“It’s all we have, cousin. Some only have the taverns and alehouses to go home to anymore. Most of their homes have already been destroyed.” Eric put a hand on Mason’s shoulder.

  “I’m not sure I have what it takes,” Mason said, shaking his head. For the first time, he wondered what he’d gotten himself into.

  Eric smiled. “You’ll learn, cousin. You’ll learn.”

  Mason turned and continued to stare at the valley floor below.

  The horizon was a deep, dark stain of red.

  ~

  He was on the couch again. A ring of sweat circled his neck and face. He didn’t remember driving home from Black Canyon.

  He rubbed a hand through his hair, could smell himself, the night before, whiskey and beer.

  A cup of coffee, he thought. A gallon of water.

  He stood up and went to the bathroom. One of these days, he vowed, he would quit drinking.

  And not for Geneveeve.

  The world hit him again. What had they called it? In his vice-ridden hangover, he couldn’t remember.

  And then, for a split-second, he wasn’t standing in the bathroom at all; he was with Eric and Khayman.

  Mason shook his head, tried to collect himself, and walked into the kitchen. A note lay on the counter from Geneveeve. Jesus, would she never stop? He grabbed the note, crumpled it up, and threw it in the garbage.

  What life? What need? he thought.

  He found, ironically, a fifth of Southern Comfort in the cupboard above the sink. Mason wasn’t a morning drinker, but he made an exception.

  Closer to the world, not bound by chains. I and the new world are brothers now.

  He spared a single thought for Geneveeve.

  Lucifer, Malon, Geneveeve, he thought. They’re all the same.

  He twisted the lid off the whiskey bottle and chugged all he could before he gagged. He drained almost a third of it before his head began to swim, then swooned crazily.

  A different commitment awaited him.

  CHAPTER IV

  He did love Laura, but it wasn’t enough to stick around. The world wasn’t enough. Not this one. It wasn’t love, not the kind she needed. It was more along the lines of tolerance. He wasn’t proud of the fact, of course. But that was the truth of the matter.

  Eric kept this knowledge in a secret place inside his heart. Not even when he drank did he reveal it, not even to Mason.

  Black Canyon had made him realize all of this. Laura didn’t need him anymore, or maybe it was vice-versa. His father was gone now, too, so what was the point? No one, not even him, he realized, could fill the role his father had played. No one would ever—or could ever—be like dear old dad.

  You are. You’re just like him. You’ve known from the beginning.

  The end was near. Or was it the beginning? He knew what Laura would say. Typical man. Breaking my heart. You make me sick.

  He shook his head. Eric Reese had no choice. Laura didn’t worry him. Laura was hardly a thought. He was more worried about what his father would think.

  “Get your shoes on, lad,” his father once told him. “Today, I’m going to teach you the finer arts of golf.”

  Golf didn’t have the same meaning now as it did with Dad, of course. Eric was twelve when he’d learned how to play. He was reluctant at first, failing to understand the compelling nature of all that green space and a little white ball, but if Dad liked it, it had to be great. Eric found out later how much he actually loved golf—manic as it could sometimes be. Eric and his dad took weekly trips to the green when the weather warmed up. By the time he was seventeen, Eric was hustling high school kids for cash.

  His father also taught him the beauty of fishing, and Eric was just as eager to learn that as well. They drove north during the summer to fish for steelhead after his mother died of cervical cancer. Eric had been four at the time. His father never spoke much on these trips; he figured it was Dad’s way of dealing with the grief.

  “Fishing will, undoubtedly, soothe the savage beast, Son,” his father once told him. “Some say music; I say fishing. Fishing is something a man has to do. It’s what a man must do. Why, the tranquility, the salvation of his soul would be in jeopardy otherwise.”

  They started with carp fishing first, much easier to catch but also dirtier. Then they moved into catfish, much more dangerous and exciting, and, of course, edible. They fished for trout sometimes across the border, but the trips were expensive when you were a non-resident of Idaho. A day license was eight-dollars. Eric enjoyed the locale of catfishing anyway. Close to home and not as expensive. His dad reeled one in close to twenty-pounds once. The thing had actually terrified Eric once he pulled it onto the bank. He’d stood with wide eyes, the color draining from his face as he stared at it.

  “A catfish that big, boy, could bite your hand off.”

  The fish was a murky green and brown predator, a monster in the eyes of young Eric. To him, catfish even seemed a little cocky.

  Fishing and golf were key elements to survival. He would miss golf.

  “How do you want your eggs?”

  He was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. For a minute, he forgot he was home. He could smell bacon. “Sorry?” he said.

  Laura walked over, smiled, and leaned over the bed. She put a hand on his chest. She was sexy: tasteful red lips, brownish-red hair, and big brown eyes, lithe and tall. He would miss her.

  Laura kissed him on the forehead, her hand reaching down, cupping him between his thighs. “Honey,” she said. Her voice was husky and amorous. “How do you want your eggs?”

  “All this time and you don’t know how I like my eggs? What kind of woman are you?”

  “Over easy,” she said. “What do I look like? They’re either gonna be fried or scrambled.”

  “If they’re scrambled I like a lot of stuff in them. Peppers, onions, tomatoes, the works.”

  “We don’t have all that,” she said.

  He leaned over and lit a cigarette. He needed a shower and a cup of coffee.

  “Fried it will have to be,” he said. “I’ll pick up some meat and vegetables.”

  “You’re not feeling very playful today, are you?”

  “Sorry,” he told her. “I just woke up.”

  She patted him on the cheek, no longer exploring. “Fair enough. Over easy. Take a shower. Do you want to do something with me today?”

  “Sure.”

  Laura smiled and walked out of the room.

  Eric closed his eyes. He felt it coming then, the inevitable change. His heart was somewhere else.

  God, please understand, Laura. It’s not about you. It’s about what’s best for you, for us. Please don’t make this more difficult.

  Eric sighed and headed for the shower.

  ~

  James Marris Reese never drank except on special occasions. Eric’s father had, however, been an avid smoker. After Eric’s mother died, James didn’t touch a cigarette for two whole years. Eric had never seen his dad with another woman, why he admired him as much as he did. The man, even after Christine’s death, had been faithful.

  James Marris had built and operated his own nursing home in downtown Elk Ridge, J. R. Nursing and Rehabilitation Center. He wanted to build one because of what he’d gone through after his own father’s death.

  “The diaper that once changed me,” he told Eric once. From the picture he saw of his grandfather, Eric’s father looked exactly like Marris Randolph Reese: reddish blond hair, a burly man with strong features, green eyes, and big, solid forearms.

  When Eric was thirteen, his father had taken him shopping for clothes at the mall. In the JC Penny, they’d run into a lost boy with Down Syndrome. The boy was roughly eighteen but had the mind of a five-year-old. He was dressed in baggy blue jeans and a Bugs Bunny T-shirt. He had big, terrified brown eyes. Eric felt sorry for him immediately. The kid had completely soiled his pants, chubby cheeks wet with tears, no sign of a parent or guardian in sight, and not a single JC Penny employee to be found. Eric could—as much as he hated it—smell the kid, powerful enough to make his eyes water. Dark stains plated his jeans from the waist down. Once Eric’s father approached, people seemed to appear out of nowhere, as if ashamed. Eric remembered how customers veered from the kid, ignoring the entire scene. This, Eric could tell, infuriated James. Eric looked at his dad and noticed the man boiling with anger, his already sunburned cheeks flaming red.

  James Marris approached the boy, who was on his knees, blubbering and looking up for help, his mother, anything. Eric’s father knelt and put his hand on the boy’s shoulder. If the smell bothered him, he didn’t show it.

  “Looks like you got yourself in a bind there, partner,” James said. He motioned to Eric, who obediently stepped forward. His dad handed him two twenty-dollar bills.

  “Looks like a thirty-eight in jeans. Go find a pair of pants for him, an extra large T-shirt. Get some undies and a pair of socks. He got himself good. We’ll be in the bathroom. Try to hurry, Son, okay?”

  Eric nodded. “Okay, Dad.”

  The boy quieted noticeably once James consoled him. Before Eric went away in search of clothes, he heard his father telling the boy: “Blew a big old butt trumpet just the other day. Could feel it creepin’, ya know? Sure you do. One of those farts you think is a fart, know it’s a fart until you start pushing. Lucky for me I was already home and had a change of clothes. You, my boy, weren’t so lucky. But we’ll get you changed up. Get you a big soda and a cheeseburger when it’s all said and done, too. How’s that sound?”

  Eric went in search of the clothes and found a pair of dark blue jeans, 38 in the waist. Better too big than too snug, he thought. Might make the boy explode again. The thought made him giggle. Eric found a white T-shirt with a monster truck on the front that read: Four Wheelin’ is Forever! He grabbed a package of underwear (38) and went to the cash register to pay.

  “These look a little big for you,” the woman behind the counter said.

  “They’re not for me,” Eric said.

  “Hmmm,” the lady replied, skeptical.

  She bagged it all, and Eric went into the bathroom. He hadn’t prepared himself for the sight. The boy was completely naked. His father had thrown his clothes in the trash bin. James was washing the kid down heavily with soap and water, using armloads of paper towels. The kid’s white/pink skin glistened wetly. The smell was still noticeable, but not nearly as bad.

  “Thanks, Son,” James told Eric. “Set them right here.” He turned to the kid. “Might as well shave you up and splash some cologne on ya. Gonna knock the gals down dead when we get through with you. Have to get you a notebook to keep track of the phone numbers. Girls gonna swoon, boy. Girls gonna swoon.”

  The kid, Eric saw, giggled crazily at all these comments, and Eric smiled.

  “You go swimming in the public pool, Montgomery Watson, like you are now,” James said. (Had the kid told his dad his name? Eric wondered.) “And girls’ll be chasin’ you from here to Kalamazoo.” The kid cackled like a hyena, loud and uproarious, making Eric and James burst out laughing. Eric thought maybe it was simply the word Kalamazoo that did it.

  “These might feel a little stiff at first, but it’s better than wet and slick, right?” James told the boy, grabbing the jeans.

  After some effort, his dad had the boy clean and dried, dressed, and ready to tackle the world. James washed his hands in the sink and stood back with a hand to his chin. “Hmm,” he said. “What do you think, Eric-boy? Like a fine, outstanding young gentleman, ain’t he?”

  The kid laughed again, which made Eric laugh as well.

  “Yes, sir,” Eric said. “I think he’s ready for the ball.”

  “We better find out who you belong to,” Eric’s dad told Montgomery. “Someone’s probably worried sick.”

  They found the boy’s frantic mother, wandering the store in a panic. She was a short, red-haired woman, wearing a pink floral dress. When James explained the situation, she, Betty Watson, thanked Eric’s father two-dozen times with tears in her eyes. Montgomery exclaimed with rapturous delight, “Momma, this man gave me a shower-bath!”—and started cackling again.

  Betty was extraordinarily grateful. Eric noticed she kept putting a hand on his father’s chest or laying her fingers lightly on his arm. At one time, she gripped James’ hand with both of hers, pumped it over and over, and didn’t let go until she and Montgomery said goodbye. She pulled out money to pay for the clothes and James held his palm out, shaking his head. James told Eric later that the reason he refused payment was because Betty’s dress was outdated, frayed, and they looked like they couldn’t afford much.

  Thank you thank you thank you, Betty had said over and over again. She’d only turned around for a second and her boy had disappeared. You’re a saint, Mr. Reese. Oh, thank you thank you thank you! There’s not enough gentleman like you in the world, sir.

  Later, in the car, Eric asked, “How come no one else was helping that kid, Dad?”

  James took a minute to ponder this and replied:

  “I think some people, Eric, just don’t know how to handle a delicate situation,” his dad told him. “Sometimes the best way for people to deal with things is to not deal with them.”

  “We’re you mad no one helped him?”

  “Mad as hell,” James said, in a voice so calm it frightened Eric. “Ole Monty’s just a big kid; that’s all. The same goes. You got to treat and watch out for the mentally challenged the same way. I’d hope one day you’d know better, Son, and do the same should the situation present itself.” His dad looked at him, eyes level. “Make sure you know better.”

  Before they parted, Betty had asked for their address and phone number. Eric’s father gave her the information willingly. A week later, they received a package, special delivery, from a nearby meat-house called, Monks: four T-bone steaks, five pounds of bacon, and half a dozen pork chops wrapped in cellophane and white paper lay situated in what reminded Eric of a large Easter basket. There was a note inside. James read it and his eyes glossed over with tears. He put the note down and smiled at his son. He mentioned something about Betty working at the meat shop and the discount she got. Eric had some of the best home-cooked meals he’d had in his life that week. His father had hummed and smiled while standing by the grill in the backyard.

  ~

  The policeman came to the school when he was a junior. Eric thought about every crime he’d ever committed, and the only thing he could come up with was smoking pot with his friends after school a few days before. He was nervous and scared.

  The cop knocked on the classroom door. Miss Hart went to the door and opened it. The cop stepped inside and whispered something to her. Miss Hart looked at Eric, and Eric felt his heart leap into his throat. His teacher nodded.

  “Eric,” Miss Hart said. “Could you step into the hallway with this gentleman, please?”

  His eyes widened, and he stood up.

  Classmates whispered and snickered. “Ooo, Eric’s in trooouu-ble!”

  Eric followed the officer into the hallway and Miss Hart shut the door. The hallway was empty and unnervingly quiet.

  The policeman took a deep breath. He was a big man. He worked out, obviously. His forearms were impressive. He wore sunglasses, but he took them off now, revealing deep blue eyes on a tan, chiseled face. “Hello, son,” he said, putting out his hand. “Mack Drollinger.”

  Eric shook Mack Drollinger’s hand. It was the most awkward feeling in his life.

  “Let’s take a walk,” the man said.

  They walked down the hallway, and Drollinger took a deep breath.

  Eric couldn’t stand the wait. “Did I do something wrong?” he asked.

  Drollinger stopped and looked at him. “I’ll just come right out and say it if you want,” he said.

  Eric nodded, not wanting to nod, not wanting to hear a word.

  “Your father is James Marris Reese, right?” Drollinger said.

  Eric nodded again.

  Oh, God! Please don’t do this! Please!

  “There was an accident on the highway in front of the airport,” Drollinger said. “You know the one I mean?”

  The airport wasn’t a large, international airport for commercial flights, but a smaller, more private one. Many of Elk Ridge’s wealthier residents had private jets there. He and his dad drove the airport road every time they went catfishing out at the Benson Marina. Eric enjoyed watching the planes coming in and taking off. Sometimes, they’d get so close to the ground, he thought they’d rip the roof off the cab of the truck.

  “Your father was headed out to Amalga to pick up some supplies for the nursing home,” Drollinger said. His voice seemed to come from down a very long tunnel. Eric could barely hear it. “A driver was coming from the eastbound lane, according to one of the witnesses. He veered into your dad’s lane, driving him off the road. He hit a telephone pole. We think the man in the other vehicle was rifling around on the floor for cigarettes or talking on his cell phone. He did have a cell phone with him. We have the man in custody now. He was not under the influence of drugs or intoxicated that we can determine.”

  As if that were supposed to make him feel better . . .

  “My dad is . . .”

  Mack Drollinger frowned and shook his head. “I’m afraid so. I’m sorry, son. Let’s get you outta here and home. Is there someplace you can stay for a while?”

  Eric swooned drunkenly for a minute. He thought he was going to blackout.

  He didn’t say a word on the ride home. Family and friends were contacted, but he already felt the change. School, family, and friends slipped into a place he no longer cared about. Was there anything else to live for?

  Yourself. You have yourself to live for because that’s what you’re dad would’ve wanted.

  “Dad’s dead,” he said to the empty. “So, to hell with you.”

  Fishing, golfing . . . nothing would be the same.

 

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