on a stand sit two ends of the auditory technology timeline.  An old record player, another impulse buy, with only two records sitting below it.  An old portable unit like the ones I remember from grade school gym class.  On top of it sits my iPod, fifteen thousand songs on a device smaller than a deck of cards.  

I stop working.  I have to pee.  I walk back into the house to the bathroom.  My house has a nice bathroom.  Nice tile floors, nice bathtub, nice toilet.  I think about my craftsmanship on the back door, listening to the sounds of bladder relief, a miniature waterfall in my kingdom.  My eyes fall on the medicine cabinet, its door open.  Two old orange bottles stare back at me.  Oxycontin and codeine, relics from past surgeries to straighten my sinuses and rebuild a recessive gum line.  I never used their contents, but yet they travel with me from home to home.  It’s strange what we keep.  I finish my business, flush the toilet, and walk back through my nice house, past open closet doors and through my kitchen.  My nice kitchen with all its amenities of modern life.  A row of liquor bottles sit on a shelf.  Whiskey, wine, vodka, brandy, the ambrosia of a good time.  The drawers and cupboard doors all hang open, not enough to let in light, but too much to be considered closed.  

I pick up a piece of cardboard and hold it against the door window, measuring it with my eyes.  A pair of scissors make short work of it, cutting it down to size.  I slide the piece of cardboard between the glass and the boards.  An unnecessary gesture, the tape and glass hold back the cold air as well as the window alone ever did, but I do it anyway.  I close the door and shiver again.  The furnace barks to life, warming the house, but the garage remains cold.  The garage is still a mess.  It’s the only part of the house that I have not yet organized.  Washer, dryer, furnace, hot water heater, modern conveniences in my modern home.  A small chest freezer sits along one wall, the wrapped remains of my annual half of beef cocooned within its icy grasp.  My bicycle leans on a wall nearby.  My tools sit in their box on the floor, good quality tools.  A shelf along one side holds camping gear and beer making equipment.  It’s top shelf is missing, its wood scavenged for other uses.  

I look at the blocked window in my newly repaired door and imagine seeing out to my nice patio and backyard.  It’s dark, but in my mind I can see the high fence and shrubs.  The abundant plant life which shields my little oasis from the outside world.  It’s nice on my patio and in my backyard.  It’s secluded.  It’s quiet.  When I’m there I can almost forget that I’m in the middle of the city or that any other houses are nearby.  It is one of the nicest things about my home, but apparently also a curse.  

I close the back door and lock it, then do the same with the door between the kitchen and garage.  I walk through my silent house, closing cupboards, drawers, and closet doors.  Everything is just where it belongs.  Many items have taken short little journeys of inches, but nothing is out of place or missing.  I take off my clothes, crawl into bed and breathe a quiet sigh.  Whoever they were they had taken their time, they had made sure to go through everything, made sure to look into every nook and cranny.  Can you call them a thief if nothing is missing, only disturbed?  I feel like I should have more fear or anger, but my mind is numb, only a sense of unease.  Would I feel better if they had actually taken something, not just gone through everything?  My house is a nice house, but it no longer feels like a home.  As I drift off to sleep the words of the police officer echoes through my head.  

“That’s weird.”

Lugnut

Lugnut was first published in the MacGuffin in the Winter of 2016 issue. 

He should have listened to his mother.  The big red dog sits on its haunches, looking at the boy, who sits on the floor next to him, directly into the eye.  It is a steady, unblinking gaze.  Two circular black islands in two matching golden seas.  The boy’s hand moves slowly and rhythmically through the dogs long red coat from the top of the dog’s head to the middle of the it’s back.  The boy’s fingers disappear into the fur with each stroke.  The knuckles brushing against the stiff hairs of the outer coat, while the fingertips feel the softness of the inner coat.

The dog’s body is ramrod straight, every muscle resting between tautness and relaxation.  A military officer standing at ease, but ready to spring to attention at any moment.  The big red tail sits on the ground behind the dog, limp and unmoving.  No happy wag, no joyous shake, no sign of appreciation for the boy’s constant efforts.  Up and down, up and down, up and down.  The same motion repeatedly, the same scene again and again.  

“Stay away from Lugnut, he isn’t good with kids.”

The warning still echoed in the boy’s ears.  A firm reminder given every time they made the hour long car trip to visit his grandmother.  It had become part of the constant litany of dos and don’ts which dictated the laws of his childhood.  

“Lugnut isn’t like the dogs at home.  Lugnut doesn’t spend a lot of time around kids.  Don’t try to play with Lugnut.”

The boy had doubted his mother’s words.  His seven year old brain had done the calculation and decided that she didn't know what she was talking about.  Lugnut wasn’t a bad dog, he was just misunderstood, that’s all.  Given a chance, Lugnut could be treated just like any other dog.  Uncle Bill had owned Lugnut for years.  Why wouldn’t he be used to having kids around?

Yes, Uncle Bill was a bachelor whose house was conspicuously absent of children.  Yes, Lugnut was a cow dog who spent most of his life walking behind horses up narrow trails and chasing cattle through forest covered hills.  Yes, Lugnut undoubtedly lacked some of the finer social graces and patience that were required when dealing with the sixty pound miniature people that sometimes appeared in his life.  But these things just suggested the need for a little tact, not outright ostracization.  

The boy had been around dogs his entire life.  Some of his earliest memories involved dogs.  When the boy thought of himself, he thought of a boy who knew dogs.  He knew their behaviors and their signals.  He knew the signs that showed what a dog was feeling.  Whether it was happy, bored, afraid, or angry.  He knew to go slow so that the dog did not get startled.  He knew to be careful around a strange dog.  But Lugnut was not a strange dog.  Lugnut was Uncle Bill’s dog.  He was pretty much a member of the family.

This trip was going to be different.  As the car had carried him and his brother’s towards their grandmother’s house, and his mother gave the familiar warning, the boy had decided that he was going to prove his mother wrong in her assertions over the personality qualities of Lugnut.  This was going to be the trip where his mother, with all her rules and regulations, would have to admit that she was wrong about something.  That she would have to recognize that she didn’t know everything and that the boy was not a little kid anymore.  

The boy’s chance had come shortly after lunch.  The adults all sat in the living room, relaxing after the meal and discussing various adult topics and pleasantries.  A background drone of catching up on the latest happenings and doings of various other adults and their progeny.  His brothers sat on the floor, playing with plastic horses and metal matchbox cars, lost in worlds of adventure within the theaters of their own heads.      

The boy put down the metal miniature corvette he was playing with, stood up, and walked down the hall as though he was going to the bathroom.  No one in the room looked up to watch him go.  The adults were all engrossed in a story about some neighbor.  The boy’s brothers were reaching the climaxes of their individual internal monologues.  The boy walked down the hall, but he did not go to the bathroom.  When he was sure no one was looking, the boy turned the corner and went into the kitchen instead.

The big red dog lay in the corner on an old rug next to the door to the outside, waiting for the alpha to get done and head back out to work.  His body rose and fell as though he was sleeping.  Rhythmically in a steady cadence in time with the quiet sound of in rushing and out rushing air from the big dog’s nose.  With the boy’s first step into the kitchen the golden eyes pulled open and the red head raised up from between the big front paws.  The dog stared at the boy and the boy stared back.  The dog’s eyes appraised the miniature person who had entered the room and found nothing of interest.  The big head lay back between the large paws.  The eyes did not droop back close.  They stayed open, watching.    

The boy walked further into the kitchen.  The only sounds his feet upon the floor, the steady movement of air through the dog’s stuffed up nose, and the hum of the refrigerator.  

“Hey Lugnut, how are you doing today?”

The dog gave no sign that he had heard the question.  The boy took a few more steps, and then stopped.  He lowered himself to the floor into a cross legged position in the center of the room.  The linoleum felt cool beneath him.  The golden eyes of the dog followed his every movement with an air of boredom and disinterest.  The boy stared back and studied the contours of the eighty pound pile of fur before him.  The boy slowed his breathing until it moved in synchronization with that of the dog’s.  The two remained still, appraising the situation.  

One minute, two minutes, three minutes.  Time passed with no action by either party.  The boy sat and watched the dog.  Letting the dog get use to his presence.  Letting the dog understand that the boy was not a threat in anyway.  The dog laid in the corner and watched the boy.  The boy got a sense that the dog was not really all that interested in him.  That he only watched him because he was the newest item in the room and therefore slightly more interesting than the other things already in the dog’s field of vision.  The boy cleared his throat to make it feel less dry.    

“Hey Lugnut.”

The dog raised his head again.

“Come here.”

The dog stared at the boy for a moment.  Then opened his mouth in a yawn, revealing his numerous sharp yellow teeth and red tongue, and then laid his head back down.  

“Lugnut.”

The dog gave no response and turned his gaze to stare at a chair that had suddenly become more interesting.  The boy breathed in and out in a huff of frustration.  He did not want to walk over to the dog.  He wanted the dog to come over to him.  If he walked over to the dog it would mean he had failed.  It would mean that the dog called the shots.  Also, if he invaded the dog’s personal space, he did not know what the dog would do.  

The boy’s eyes followed the dog’s gaze to the chair with its spare wooden frame and blue cushion.  He let his eyes drift across the kitchen, taking it all in.  Inside, the feeling that he should just get up and go back to the living room to play matchbox cars was slowly growing.  The boy’s eyes roved across various items.  Refrigerator, dishwasher, cupboard doors, toaster oven, sink, bowl of dog treats on the counter.  The thoughts of admitting defeat were banished by the creation of a new plan.  The boy got up and walked over to the counter.  He could feel the dog’s eyes following his movements.  He picked a single treat, green and bone shaped, from the bowl and went back to sit cross legged in the middle of the room once again.  

The dog’s head was up and he watched with rapt attention.  His red tongue licked his black lips in anticipation.  His nose worked, testing the air.  The boy held the treat in front of him.  Holding one end with the tips of his fingers.    

“Hey Lugnut.”

The red tail beat the floor.

“Come here.”

The large paws pushed against the floor, the thick legs raised the great body upwards.  The dog stood and stared at the treat.  Unsure for a second what to do.  The indecision was short lived.  The dog moved forward, his nails clicking on the linoleum.  The dog walked to the boy and gingerly took the treat from the boy’s fingers, careful in all his movements.  The boy reached out slowly, and put his hand on the dogs side.  He tentatively began moving his hand back and forth, rubbing the red fur coat.  Each back and forth movement got longer.  The boy’s fingers moved from the top of the dog’s head to the middle of his broad back.  The dog sat on his haunches, and raised his nose up towards the sky, his eyes closed, obviously enjoying the attention.  

“You're a pretty good dog, aren’t ya Lugnut.  You just got a bad rap, that’s all.”  

The boy petted the dog for a full minute and then let his hand drop.  His point had been proven.  He had been victorious in his goal.  The boy began to stand.  The growl came deep from within the dog’s throat.  His mouth did not open and he did not show any teeth.  It was more a vibration than a sound.  More something felt than heard.  The dog sat face to face with the boy, his muzzle just inches away from the boy’s nose.  The boy stared into the gold colored eyes and stood a little more.  The dog growled once again in disapproval.  The boy sat fully back down, raised a hand, and started to again pet the threatening red bulk before him.  

Another minute passed.  The boy again lowered his hand.  Again the growl from the back of the throat.  The boy recommenced his petting.  The dog gazed at the boy steadily, reminding the boy of his vulnerability.  The dog’s tail did not wag.  His jaw did not hang slack.  He sat perfectly straight and stared at the boy who was now under his control.  A petting machine under his command.  

The boy was scared.  He did not know what to do.  He could not bring himself to meet the big dog’s eye.  The boy’s hand moved rhythmically, following the unspoken orders of his new canine master.  All of the warnings his mother had given him ran through his head.  The constant lectures and reminders breeding uncertainty over what to do.  The boy couldn’t just quit petting.  God only knows what the dog would do if he did.  Maybe the dog would just let the boy go, or maybe he would tear his face off.  It was a gamble, and he lacked the experience to judge the relative likelihood of each scenario.  The boy felt all alone and isolated.  He could not get the image of the dog’s large yellow teeth out of his head.  He could not ignore the relative disparity in their mass and weight.

The boy couldn’t call for help.  The boy couldn’t face his mother’s admonishments for doing what he had specifically been told not to do.  He could see her lecturing him in front of everybody.  He could feel the shame as she made him feel like a little kid in front of everyone whom he wanted to have think the opposite.  He could see the disapproving look of his grandparents and uncle.  He could see his brothers mocking looks as they relished in him getting in trouble.  The boy was stuck.  He was trapped.  He had no escape.  

Minute passed by after minute.  Twice more the boy built up the courage to challenge the alpha in its dominance.  Twice the quiet growls drove him back to his task of endlessly rubbing the big red dog’s back.  There was no way out.  Nothing he could do.  The boy could think of only two solutions, and in his mind the negatives of both were of equal weight, leaving him in limbo.  Tears of frustration filled his eyes.  He knew the longer that he sat there, endlessly petting the damned dog, the more likely it would be for someone to come into the kitchen and find him.  A combination of hope and dread filled him at the thought of such an event.     

The boy’s arm was becoming tired.  The repetitive motion became harder to do, but he dared not slow down.  He would have to make a run for it.  In a single motion he would have to stop petting and lunge for the doorway, a seemingly far off beacon of escape.  He would have to be quick.  He would not be able to hesitate.  The boy began to brace himself for the lunge.  The dog felt the boy’s arm stiffen, and sensed his changing stance.  The dog leaned in closer to the boy, as though warning him that any attempt to break away would be futile.  The boy felt the dogs muscle become more taunt, matching the boy's in readiness for action.  The boy’s heart beat rapidly in his chest.  He uncrossed his legs and put one foot firmly on the floor, ready to push off.  The dog raised its back end off of the ground slightly, its body began to shake with anticipation.  In his head the boy counted.  In one, two, thr......

“Lugnut, come here boy.”

The sound of Uncle Bill’s voice filled the house and the dog stood up and trotted out of the kitchen, his tail wagging and tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth.  The boy sat and watched him go, breathing deeply and willing his heart to slow its rapid motion.  The boy’s mother walked into the kitchen and looked down at him as though from a great height.

“What are you doing sitting in the middle of the floor?”

“Nothing, just playing.”

“Well, come back in the living room and say goodbye.  Uncle Bill is leaving.”

“Okay.”  

Decent People

Decent People was first published in the Molotov Cocktail in the Flash Monster II Mega-Issue in October of 2015. 

It was a lonely stretch of the Yellowhead Highway, fifty kilometers either way to any kind of civilization.  The sun sat fat on the western horizon, mostly obscured by evergreen sentinels. The walls of the river canyon fell to the north side of the highway, blanketed by pines and firs broken by the occasional face of jagged rock.  The black mass of the Skeena River slid past the south side of the highway. A moving barrier dividing it from the rise of the canyon on the opposite bank.

The car sat facing west.  Its hood up and its blinkers on.  The man leaned against the side of the car, one hand holding a cigarette and the other keeping to the pocket of his faded coat.  The man reclined, smoked, and waited, listening to the sounds of the wind through the trees and the constant gurgle of the river, watching the lengthening stretch of his shadow.  He shivered with every burst of wind. It was getting cold. A pile of cigarette butts lay scattered about his feet. The paint of the car was faded and the edges of the fenders were flecked with rust.  It was an old car. The man would probably not be having his trouble if it had been a new car, but it was the car he had. No point musing about how things could be different.

A set of headlights crested the hill to the east.  A new model pickup truck. Blue. Diesel engine. The gentle roar moved closer, slicing through the twilight air.  The man’s eyes watched the pickup approach from beneath heavy brows. The hand in his pocket tightened. The hand with the cigarette rose into the air.  Stop. C’mon stop you mother fucker. The pickup seemed to slow. There you go. Help a poor bastard out.

The pickup didn’t stop.  It moved halfway across the yellow line and swept past.  The man turned his head and covered his eyes to protect them from the buffeting wall of wind.  He shivered. The red tail lights moved on down the highway. Brake. Hit the brakes you asshole.  Come back. The brake lights stayed dark. The man didn’t think they would. The hand in his pocket loosened.  He spit on the ground and muttered a few choice curses under his breath. Eight cars in five hours. Not one had stopped.  There just weren’t any decent people anymore.

Down the highway a deer poked her head out of the undergrowth.  An old dry doe. She took a couple of steps to the edge of the pavement, looked both ways, took another few steps, looked again, and then walked to the other side.  The man watched her as she moved. The deer looked rough. Her coat was ragged. Too many ticks and fleas. Her ribs poked through. Poor old bitch. Probably missing half her teeth.  Lose those and she was good as dead. Animals don’t die from old age. They starve, get eaten, or shit themselves to death. Hell of a way to go. The deer moved out of sight down towards the river.  If she was lucky a truck would hit her on the way back.

The man took the last hit from his cigarette and tossed it to the gravel at his feet.  He crushed the ember with his worn out shoe. His finger probed at a hole in his jeans and then moved up.  His hand rubbed his jaw, rough with stubble. He needed a shave, and his moustache needed a trim. Not important now.  No reason to give much thought to problems you can’t solve. The wind picked up a bit. Wisps of hair broke loose from their fellows and floated on the breeze.

Twenty years ago there had still been plenty of decent people around.  If you saw a broken down car on the side of the road you stopped and offered to help.  You’re lucky I came along, not much traffic on this highway. Let me look at that engine for you.  Any idea what it is? Do you need a lift into town? Hop on in. No problem at all. Hope somebody would do the same for me.  It wasn’t that way anymore. Nowadays decent people were far and few between. Maybe he’d head south. He had heard there were still decent people down south.  People who didn’t judge you by the way you looked or the car you drove.

The man spit again.  It was getting late. The sun was below the horizon.  The stars were starting to twinkle. It was going to be a beautiful night.  Clear as hell out in the middle of nowhere. Probably be able to see the Milky Way.  Damn cold though. Too damn cold to be sitting out hoping to get lucky.

The man lifted himself from the car and walked around to the back.  He pulled keys out of his pants pocket and opened the trunk. Jug of water, pile of rags, jumper cables, jack, length of rope, duffel bag full of clothes, shovel.  He took the short piece of heavy pipe from his coat pocket, placed it on the rags, and shut the trunk. The man walked to the front of the car and closed the hood. He opened the car door and climbed into the driver’s seat.  He reached behind him and pulled a pistol from the waistband of his pants, nestled against his back. The pistol went into the jockey box.

The man fumbled with his keys and started the car.  It coughed and roared to life. The belts squealed. They’d need to be changed soon.  The blinkers went off. The headlights went on. The car turned and headed east down the highway.  Fifty kilometers to Terrace. He could stay at the Rainbow Inn there. It was cheap. Not nice, but cheap.  Tomorrow was another day. The man took a pack of cigarettes off the dash and lit another smoke. It was just so hard to find decent people anymore.         

The Care Package

The Care Package was first published in Reading Hour, Volume 5, Issue 5 in October of 2015.

It's included in the short story collection An Unsated Thirst available for PURCHASE. 

Larry Hunt opened his door and walked into the brisk morning air.  The trees on his block were vibrant.  Reds, yellows, and oranges.  Far outnumbering the few patches of green that remained.  Fallen leaves lay scattered across the yards and sidewalks.  The day was chilly, not yet cold, but definitely a noticeable difference from the high heat of the summer months.  Larry shivered and zipped up his fleece.  The hair on the back of his arms clung to the sleeves as his arms moved beneath them.  The air was dry, full of electricity and static.  

Larry shivered again and clutched the envelope more tightly against his body.  The letter-sized envelope was yellow and heavy duty, a forever stamp graced by Madame Curie stuck to its upper right corner.  A clumsily written address, scrawled as if by the wrong hand, stretched across the center.  No return address.  The envelope could not come back.  

Larry stepped off his stoop and began his eight block walk to the mailbox.  The weight of the envelope was both a comfort and a curse.  There was no way he could lose track of such a hefty envelope.  It was a solid weight in his hand.  He held the envelope so tight that its edge pushed into his palm.  It felt far heavier than the thirty notes inside.

The morning sun peeked through the branches overhead, its blinding light intermittently shaded by the trees that grew along the street.  Oaks, elms, maples.  They all provided the same comfort.  The same sense of not being trapped in a world of concrete and cruelty.  Sidewalks that would have once been flat when built now rose up like rolling hills in a meadow.  The concrete pushed heavenward by the slow and tireless heaving of the roots beneath.  It was a quiet morning.  Few people around.  No one to watch his sojourn.  No one to see him shake, pulsed by tiny vibrations of anxiety.  

“Of course it has to be cash, you damn fool.  Do you think these are the kind of people who want you to send a cashier’s check or your credit card information?  They want you to know nothing about them and for them to know nothing about you.  That’s how these things work.”  

Teddy’s tone had been akin to lecturing a small child on the realities of the universe.  Teddy, a long time drinking buddy who enjoyed Miller Lite in tall boy cans.  Teddy, a Dale Earnhardt look alike who would be unnoticeable if he didn’t look so out of place everywhere he went.  Teddy, the man who knew how to take care of things when things needed to get done.  

Larry shifted his focus back to the world around him.  He couldn’t let himself do that.  He couldn’t let himself think too much about what he was doing.  It was crazy.  It was absurd.  If he thought too much about it he would probably lose his nerve.  He would probably turn around and walk back to his house, and that would solve nothing.  It was better to distract himself.  Better to catalog and analyze the world around him, rather than the memories and thoughts inside his head.  

Old Mr. Cavanaugh worked in his front lawn, raking up the few leaves that had already fallen.  The old man had worked in a factory back when people still worked in factories.  He had put in his time and finally retired on the insistence of his wife.  Old man Cavanaugh had once said he considered it the biggest mistake of his life.  He had been working his entire life.  It had not made sense to quit just because his time on this world was growing late.  The old man stopped his early morning raking just long enough to wave hello to Larry and exchange pleasantries.  Larry returned them, but did not stop walking.  He did not want Cavanaugh to see the cold beads of sweat that covered his brow.  

Life had been simpler in the Navy.  They told you to get up, you got up.  They told you to eat, you ate.  They told you to shit, you shit.  Every part of a person’s life had been directed, out of their control.  Every minute was timed and planned.  One did not have to think in the Navy.  As long as one got their work done in a timely and satisfactory manner, one was free to do whatever one wanted.  As long as whatever one wanted was exactly what their superiors wanted them to do.  There had been something comforting about having absolutely no control.  Something nice about being a single cog in a much larger organism.  Larry missed the Navy.  Larry wished he had stayed in like some of his friends had.  But that time had come and gone.  The greatest comforts had seemed like the worst prisons at the time.  Larry shook his head as he walked.  There was no use in dwelling on things three years in the past.  

Cross a street.  Turn and look both ways.  Childhood drills that never really go away.  There were no cars.  No one in their right mind would be moving so early on a Sunday morning.  The neighborhood would soon come alive.  People walking in their Sunday best, the smell of frying bacon, the laughter and pounding feet of children as they rushed down stairways.  Soon the neighborhood would be like an old Folger’s commercial.  But not yet.  At that moment all was quiet.  Just the soft breeze moving tree branches like the skeletal hands of death rubbing together in anticipation.  The tinkling of wind chimes played a sad melody in the cool crisp air.  

“This has to be taken care of.  This is not something that can be ignored.”  Teddy had been most insistent, and he was right.  This was something that could not be ignored.  “I’ll take care of this.  I know some people, people back east, people who know about garbage.”  

There was no doubt that Teddy did.  Teddy knew about these things.  Teddy knew people.  Teddy was quiet about his work.  He rarely talked about it unless coaxed with friendly words and offers to buy a couple more rounds.  Larry had heard him talk about work only a few times during the long years of their friendship.  Teddy worked for himself, but himself worked for the government.  

“Like a contractor, you know, someone who knows how to get in touch with the right people to get your house built.”

Another street.  Larry started across.  Before his first step hit the ground he heard the frantic ringing of a bell and an adolescent bellow of warning.  Adrenaline rush.  Larry raised his head and dodged as a bike whizzed past down the street.  Its rider, a pinched faced twelve year old, his local team baseball cap worn backwards and a large bag of Sunday papers hanging from his shoulder.  The boy turned to curse at Larry as he sped past, but once he got a clear look the boy’s eyes widened and he turned back, his mouth still closed, and rode off down the street.  Larry did not recognize him.  He was not the neighborhood’s paperboy.  Probably just passing through on his way to his own delivery area.  Larry settled his breathing, let his beating heart slow, and continued walking towards his goal.  How had he let himself get so distracted?  He needed to keep himself focused.  He needed to keep his mind clear.    

“Be sure to take care of Amy.  Always watch out for Amy.”  

That is what Larry imagined his mother would have told him, if she could have before she slipped away forever.  It had been his mother’s mantra when he was a child, beaten into him by its repetitiveness.  His mother had been gone for two years, but it still drummed inside his head.

“Protect.  You must protect your sweet innocent sister.”  

It was like an order from a C.O.  It was not something that he could question.  It was a fact of life.  It didn’t matter that Amy wasn’t really sweet or innocent.  He had been born the older brother and that’s what older brothers did.

Amy had always been a stubborn child.  No one could ever tell her what to do or how to live.  It took all of their mother’s strength just to force her through college so she could have a real job, a real life, not be like their mother.  Amy looked nothing like their mother.  Their mother had been dark haired, short, homely, quiet, and subdued.  Amy was blonde, tall, loud, and undoubtedly a looker.  There was one thing she had in common with their mother.  She was undeniably attracted to douchebags and assholes.  The lineup of boyfriends Larry remembered from their time in high school were all the same.  Kids who thought they were big shit because they had nice cars and nice clothes.  The kind of guys who wrapped their arms around a woman like they were giving her a headlock.  The kind of guys who thought they were the center of the world.

It was too bad.  Amy had been a sweet girl.  Obnoxious at times, but caring.  She had always just wanted someone to care back.  Larry cared, and their mother had cared, but it wasn’t what she was looking for.  Larry could understand.  There was a difference when the person wasn’t obligated.  That had always been their mother’s problem.  It had to have been hard for her, and lonely, raising two kids on her own.  She had done the best she could, but had always craved what she had been denied.  Their mother had been desperate to be in love.  Amy never had a good role model.       

When Larry came back from the Navy to live with and take care of their mother, he had discovered that Amy hadn’t really changed.  Yes, she had grown into a beautiful and confident woman.  Yes, she had a good job at a marketing firm.  Yes, she had a nice car.  Yes, she had a fancy apartment in a posh neighborhood.  But the douchebags still remained.  A reminder that perhaps it was all a just a veneer surface.  Proof of the cracks that still existed in her psyche.  

A car drove slowly up the street from behind him.  For the briefest of moments Larry had an uncomfortable feeling that the driver was watching him, following him.  He refused to turn his head to look behind him.  He was just being paranoid.  Nobody could know.  Nobody had any idea.  Well, nobody but Teddy, but Teddy could be trusted.  The car drove by up the street, neither speeding up or slowing down.  A dusty blue four door Hyundai Excel, a fat middle-aged black woman at the wheel in a Sunday dress and hat.  Larry chuckled to himself and his own paranoia, but he quickened his pace as he crossed another street.  

Soon his chore would be done.  He just needed to hold himself together and control his thoughts for a little bit more.  Larry tried not to dwell on the delivery of his envelope.  He tried not to think too hard about what it contained.  One step after another.  Each bringing him one step closer.  Study the cracks on the sidewalk, watch the clouds blow across a slowly brightening sky, think about the breakfast that he would make when he got back home.  Eggs, sausage, pancakes, and a big glass of orange juice.  It all flitted through Larry’s mind in the blink of an eye.  Look at the world.  Think about whatever you want.  Just don’t think about what you’re doing.   

“Everything will be taken care of, don’t worry about it, there’s nothing to worry about.”  

Teddy had told him that so many times that he had actually started believing it.  He had never liked Nick.  There was something about him that just made you instantly dislike him.Something in your subconscious, something from the ancestral days on the savannah, that just told you to beware of that kind of person.  Amy had been dating Nick for a year.  From the very first time Nick had shook his hand, squeezing harder than Larry just to show he could, Larry had known that Nick was nothing but trouble.  

Nick was an ex-Marine, not big, but imposing.  He was a good looking guy.  His haircut remained in the classic jarhead shave.  He tended to wear sports jackets over tight jeans and a tight shirt.  There was something in the way he moved, something that went beyond being sure of yourself to being cocky about yourself.  He was tall and handsome.  When he talked to you he had the uncomfortable trait of staring you right in the eye, never averting his gaze.  He made Larry uncomfortable as hell.  He made Amy swoon.

Larry had tried to like Nick.  He had tried for Amy’s sake.  He just couldn’t get himself to do it.  There was just something off about the guy.  Larry had followed his gut.  He had done some checking with some old friends that were still in the military.  The prognosis had not been good.  Nick had gone into the Marines because he had been a troublemaker.  He’d hung out with the wrong crowd, been involved in drug using and dealing.  Nick had continued to get in trouble several more times while he was in the service.  Larry had tried to tell Amy.  She had just laughed, pulling her hair away from her face in that way she always did.  Nick had told her all about it.  Nick was a changed man.  Larry had gotten in plenty of trouble when he was younger, but it didn’t mean he was a bad guy.          

Larry tried to like Nick again.  He told himself that Amy was right, people did change.  Larry was not the same person he once was.  Nick had gone into the Marines for many of the same reasons Larry had gone into the Navy.  Larry tried having more one on one time with Nick.  Tried to get to know him better.  He had even taken him out for drinks one time with Teddy.  Teddy had hung around for only half an hour before excusing himself to go home.  The next time Larry saw Teddy the statement had been short and to the point.  

“You need to get rid of that guy.”

A blue bird flew in front of Larry, startling him out of the depths of his mind.  It rushed by in a flash of blue and landed on a low branch not far ahead, bursting out a harsh chirp to greet the morning, chastising him for walking around at such an early hour.  Larry stared at the bird as he walked by, studied its plumage, examined every facet and detail as though he was trying to commit everything to memory.  The bluebird studied him back, but did not find him near as interesting, so flew off.  The bluebird was safe.  The bluebird was good.  The bluebird was not something Larry was afraid to think about.  He wished it had stayed.       

He hadn’t been there when it had happened.  He might not even have known about it if it hadn’t been for Amy’s roommate Leslie.  She was a perky simple redhead who worked as a secretary at the same marketing firm as Amy.  She had seen all of it.  She had seen Nick and Amy arguing.  Leslie had watched Nick get more and more frustrated at Amy.  She had heard him raise his voice time and time again.  She wasn’t sure where the tipping point had been.  She was walking back from the bathroom when she saw Nick grab Amy by the arm and Amy shake him off.  Then the punch, straight to the face, Amy on the floor, Leslie and the other patrons in stunned silence.  Nick left.  Amy and Leslie took a taxi home.  A week later Leslie had called Larry.  She was worried.  

Larry had tried to talk to Amy.  The things she said had scared the shit out of him.  She was not leaving Nick.  He had been under a lot of pressure.  He’d been really stressed out.  It was partially her fault.  These things happen.  He felt terrible about what had happened.  It would never happen again.  Excuses, excuses, excuses.  Just like their mother used to make for their father before he finally left them forever to go spread misery elsewhere.  Larry hadn’t known what to do.  Amy wouldn’t listen to reason.  Nick was a Marine, an imposing burly Marine.  There was no way Larry could kick Nick’s ass.  

Teddy had known what to do.  Teddy didn’t even hesitate in bringing it up as soon as he heard the story.  “There’s ways to take care of these things.”  Teddy had told him what to do as they sat at Larry’s dead mother’s kitchen table, sipping tall boys.  “These things can be taken care of.  You don’t want to throw your own life away for some piece of trash.  Garbage men clean up the trash.  That’s why we have garbage men.”    

Houses gave way to businesses, their doors and windows locked, slumbering until the start of the day.  The big blue mailbox sat on the corner.  Larry opened the hatch.  He held the envelope in his hand, but couldn’t push it forward.  It was absurd.  The whole thing was crazy, sending the envelope through the mail.  Larry felt the envelope with his hand.  He could picture the contents in his mind.  Three thousand dollars in cash, a picture, and a typed noted describing home address and favorite haunts.  How could anyone fail to recognize what was in the envelope?  How could anyone picking it up not know?  The contents felt so obvious to him.

None of it made any sense.  This didn’t seem like the kind of thing you could just mail off for, like the decoder rings from the back of his childhood comic books.  It all seemed too simple, too out in the open.  Could this really be how it was done?  Was there really some box in some post office where things like this were sent?  Did some innocuous looking man come in to check the box every day, walking past unknowing patrons shipping packages and buying stamps?  What about the name on the envelope?  Surely it wasn’t a real name, but could a fake person get a post office box?  Was nobody checking?  Was nobody watching?

The envelope was in Larry’s hand, poised upon the brink.  Maybe all his doubts were just in his head.  Maybe his anxiety was just getting the better of him.  Maybe the contents of the envelope were obvious to him just because he knew what was in it.  Maybe this was the way things were done, right out in the open, just under everybody’s collective noses.  It really didn’t matter.  Larry didn’t have a choice.  He could turn around, walk back to his house, and nothing would get done.  But then what?  

Larry pushed the precious envelope down into the dark depths of the mailbox.  It fell to the bottom with a satisfying clunk.  Its contents were out of his hands.  Larry felt great weight lift from his shoulders.  Whatever else happened now, it was out of his control.

Doing What You Have To Do

Doing What You Have To Do was first published in the Soundings Review in the Summer of 2015 issue.

It was re-published in the Doubleback Review, Issue 3:1, in the spring of 2021.

It's included in the short story collection An Unsated Thirst available for PURCHASE. 

The boy sits on the tailgate of the pickup, dangling his feet and kicking them back and forth, pretending the furtive motion pushes the machinery and metal forward on its slow journey up the road.  He sucks in a deep breath, feigning to take a drag from an imaginary cigarette, and blows out, his breath steaming forth through the frigid air.  A soft bump on the rough road jolts him slightly.  He clutches tighter to the precious cargo sitting on the tailgate next to him.  The feeling of it makes his skin crawl.  His hands feel dirty and he desperately wants to wash them.     

An old black angus cow walks behind, steam intermittently blasting from her nostrils.  The cow walks with her head low, her ears drooped, and her shoulders slumped.  When they had found her in the pasture that morning she had been standing in the same spot for some time, refusing to move from her place of grief.  Even now she feels drawn back towards it.  She stops moving, and turns to look back up the road from which they had come.  The boy lets out a soft low, a plaintive cry that is carried by the wind.  The cow turns back and her body regains some of its old shape and stature.  She lets out a deeper copy of the boy’s call, a pitiful moo tinged with hope.  The boy lows again and the cow raises her head and trots to catch up, her oversized bag flopping between her legs, her great belly bouncing with each lumbering step.  The boy feels bad for tricking her.  

The pickup drives through a gate into a small pen.  The boy jumps from the tailgate to the ground slowly passing beneath his feet, and quickly steps aside to let the cow pass before moving back to close the gate.  He lifts the loose collection of three wooden posts held together by four strands of barb wire and stretches them across the pen’s entrance.  His small skinny arms strain beneath his coat as he struggles to loop a wire over the end post to secure the gate.  The wires groan and stretch, but not quite far enough.  The boy’s father gets out of the pickup and calmly walks back to his son at the gate.  He reaches over the top of the boy and helps push the post close enough to drop the loop of wire to over it.  He turns around and signals for the boy to follow.

The boy walks behind his father, his face red with shame and embarrassment, glad that his father is not looking back at him.  He is eleven now, he should be able to close the gate without help.  His father steps beside the tailgate of the pickup, his face expressionless, and reaches for the precious cargo, grabbing it by one of its legs.  The boy rushes forward to help, grabbing the other leg.  He has to prove that the gate was just a fluke.  His father gives him a look.  The boy knows his father does not want him to be there.  The boy ignores the look and together they pull the mass from the tailgate.  The dead calf falls to the hard cold earth.  Father and son drag it towards the nearby barn, its grieving mother following, mooing softly.

Calving season is one of the most beautiful and magical times on the ranch.  The baby calves are dropped unceremoniously into a strange new cold world which they explore with delight and wonder.  Despite all the new hardships of life outside the womb they frolic and play, delighting in just being alive.  The boy smiles at the thought of the calves playing, a yearly reminder of how special and miraculous life is.

But life can be cruel, and things can go wrong with neither rhyme or reason.  The calf they drag through the snow had once been just like all the others, full of life.  Now it lays dead, its body stiff and cold, its once shiny black coat matted, its tongue hanging from its jaw, its eyes staring without sight at the world around it.  Maybe the calf had become sick and they had failed to notice until it was too late.  Perhaps the calf had been born with something wrong with it, a genetic defect for which nothing could be done.  The boy hoped that it was the latter.  It was best not to contemplate the guilt of knowing that you had failed something that depended on you.  These things happen, there is little that can be done, but the boy knew his father would still blame himself for not doing enough.  

The pair deposit the dead calf on the dirt floor of the barn’s shadowy interior, the only light from the big doorway, and move away from the corpse.  The cow moves past them and stands over her lost offspring, sniffing at the thing that once was.  She lows softly and her grief crosses the divide of animal and man.  

“Wait here, I’ll get the stuff and be right back.”  

The boy’s father walks out of the barn and back to the pickup.  The boy waits, looking out at the steely clouds marching above the gray hills covered by the dark shapes of junipers and dirty white skiffs of snow hiding in shadows that the sun does not touch.   His eyes shift back to the dead calf and saddened mother.  The cow looks up at him and her eyes seem to communicate a desperate plea to make things better, a hope that in her ignorance she is mistaken, that things can be set right.  The boy looks away back out the barn door, watching the dust motes dance in the muted sunlight.

His father comes back with several lengths of bailing twine.  Together they grab the calf by its hind legs and drag it into a small side enclosure, shutting the gate behind them so the cow cannot follow.  She paces back and forth, unsure.  Both man and boy take off their warm cotton gloves and heavy overcoats.  Stripping down to the hay covered sweatshirts they wear underneath.  

The boy’s father pulls out a large pocket knife and opens it.  The blade does not gleam in the dim light from the barn doorway, it’s too old and worn, covered in rust and grime. He takes a rod of steel from his belt and rubs it along the knife’s edge, honing the blade, bringing back some of the old sharpness.  The boy pulls out his own knife, feeling the weight in his hand.  He pulls out the blade slowly, careful not to cut himself on the razor sharp edge.  It is bright and shiny, flashing in the soft light.  He holds the knife like the treasured item that it is, a Christmas present from only a few months ago.  

The boy’s father leans over the dead calf and with a quick thrust creates a hole in one hind leg between the tibia and fibula.  The boy watches as his father puts the bloody knife on the ground and loops the twine several times through the hole.  A knot secures everything together.  The boy’s father stands and, reaching above his head, throws the twine over a low rafter.  The boy grabs onto the other end as it falls back to earth.  Together they pull the calf upwards until it hangs completely off the ground at eye level.  The boy’s father holds the calf in place and the boy secures it with a few twists and knots around a nearby post, his hands moving slowly, nervous under the watchful eyes of the older man.   

The man picks up his knife and moves back to the calf, he looks at his son, and the boy can again feel that his father does not want him to be there, does not want him to witness what comes next.  With deft sure strokes of the blade he cuts the skin just below the knee of each hind leg.  He yanks downward on the loose skin, pulling it away from the muscle beneath, his knife cutting the sinew and tissue.  The boy moves forward to help.  His father stops his work.

“Be careful to not cut through the hide.”  

The boy nods.  Together they slowly peel the skin from the dead calf's legs, a morbid fruit hanging in the barn.  Things feel dark and grotesque, a macabre scene.  The body of a young victim slowly mutilated as its worried mother stands on the other side of a gate.  The boy has helped skin and dress deer and elk before, but this somehow feels different.  There is none of the joy of the hunt in this moment, no elation in this desecration of the dead.  The boy tries to tell a joke he heard in school.  His voice sounds small, the words far away.  His father only grunts and points with his knife.  

“Make sure you cut so the tail is attached to the skin, it only works if you have the tail.”  

The boy nods and the two continue working.  In his left hand the boy grips the hide, one side cold and covered in black hair, the other side warm and slick.  He pulls the hide downward, away from the body.  The boy’s right hand holds his knife, which separates the hide from the muscle and fat with slow slicing strokes, applying enough pressure to cut sinew, but not enough to cut through skin.  Naked, the calf is a yellowish white, streaked with the red of veins and exposed muscle.  It stands out starkly in the shadows of the barn.  Blood does not flow from the body.  It has been too long.  

The boy does not want to be here, he does not want to be part of this terrible spectacle.  He keeps his mind blank, his hands working automatically.  He does not want to think about what the thing he is skinning once was.  He does not want to hear the soft and worried lowing of the cow just outside the gate.  His eyes concentrate on his work, each cut steady and careful.  He does not want to screw up the job, does not want his father to think that he can’t handle helping.  His mind retreats and his brain stops thinking.  This has to be done, even if he doesn’t want to do it.  

The boy looks up at the man next to him.  His father’s rough and scarred hands move with a deftness that the boy cannot hope to match.  The skin is slowly pulled downward as if by a machine, the sinew attaching it to the dead calf sliced as though it is butter.  The boy’s father’s mouth sits in a hard line, and his eyes watch both the boy’s work and his own at the same time.  His father’s eyes see everything, but it is as though they are looking from a long ways away.  The boy does not want his father to have to face the unpleasant task alone.  

The skin hangs down from the calf, like a woman’s skirt if she was hung upside down by her legs, revealing what lay hidden beneath.  When the knives reach the front legs they are skinned up to just below the knees before the boy’s father cuts the hide loose from them.  The same operation is done as they reach the neck.  With a final jerk of the blade the hide comes completely loose.  The boy’s father holds the skin, not letting it touch the ground, and reverses it so the soft black hair is once again on the proper side.  He hangs the hide from the fence, and cuts a hole along the belly.  He lifts it once again and hangs it across his shoulder.

The man nods at his son who cuts the twine where it is attached to the post.  The skinned carcass falls to the ground, straw and dust sticking to the exposed muscle.  Man and boy clean their knives with straw, close them, and put them back in their pockets.  The boy’s father gestures with his free hand.  

"Go ahead and drag it back out to her."  

The boy opens the gate and drags the skinless mass back into the main pen before returning to his father.  The cow watches in silence.  She walks forward tentatively, sniffing deeply at the skinned corpse.  She sniffs again and backs away.  This is not her calf, this is not the little miracle she once carried in her womb.  The cow does not recognize it anymore, she does not know the smell.  

The boy closes the gate behind him and follows his father into another smaller enclosure.  Inside a calf lays in a bed of straw beneath a heat lamp.  The calf is a bummer, the unfortunate runt in a pair of twins.  The calf’s mother could not produce enough milk to support both him and his sister, so he was taken away.  An orphan of unfortunate circumstance, surviving on powdered milk from a bottle.  A kind hand and pseudo-milk, no matter how well given, is never a substitute for a mother’s nourishment and a mother’s love.  He is unlucky, but maybe today his luck will change.   

The man and boy grab the calf with gentle but firm hands.  The calf struggles at first, frightened by the change in his daily routine, not understanding what is happening.  He is not yet big enough to overpower the man and boy.  The boy’s father forces the cold wet hide over the calf’s head, and bends his legs through each of the holes.  With the deed done the bummer calf stands shivering in fright, a grisly spectacle dressed in a sweater made from the hide of his fallen brethren.  The boy holds the bummer between his knees and softly whispers promises to it that everything will be all right.

The boy’s father opens the gate and walks back into the main part of the barn.  He grabs the skinless carcass and pulls it back into the small enclosure as the cow watches, her black eyes following his every movement.  As soon as he is out of the cow’s sight he signals to the boy with a nod.  The boy pushes the bummer forward into the main pen and closes the gate.  The man and the boy crouch next to each other and peer through the fence.  

The bummer is unsure of what to do.  He stands next to the closed gate, shivering in his stolen hide.  Miserable, he lets out a plaintive moo.  The cow's ears jerk in response, a soft low escapes her mouth.  The bummer moos again and walks slowly towards the cow.  She lows back as he moves closer and lowers her head, sniffing him where the tail and back come together.  The cow seems confused, not sure what to think.  The smell is familiar, close to something that she had thought she had lost, but also somewhat different.  The calf and cow both stand still, not sure what to do.

Minutes tick by, the man and the boy keep quiet.  The calf tentatively walks towards the swollen udders of the cow.  Her sources of nourishment, aching with unclaimed milk.  Both the man and boy hold their breath.  The calf’s soft black nose nuzzles a teat and his tongue slowly licks the end as he draws it into his mouth.  The cow gives a slight jerk, then turns her head to sniff at the calf again.  The calf begins to draw down deep drinks of milk, some running out of his mouth as frothy white drool.  The cow sniffs the calf again.  One hind foot rises slightly.  The man and boy will it to fall.  The cow hesitates and lets her foot drop.

The boy and his father grab their coats and sneak out of the barn, dragging the carcass behind them.  With a grunt the two grab the legs, the man on the hind and the boy on the front, and throw it back into the bed of the pickup.  It will be taken up a nearby canyon to provide a feast for coyotes and crows.  In two days the hide will join the carcass, its use no longer needed.  The boy’s father climbs into the cab and starts the pickup while the boy walks across the pen and with a strained grunt opens the gate, always easier than closing it.  The pickup passes by and he pulls the wires and posts back to the loop of wire that will hold them tight and closed.  His face contorts and turns red and sweat beads on his brow as he tries to force the post over far enough to allow the loop of wire to drop over it.

The boy hears the pickup door open behind him.  He strains as hard as he can.  Not this time, not twice in one day, he can do it.  His arms are tired from his efforts with the calf.  They strain as hard as they can, a final desperate push towards victory.  So close, just half an inch more, so close.  The post falls back from the loop of wire, a retreat as his weak eleven year old arms fail in their exertion.  Footsteps, leather boots on frozen earth.  His father reaches over him and closes the gate with what seems like an invincible ease.  The boy does not look at his father.  The man puts his hand on the boy’s shoulder for a moment, and then walks back to the pickup and climbs in.  The rumbling of the engine is strangely loud in the still cold air.  The boy looks back at the barn, the sun starting to sink towards the horizon behind it.  Inside he can imagine the calf and the cow, both amazed by the strange miracles of the world.  The boy smiles, turns, and walks to the pickup.

The Heartbreaker

The Heartbreaker was first published in the Soundings Review in the Winter of 2015 issue. 

I’m sitting in my chair, reading and watching the rain fall against the window.  It’s a light rain.  A soft rain combined with the unusual warmth of early spring throwing arcing rainbows across the sky.  It’s the best kind of rain.  It’s midday.  My phone rings.  I pick it up and look at the number.  There’s no name, just a number.  Somebody I don’t know.  It’s an Idaho number.  I went to college in Idaho.  My curiosity is peaked.  I hit the button to connect.

“Hello.”

The voice on the other end is nervous sounding, male.  The voice sounds surprised to hear mine.  

“Hello? Katie?”

“No, this is not Katie.”

“Is Katie there?”

“No.  There’s no Katie here.”

“Are....are you sure?”

“Yes.  I’ve had this number for close to seven years.  I’m pretty sure.”

I can hear everything in his silence.  I can hear the gears grinding in his head.  I can hear the moment when realization floods across his brain.  The sudden release of breath.  The sudden change of nervous hope to disappointment and defeat.  

“Oh.”  

The other end hangs up.  I go back to my reading.  

***

I’m driving to the hash.  It’s a beautiful Saturday.  The sun is shining and wind from my open window blows across my left arm laying on the door.  It’s going to be a good day.  I’m looking forward to the run.  My phone rings.  It’s an unknown number from Idaho.  

“Hello.”

“Hey Katie, its Matt.”  

This one is cocky sounding.  Like he owns the fucking world.  I can picture him in my mind.  Polo shirt with a popped collar.  Baseball cap with a flat brim turned backwards on his head.  Probably two fake diamond studs in his ears.  More parody than person.  This is probably unfair.  College aged douchebags have probably changed how they dress since I completed my studies.    

“Who?”

“Matt.  We met at the Corner Club last night.”  

I recognize the name of the bar.  It’s one of the more popular hangouts for students at the University of Idaho.  A squat pile of smoke filled cinder blocks selling thirty-two ounce tubs of beer for $2.25.  Come to the club for a tub.  Good memories.        

“This isn’t Katie’s number.”

“What?”  

I hear a bit of the cocky edge recede from his voice.  It makes me feel happy.  There’s something in the guy’s voice that makes me glad he’s getting knocked down a notch.      

“This isn’t Katie’s number.”            

“This is the number she gave me.”

“Don’t know what to tell you.”  

I can hear him breathing on the other end.  Trying to figure out his next move.  Trying to come to grips with the fact that a woman was just trying to get rid of him, the most amazing man in the world.  I hang up the phone.

***

I’m making myself dinner at home.  I’m having a T-bone steak and some mashed potatoes.  The smell of cooking meat wafts through my apartment.  My mouth waters in anticipation.  The phone rings.  It’s an unknown Washington number.

“Hello.”

“Hello?”  

The voice on the other end sounds confused.  It’s a tone I’m starting to get used to hearing.  

“Hello.”

“Is this Katie?”

It’s been a slow day.  I’m bored.  I affect a falsetto voice that would fool no one.    

“Yes, yes this is Katie.”

“Katie?  Really?”

“No dumb ass, you’ve been given a false number.”  

The other side of the line disconnects.  I hang up and put down my phone.  I wish I hadn’t done the voice.  It had to have been bad enough discovering that some girl lied to your face just to get rid of you.  Getting fucked with by some asshole can’t be any help.  I can see the poor schmuck in my head.  I can see him overcoming his nervousness enough to talk to a girl.  I can see him filled with pride and boasting to his friends about his acquisition of her digits.  I can see him sitting on his couch holding his phone, nerving himself up to actually calling.  I can see the uncertainty when he hears my voice.  I can see the disappointment when the truth dawns on him.  It all has to be bad enough without me being a jackass.  

***

My phone rings.  Yet another unknown number.  I know what this call will entail even before I answer.  It’s become a common occurrence.  Nearly every weekend.  Katie has been out on the town again.  I know nothing about this woman, yet I have somehow become part of her life.  Connected by a string of jilted men she has no interest in ever seeing again.  It’s starting to get old.  I wish Katie would spend more weekends staying home and studying.  

“Hello.”

The voice is nervous and confused.  Just like all the others.  

“Hello, is Katie there?”

“No, no Katie here.  You have the wrong number.”

The phone goes dead.  Less than a minute later it rings again.

“Hello.”

It’s the same confused nervous voice, now tinged by realization and disappointment.  

“This isn’t Katie’s number, is it?”

“No, sorry man.”

The phone goes dead.  I put my phone down and stare at the wall in front of me.  I feel bad for this one.  It seems weird that this one bothers me.  He’s just another distant voice in a long line of anonymous faces.  Just another person I’ll never meet or know except for thirty seconds of their spirit getting dashed and their confidence crushed.  In my head he’s just a normal guy.  Not a bad guy.  Certainly not the best looking or most charming, but still a guy with a lot to offer.  In my head he’s me.  

How many has it been now?  Somewhere around at least fifteen.  There’s been nervous ones and confident ones.  There’s been douchey ones and drunk ones.  There’s even been a foreign one or two.  No matter how they start, they all end the same way.  Could they all be worth so little?  Are none of them even worth a little honesty?  What did all these poor schmucks do to deserve having their emotions fucked with?  It’s one thing to crash while you're still on the ground.  It’s another to do it when you're flying high above the clouds.  I feel like I'm the one who rejected the poor sap.  I've done nothing, yet I feel like a jerk.    

***             

The phone rings.  I hurriedly wipe my ass and pull my pants up.  I’ve been expecting an important call.  I’ve been playing phone tag all day.  I can’t let this one get by.  I’m not done wiping.  I’m not even done with the precursor to wiping.  It doesn’t matter.  My pants go up and I waddle to my phone on the table in the kitchen.  One more ring and it goes to voicemail.  I open it just in time.  

“Hello.”

My voice sounds strained.  The voice of a man who just beat his personal best in a triathlon.   

“Hello.  Is Katie there?”

I feel the muscles in my neck tighten.  I feel the veins in my head begin to bulge.  This has gone too far.  This is too fucking ridiculous.  How many fake numbers can one woman hand out?  What is it about her that causes every jerk in town to line up and wait their turn to have their wings clipped?  What kind of magic spell does she weave?  Why must I be a part of her assembly line of shattered hopes and broken hearts?  Something in me snaps.  I can’t take it anymore.  My voice booms with thunder, full of wrath brought down from the heavens themselves.    

“No, Katie is not here.  Katie has never been here.  This isn’t Katie’s number.  Katie gave you a fake number because she just wanted to get rid of you.  I’m sorry.  It sucks.  If you do see her cunt ass again would you mind telling her to get the fucking balls to reject somebody to their face, or at the very least, use someone else’s phone number.”

The phone goes dead on the other end.  I waddle back to the bathroom.