The Early Crap: Selected Short Stories, 1997-2005 Page 4

  “What now?” Derrick asked. Max stood by Roy and kept his hand on the boy’s shoulder.

  “We should tie him up,” Harris said.

  “No, we’re not tying him up. I already told you that.” Max patted Roy and then went and looked out the window.

  Harris paced, then walked over and propped a muddy boot on the couch cushions. “I don’t feel right about this,” he said. His face was flushed redder than his hair.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “There’s not any women here. That’s not good.”

  Max sighed. “What, you want sex?”

  “No, no.” Harris waved his hands. “It’s not very nurturing. With just men, we could get violent and kill him.”

  Derrick crossed his arms. He was afraid of this. He looked at Roy, the kid’s eyes going wide. He took a step back and brushed away some shells with his foot.

  “You’re going to kill me, Uncle Max?” Roy asked.

  “No, we’re not going to kill you.” Max walked over to Harris, spoke low. “Nobody’s killing anybody here, all right? Could you just play along? And get your foot off my couch.”

  Harris took his boot down and tried to wipe away the print, smearing mud into the cushion. He leaned against the wall, pulled a red drinking straw out of his jacket pocket and put it in his mouth.

  Roy said, “This is messed up.”

  Derrick knelt beside him. “I promise. It’ll be okay.”

  Roy nodded towards Harris and whispered, “I don’t like that guy. There’s something wrong with him.”

  “Yeah, I think so, too. I won’t let him bother you. Hey, man, we’re prepping for summer. I’ll bring you and your Dad up for fishing. Give me five.”

  Roy slapped the palm and pumped a fist. Derrick wandered away, the knot in his stomach pulling on his intestines and bladder, too.

  He still couldn’t get over the silliness of it. Max and Elena actually had a nicer house than Mom and Pop Guidry’s place, but it wasn’t good enough for Max. Success in business, money, respect—meant nothing. His relationship with Donna was bad from day one and was only getting worse, especially with the house in the picture, threats to sue and nasty phone calls flying both ways.

  The will was read the week after their mother’s funeral. Each child received a third of the money. Max was given the hunting land, where he’d already built the cabin with Dad twenty years before. Derrick was given the old man’s Gibson Les Paul goldtop and a five-string banjo. And for Donna, with her young, growing family and hard working husband, Mom passed on the house. Max got pissed.

  “Can you think of any reason why she wouldn’t give me the house? Can you?” Max had asked Derrick.

  “Well, you did kill Dad.”

  “But that was an accident.”

  It happened when their father had to take a dump while deer hunting. He had climbed out of the tree and walked over to a bush when Max sighted the movement and let a bullet fly. The old man was hit in the back, died instantly.

  “You don’t need the house. You and Elena have got a nice one on the bayou, and then this cabin. You’re well off. Look at Donna and Tim, in a trailer, and another kid coming. Why not give it to them?”

  Max had already tuned out Derrick by then. That was the day before Max’s call, telling Derrick his plan for getting the house. Take Roy, hold him for ransom. Derrick didn’t want to come until Max said he was bringing Harris along.

  Harris was a bundle of sweat and nerves, pacing and breathing heavy. The last time Derrick had spoken to him was at Max’s yogurt shop earlier that week, when the guy walked up and asked another stupid question. Ever since Harris had discovered Derrick used to write songs in Nashville, he would do this.

  “What about My Heroes Have Always Been Cowboys? You write that?”

  “That’s Waylon Jennings. He writes most of his own stuff.”

  “Man, I love that song.” Harris grinned and sang a couple lines, bobbed his head. “So, you didn’t write it?”

  Derrick gave up explaining that most of his songs were on some pretty good albums, but never got much airplay, which was why he was back in Gautier teaching school.

  Max motioned for Derrick to follow him to the kitchen door, where Max whispered, “Think we should tie him up, Duck?”

  “Don’t call me that.”

  “Not now.”

  “I’m not Duck anymore,” Derrick said.

  “You’ll always be Duck,” Max said, gripping his brother’s shoulder the way their father used to. “You sure we shouldn’t tie him up?”

  “Hell, you buy the kid Christmas presents. You can’t be serious.”

  Max shrugged. “Just a thought.”

  Roy coughed, wheezed. The asthma was acting up, and he didn’t have an inhaler. Max took a cell phone from the chest pocket of his hunting fatigues, dialed in a number and waited.

  “Who are you calling?” Derrick asked.

  “Donna,” Max said. Derrick started to tell him that he shouldn’t, but Max held up a hand and spoke.

  “Hello? Donna? Wha—Yeah, I took him. He’s fine. Hey, you need to shut up, okay? Calm down a minute.”

  Derrick heard Donna’s shrill screaming while Max winced and held the phone back.

  “I want the house, okay?” Max was loud, like a barking dog. “Mom should’ve gave it to me, like I already told you. I told her I wanted it, and I want you out! Y’all can take my house. I don’t care! Just—hey, what’s that noise? Who’s there?”

  Derrick closed his eyes. “Cops,” he said.

  “What cops? You called the cops about this?” Max kept yelling while Derrick took the phone.

  “Donna?”

  “Jesus, Lord, you’re in on this, too?”

  “I didn’t have a choice.”

  Max had walked across the room and slammed the bedroom door, opened it again, slammed it, over and over.

  “Harris is here,” Derrick said.

  “Oh, God. Let me talk to Roy.”

  “Roy’s fine. I can handle it. You call Tim?”

  “No, man. We can’t afford him taking the day off.” Donna said to the cops behind her, “He’s fine. It’s my brothers’ got him.”

  “Donna, he’s serious, you know.”

  “He can’t have the house.”

  Harris was clapping along with Max’s slamming. Derrick had to cover his open ear to hear.

  “—bring him home.”

  “What? I can’t.”

  “We’ll come get him. I’ve got ten cops here.”

  “No, Sis.”

  “See you soon.” She hung up.

  Derrick turned the phone off and walked over to his brother, who was leaning against the bedroom door breathing heavily.

  “They’re coming to get him.”

  “You tell her where we are?”

  “No, but it’s not like they can’t figure it out. They can even trace it.”

  Harris laughed. “How can they trace a cell call?”

  “Triangulation. They can pin it down within a certain area, like a homing signal or something.” Derrick leaned on the bookshelf and looked at what was there. A home remedy book and the family Bible that Max inherited.

  Harris clenched his fists. “Bastard Illuminati! Watch, they’ll send the black helicopters after us now.”

  Max stood there turning purple as Derrick handed the phone back to him.

  Harris pushed himself up and said, “I’ve got to use the bathroom. I’m going outside.”

  “We’ve got a bathroom here. Through the bedroom,” Max said.

  “No way. That ain’t natural. Be a couple of minutes.” He opened the front door and walked out, slamming it behind him.

  Derrick walked to the window. Outside, the day was bright. There were pine trees and oaks, branches giving way in the breeze, and Derrick imagined the wind across his face, drifting away, sleepy. He
yawned. Max went into the bedroom, probably to take his insulin, Derrick hoped. None of them had eaten, and Derrick thought it might be time to get some breakfast.

  “Uncle Derrick, can’t we go shooting instead? I’m bored,” Roy said.

  Derrick grinned. “I wish it were up to me, pal.”

  “Why is Uncle Max doing this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “So why are you?”

  “Because Max doesn’t know what he’s doing.” Derrick really didn’t have an answer. Derrick thought about going out to the truck and taking Roy back to Donna right then. She might even forgive Max.

  The front door eased open and Harris stepped in carrying a branch full of mud covered leaves. He stood still and quiet with his shotgun. Knowing him, Derrick thought it probably wasn’t loaded.

  “Hey, I’m going to cook breakfast,” Derrick said. “Roy, keep me company.”

  “I can watch him,” Harris said.

  “No. Stay in here. Sit down, read a book, anything.”

  “I want some conversation.”

  Derrick shook his head and headed to the kitchen with Roy behind him. Harris followed them. Roy climbed up on the counter and let his feet hang and swing. The kitchen was narrow, with a gas stove built into the counter beside the sink under a small screened window. There was a small refrigerator near the door, and a large freezer against the back door. The door was boarded up outside, unusable.

  Derrick found a skillet and can of lard, fired up an eye. He set up the percolator with chicory coffee, plugged it in. He ignored Max’s warning sign on the freezer—DON’T TOUCH UNLESS YOU’RE ME—and pulled out four deer steaks, ran water over them in the sink so they would thaw. Derrick figured Max wouldn’t mind. Besides, his brother needed the meal, him being diabetic. Maybe after a good breakfast, they’d calm down, straighten up, and end this joke.

  Harris was still holding the branch. Not holding the gun this time, left it in the front room. He said, “Could you fix me a salad? I’m not into meat.”

  “No vegetables. We haven’t been here in a couple of weeks.”

  “Oh. So, no salad?” Harris shrugged. “Okay. You want to know what I did with this branch?”

  “Should I?”

  “I went back down the trail and swept our footprints away. Cool, huh?”

  “What about the ones you made while doing that?”

  Harris’s face turned to stone. He grabbed the straw from his mouth. “I walked backwards. You think I’m stupid? Max said you didn’t like me much.” He walked over to Derrick, leaned in close. “I’m not crazy. I’ve got proof. They gave me papers.”

  Derrick stood his ground, shoved Harris hard and sent him slamming into the freezer. “You want to fight, Harris? I can take you, right here. Come on, show me!”

  Harris eased down to the floor and said, “It’s okay, okay? I’m not a violent man, you know.” He held the branch in front of his face.

  “Uncle Derrick,” Ray said.

  Derrick looked over to see Max standing just beyond the kitchen doorway, watching them. His .357 revolver hung loosely in his right hand, and he was drenched in sweat.

  “Max, what are you doing?”

  “I think we have to kill him, Duck. Only way to make her hurt.” His words were slurred but still strong.

  “Have you taken your insulin yet?”

  Max shook his head left to right one time. “Didn’t even bring it. Nope, I ain’t going to make it through this one.”

  Derrick stepped slowly over to his brother, pushed his forearm down. “Let’s just let him go. We can eat and then go home. I’m thawing some steaks for us.”

  Max looked upset. “You touched my steaks? Can’t you read the sign?”

  “Forget it.” Derrick held the arm tighter, reached for the gun with his other hand, took it and shoved it in his waistband. “Forget the house, forget Donna.”

  “I don’t need the house, but I can’t let her win. Don’t you get it? She was always their favorite. Even in the end, the big prize. She gets the house. Our parents lived there sixty years. Our home! Aren’t you just a little bit mad?”

  Roy wheezed from the doorway, and Derrick smelled the bitter odor of burning lard.

  “I don’t care, it’s just a house. I’m happy the way I am. Why can’t you let it go?”

  Max laughed, coughed. Derrick let go of his arm.

  “You never cared about winning, Duck. You never cared if you got second or third place. Never got in fights. Never tried to get dates. You never tried for anything. Look at Nashville. You wrote some songs, got lucky, but why didn’t you push for the big time? Why Alan Jackson instead of you?”

  Derrick turned his face away, only to see Harris standing nearby. The smell was more pungent, and Roy sounded like he was about to pass out.

  “Stop huffing over there,” Max said. “You ain’t sick. Just too fat.”

  “Yeah, you ought to eat less meat,” Harris said.

  Roy flipped him off. “Only faggots are vegetarian. That’s what my dad says.”

  Harris lunged for the boy, but Derrick caught him by the back of his jacket, yanked hard and sent him to the floor. “You won’t touch him. You try that again, and I’ll kill you.”

  “No, you won’t,” Max said. “You don’t have the guts, never did. If you’re so pissed about this, why’d you even come along? I’ll tell you. You couldn’t say no to me.”

  Harris crawled to the couch, mumbling under his breath.

  Smoke puffed out of the kitchen doorway, the greasy smell thicker. Derrick said, “Harris, go get the skillet off the fire.”

  “It’s your skillet—”

  “Now!”

  Harris stuck his tongue in his cheek and walked into the kitchen.

  Derrick whispered to Max, “It’s silly and it’s wrong. Let’s just leave, get you a McMuffin on the way home. I can still make it to work.”

  Max walked over to the fish on the wall and slapped it down. “You can’t give up so easily. We’re going to see this through.” He slid down the wall, petted the fish and rubbed his chest. “This is it. I’m not going home today. Donna can laugh at me, but I won’t hear her if I’m dead. Derrick, help me out, will you? Shoot me.” Sweat rolled down his face, dripped onto his lap.

  Derrick pulled the revolver from his waistband, drew aim on Max, held it steady. It was something he didn’t want to do, but he couldn’t make himself stop. He pulled the hammer back.

  “No, Uncle Derrick.” Roy said. Derrick had forgotten he was in the room. The boy was crying, but held tight lips trying to be tough. “I can forgive him. We won’t laugh at him.”

  But he asked me to, Derrick thought. Instead, he swung his arm around and took a shot at the deer head. The ringing drowned out the blast, and the deer’s jaw exploded. He stood and waited until he could hear again.

  Max chuckled softly, his eyes closed. “Oh, Duck. You could never do anything right.”

  Harris bounced into the room carrying the skillet. “What was that?”

  “Nothing. I shot the deer.”

  “Yeah, but before that. Did you hear something outside?”

  Derrick listened. Weak sirens. Police, ambulance, clashing and churning. He let out a long breath. “They finally got here.”

  “Quick, what can we do? We can’t let them take us alive,” Harris said.

  Derrick reached over for the shotgun, picked it up and pointed the barrel at Harris. “Excuse me?”

  Harris grinned. “You think I actually loaded that? I hardly know how it works.”

  Derrick dropped the shotgun and aimed the revolver instead.

  Harris’s eyebrows popped up and he raised his arms. “God, no, please. I want a wife, a family! I want to travel! Let me live.” He dropped the skillet and his knees hit the floor.

  “What happened to ‘can’t let them take us alive’?”

 
“Get real. They always take you alive.”

  Derrick kept the gun on him and thought about blowing his head off right in front of Max, Roy, even letting the cops in to see. Outside, somebody shouted through a megaphone: “—the kid…now…you…peacefully…”

  “There’s going to be a shoot out?” Roy shouted.

  “Not in here,” Derrick said. “Harris, get out. Slowly, and take your shotgun with you.” He kicked it across the floor to Harris, blooming a cloud of dust.

  “I can’t take this out there.”

  “Yeah, you can.” Derrick thumbed back the hammer of the .357.

  Harris pushed himself off the ground, picked up the shotgun, then walked backwards to the door, never taking his eyes off Derrick, not turning around until he opened the door and slipped out. Derrick took three steps, kicked the door shut, then dragged Roy behind the far end of the couch. Harris screamed, “Don’t shoot, I surrender! The gun’s unloaded, see?”

  It sounded like a fireworks show without the whistles and oohs and aahs. A loud thump against the front door, where Harris was blown into it, Derrick supposed. Splinters flew as bullets rammed through the wooden walls, but only for a moment.

  Derrick looked over at Max, who seemed to be okay, but about to fall into a coma. Then he stood, looked down at Roy. He thought about following through, finishing off his nephew so Max could be proud. But in the end, he figured there were some battles time could smooth over better than others.

  “Listen to me, Roy. Go outside, out to the police. Your mom’s probably out there. Tell her it’s just me and Uncle Max in here, and that Max needs the paramedics.”

  Roy nodded and blinked his eyes.

  “All right. And if the cops ask anything about what happened here, tell them it was all Harris’s fault.”

  “No problem,” Roy said, and he walked over, let the door swing open wide. He stepped over Harris and slowly made his way down the steps.

  Derrick went over to Max, ignored the megaphone instructions being shouted at him. He picked up the mounted fish and hung it back in place. Then he knelt beside his bother, who was breathing easier, drooling. He wiped the sweat off Max’s face, rubbed his hands on his jeans and tried to stop trembling.