It Dies with You, page 8
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Wynt Road is a long stretch of mostly clapboard homes sprinkled among fields and farmland that had assumed a state of wintery brown. The rental homes—The Ponderosa—sit halfway down, just after a snaking curve in the road. Before I pulled up the long gravel drive, I rolled down my windows and let some air creep in, curious if I’d catch the infamous odor from Tar Heel Wastewater Treatment that was just a mile or so south, locally known as the Flint Creek Shit Plant. There was no stench, but come summer or a heavy breeze, I knew that’d change. I rolled my window up and dug in my console, checked the Pigeon Forge key fob attached to the key for the vacant unit: 112 Wynt scrawled in black Sharpie.
Until then, I hadn’t thought much about which unit was vacant. Didn’t think it made a damn. But 112 was the unit on the far end of the property—robin egg blue the last time I saw it—and it was where Grandma Miller stayed for a few years after Grandpa died from heart disease. She’d sold their house off, moved into the rental not long after the funeral. I was never sure Dad didn’t charge her rent, but I knew the house she and Grandpa lived in, an old, white farmhouse, had been far too big for one person.
I eased up the drive of the modest-sized property that was surrounded by dense woods on the back and sides. The three little homes were perched roughly twenty feet apart at the top of the hill, the drive running in front of each: first a pink house, next a yellow one, and then number 112, still that pale blue. Had Dad put an aboveground pool behind the trio, maybe a gazebo, he would’ve had himself a low-class resort.
In front of the pink house were empty flower pots and a picnic table with a child’s sand bucket on top. The lights were off inside, and no vehicles were parked out front. The yellow house next to it was more of a spectacle. On the porch, a toilet had been repurposed into a flower pot. Various hunting decoys—geese and ducks—and a couple of ceramic deer kept a lazy watch in the yard. A moped leaned against the lone tree.
I parked in front of the last house and went inside with a ridiculous notion that things were like they used to be. But before I even turned on the lights, I noticed the smell of the place was off. Stale and unwelcoming, like a motel room, with a hint of Lysol covering accumulated mustiness. There was a coldness to the place, in more ways than one.
I flipped on the light. The living room was simple: a corduroy loveseat faced the front wall that was crowded by a hefty, mahogany entertainment center. A dining area sat behind the couch, a narrow bar top dividing it from a cramped kitchen. The two bedrooms were on opposite ends of the house; the master, Grandma’s old room, was on my right.
But the place was a far cry from Grandma’s. There weren’t any paintings of Jesus and snowy log cabins, no centerpiece of fake flowers and seasonal mats on the dining room table that wasn’t quite the same table. No delicious smells like black cat pie and apple cobbler pouring out of the kitchen.
I inspected the house, checking things like lights and faucets to make sure they were functioning. I tested the disposal and dishwasher. Everything seemed in working order, which made me hopeful the other rental houses weren’t fit to be condemned.
In the master bedroom closet, I happened upon something familiar: a blue plastic storage container covered in holographic Looney Tunes stickers. I popped the lid and pulled it into the light. It held a stack of games that belonged to my grandma: Old Maid, Apples to Apples, Chinese checkers. A few, like a Harry Potter edition of Monopoly, must have been added to the collection by tenants over the years. Below the games were two shoeboxes, each filled with Grandma Miller’s favorite thing of all: VHS tapes of shows she used to record. The tapes were labeled with her handwriting: Adam-12, The Doris Day Show, Laverne & Shirley. One shoebox alone was devoted to the show Grandma and I always watched together: The Twilight Zone. I smiled, recalling the afternoons we’d spend watching it. Usually, I’d have a paper plate on my lap holding saltine crackers with quarter-slices of Kraft cheese and mayonnaise between them—my favorite snack for no other reason than that my grandma had made them.
I closed the shoeboxes, put the games back, and scooted the container back into the closet, with my mind settled as ever about one point: Grandma Miller was as good a person as I’d ever known. She was gentle and kind. Never heard her speak ill of anyone but the devil himself. Even after my parents split, she’d still call Mom and check on her, tell her she loved her.
Sometimes, I thought Grandma’s goodness was in spite of the rest of her family. A settling voice in a sea of egos and endless negativity. I wasn’t sure if my dad or Grandpa ever appreciated that, but I did, and I still missed her.
I locked the front door as I left, and before I could reach my Jeep, the sound of someone violently clearing their throat grabbed my attention. I turned to see a short, skinny, middle-aged man standing on the neighboring porch some twenty feet away. He had a sandy-blond mullet, no shirt or shoes. His only protection from the cold was the mane of hair that spilled down his neck and a pair of Washington Redskins sweatpants.
“If you plan on renting that place, the owner’s dead.” The man pointed at a “For Rent” sign next to the gravel drive. “Number on there ain’t no good no more.”
“Dead, you say?”
“Yes siree.” He made a pistol with his fingers, mimicked the recoil. “Somebody shot his head off.”
“In that case, I better put my number on the sign.”
He lowered his finger gun.
“Leland was my dad,” I told him. “Which makes me your new landlord. Name’s Hudson.”
He took a couple steps forward, his eyes narrowing. “Reckon I can see the resemblance. Except for that beard you got. You rub tobacco oil in that thing?”
I told him it was all natural.
“It really sucks what happened to your pops, but don’t get things twisted: I still support the Second Amendment.” This time his make-believe item was a holster he patted on his side.
“You know my dad pretty well?”
“Knew how to spell his name at the first of the month when I wrote my check. He fixed a clogged bathtub in here once from when I gave myself a trim, but I didn’t much know him outside of that. Only been here since September. I come down from Virginia. I was a … I’m a truck driver.”
“What do you know about your neighbor down there?” I indicated the pink house.
He looked at the house and turned back beaming. “Single gal named Brenda. Had herself a baby, but she’s still got a figure. Got one of them onion asses. You know … just the sight of it will bring tears to your eyes.”
“She sounds lovely. You live here alone?”
He nodded, tugged his sweatpants higher on his hip bones. “Clyde Jesse.”
“Well, Mr. Jesse, guess I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Yep,” he said. “And if you run into Miss Brenda, you be sure to tell her those nice things I said about her.”
“I’ll do that.”
He gave me a salute.
I got in my Jeep and cranked the ignition, but hesitated before driving off. I must’ve sat there for five minutes, flip-flopping on what I was about to do. The way I saw it, I had two options: commute thirty-plus minutes to and from the salvage yard six days a week while still bumming it in Danny’s guest room, or swallow my pride and move to Flint Creek for the time being. I could stay in the vacant rental house rent free.
Fuck it, I mumbled. The almighty dollar didn’t need long to plead its case. I’d already assumed one new title that day: Junkyard King. Adding Slumlord to my resumé seemed a natural progression. For several months, life had been backing me into a corner. Maybe this was the first of many punches it would take to get myself out. I opened my door and walked over to the rental sign, started working it out of the hard ground.
Clyde Jesse called to me: “Where am I supposed to send my check, Mr. Landlord?” He was now blazing a joint, leaning against the porch railing.
Once I’d unearthed the sign: “Guess you can walk it next door.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
All things considered, breaking the news of my move was a clean rip of the Band-Aid. I suppose it was a byproduct of living a life that was tethered to few people and even fewer obligations. Brent agreed to let me pick up a couple night shifts a week behind the bar, which I’d need to supplement my income, and Danny seemed almost excited about my moving. I had my guess as to why: it was an opportunity for him to convince his girlfriend to move in. And she would. I was sure of it. I was even more sure that their relationship would end as smoothly as a tequila binger on an empty stomach.
Mom must’ve been knocked sideways, but she hid any knee-jerk reactions well on the phone. Even managed some optimism. She knew there’d be no changing my mind about it. If there was one piece of Leland Miller that I got honest, it was that dogged stubbornness once my mind was made up about something.
Packing for the move was no more involved than a weekend beach trip. I’d condensed so much when I moved into Danny’s, there was no need for a U-Haul. I crammed my Jeep to the windows with clothes and other personal effects, a few odds and ends I could never seem to get rid of, among them an original Nintendo, a NutriBullet blender, and a couple boxes full of my boxing trophies and medals.
Danny saw me off Thursday night. We shared a good-luck whiskey shot before I rolled out. He left me with a final vote of confidence, as if I were trying cliff diving for the first time: “Can’t believe you’re actually doing this shit, Hud.”
I could hardly believe it myself. The week had been a whirlwind, but it wasn’t until I pulled out of Danny’s apartment complex did it truly sink in—I was moving back to Flint Creek.
I reasoned that at least I was moving with my eyes wide open. I knew exactly where I was going. As a ten-year-old moving out of Flint Creek, I hadn’t had that luxury. I was sad and scared, but I knew that I’d be living with Mom most of the time and that any sacrifice would be worth it. The home I’d grown up in, the life that I’d grown used to, had been poisoned. After the divorce, my parents had left the decision of living arrangements to me, probably the only thing they’d agreed on in a year. I wrestled with that decision for nearly a week. I was a child, and I’d yet to fully grasp what Dad had done. I just knew I’d never seen my mom so hurt. It was Mom who begged and pleaded for me to come with her. Not Dad. Not the one who should’ve been on his knees apologizing, offering promises that everything would be okay, that everything didn’t have to be so painful and so confusing. But he didn’t. And it was that far too casual apathy Dad showed in the situation that would define my view of him from that moment forward. In a way, he made my decision easy.
I’d traded my spacious backyard for the asphalt of an apartment complex, the smell of freshly ploughed fields for the stink of a dumpster next to our unit. The sounds of grunting tree frogs and buzzing cicadas from my bedroom window were now the voices and bustling of neighbors. Stars became fewer in the sky. But I never questioned my decision.
Not even when I faced my biggest adjustment of all: being the new kid in a school where the general population didn’t look and dress like I did. It’s the one thing Dad seemed to take issue with. I remember the day Mom told him what school I’d be going to, how he’d pulled me aside and said “Stick with your kind, and you’ll be all right.” I’m glad as hell I didn’t heed that advice.
It would take a while to get acclimated, to stretch and to grow into my new world, like a new pair of sparring gloves getting broken in. It would take fistfights and new friendships to make me realize that shitheads came in all shapes, sizes, and colors. And so did good people.
So now, I was reversing course, so to speak. A move of twenty-some miles that felt like a million. I was leaving behind one of the biggest cities in the state, a place with a busy downtown and college campuses, shopping centers and museums, and one of the largest waterparks on the East Coast. A city where there’s stuff to do and things to see. A far cry from Flint Creek, where conveniences were few and far in between. Where “downtown” is a small strip on Sunset Avenue, speckled with mom-and-pop businesses that have about the same charm as a tuxedo T-shirt.
* * *
Despite my upgraded digs, I slept like hell that night. I lay wide-eyed in bed. If there was a bad-case scenario concerning the salvage yard, my mind latched onto it and played it on repeat. And it wasn’t so much the thoughts of me screwing something up or getting ripped off on account of my ignorance that troubled me most. It was the fear of Miller’s Pull-a-Part becoming a ghost town for weeks on end. Just me, Charlie, and all those vehicles. Not a dime in the register and not a damn clue what to do about it. Maybe I was being ridiculous, maybe not. Either way, I’d been a prisoner to anxiety before.
In my early boxing career, I’d have dreams about fight night. The bell would ring and suddenly I’d forget every lesson Coach Rob had ever taught me. I’d just be a human punching bag, unable to raise my trembling arms for protection and too wobbly-legged to run away. Of course that never happened.
As far as the salvage yard goes, the jury was still out. I just hoped if I got my ass kicked, I’d at least have my guard up.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
I pieced together what sleep I could and woke well before my alarm clock. I got to work early. Had the space heaters rolling and the computer running before the sun even showed its face. When Charlie came in around eight, I tasked him with putting out word that Miller’s Pull-a-Part was open again: he called the towing service, then some local garages and body shops. He took a big piece of cardboard and spray-painted “Grand Reopening” in bright green, propped it next to the front gate.
His phone calls and ad campaign didn’t conjure up any business, which made the day pass painfully slowly. Charlie intermittently nodded off on the couch while I watched the long hand on a Pennzoil clock drag by. The only activity we saw was a couple folks browsing the yard that afternoon before leaving empty-handed. Neither of us mentioned what a failure the day was.
The yard found a pulse on Saturday—a slow one. Our first sale. A transaction that Charlie handled while I shadowed and took mental notes. A man had pulled an airbag from a Toyota Celica. Charlie found the price list on the computer, took thirty-five bucks from the customer, and that was that. Wasn’t any more complicated than taking a cocktail order.
Later that day, Charlie was helping a guy out in the yard while I manned the desk. The customer, a red-faced man with a comb-over, finally came in with this long, skinny metal part that he laid on the counter.
“Ring this gentleman up,” Charlie told me, standing just behind the guy. “Pulled that from an ’01 Ranger.”
I didn’t know what the hell kind of part I was looking at, and to make matters worse, the customer and Charlie appeared to be in cahoots; they both grinned and crossed their arms while I studied the contraption. I felt as stumped as I did when I was seventeen, learning to drive a stick shift for the first time.
“God bless, boy. Don’t you know a torsion rod when you see one?” Charlie finally asked.
“I do now,” I said. I clicked through the computer database until I found the part. “Bet your ass can’t even spell torsion, Charlie.”
His grin went away, but the customer thought it was funny. He paid me twenty-five bucks, which I was tempted to frame and hang on the wall. When the guy left, I found the Ranger in Dad’s Ford notebook, and proudly wrote Sold: torsion rod.
Charlie disappeared to the break room, returning with two of the beers I’d brought him that morning in a Styrofoam cooler. “Reckon this calls for a celebration,” he said, cracking one open.
“Damn right it does, but I’m not much of a Keystone guy myself. Maybe I’ll just run a victory lap in the yard.”
Charlie took a sip from the opened can, looked at the other can, sort of puzzled. “I wasn’t offering, hoss.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t be pounding those out here in the shop in front of God and the public,” I said. “Just my two cents.”
Charlie muttered something. He headed toward the break room, turning on his heel before he reached the hall. “Want my two cents?”
“Not exactly, but I have a feeling you’re going to offer it anyways, so shoot.”
“If you want to see any real business around here, you need to start showing your face around town.”
“I’ve barely been here two days.”
“Sure, but I bet it’s felt like two weeks, ain’t it?”
“Two years.”
“Exactly my point. You don’t want to be here. It’s written all over your face. Plain as day. May as well hang a ‘Vacancy’ sign around your neck.”
“You’re right, Charlie. I don’t want to be here, so what should I do? Put a big smile on my face? Get myself an ‘I heart Flint Creek T-shirt’? Wasn’t like my dad was Mr. Sunny Disposition.”
“He sure as hell wasn’t,” he said, “but people knew him.”
“Yeah? And?”
“They don’t know you from Adam, and if there’s one thing about this town I’m sure about, it’s this: locals ain’t going to support somebody they don’t know.”
I don’t know how loaded that word was to Charlie, but for me, locals meant folks with pasts that intersected with my dad’s. Every nod, smile, or sneer I’d get in town would have some reason behind it, whether I knew the reason or not. There was nothing casual at all about just showing my face. “Problem is, Charlie, people around here think they know me. Half these people probably still see me as the teenage boy with a shitty attitude, eyeing the nearest exit out of here. That, or I’m just Leland Miller’s boy. The one who pissed away his twenties in a boxing ring instead of starting a family like a good, God-fearing fellow should.”
“Get over yourself,” Charlie said. “You should hear what they say about me.”
“And what’s that?”
He shrugged. “Probably just call me a crotchety asshole and leave it at that. I pretty well keep to myself most the time. Ain’t much Flint Creek has to offer I can’t find on the TV. To be honest, I don’t much give a shit what folks think.”
