We Begin at the End Page 4

  “Fine.”

  “That’s not what I heard.”

  “Why the fuck did you ask then?”

  Robin tugged her hand. Mrs. Adams might’ve told her to leave but Duchess tossed three dollar bills onto the counter before she could.

  “Don’t curse like that,” Robin said, as they walked up Main.

  “How’s your mother today?”

  Duchess turned and saw Milton, out front of his butcher shop. He wiped his hands down his apron, blood smeared.

  Robin walked up to the glass and looked at the rabbits, hooked at the throat.

  “She’s fine,” Duchess said.

  Milton took a step nearer, that smell so strong it got in her throat. Blood and death.

  “You look an awful lot like her, you know that.”

  “Yeah, you told me that before.”

  She noticed small bits of flesh embedded in the thick hair on his arms. He stared at her awhile, like he’d forgotten his place, then snapped back when he saw her grocery bag, and what was inside.

  He tutted. “That’s not even sausage. They grow that in a lab. Wait there.”

  She watched him head in, wheezing with each step.

  A couple of minutes and Milton returned, brown paper bag folded over, sealed with a blood print. “Morcilla. You tell your mother where these came from. Send her over if she wants to know how to cook them right.”

  “Don’t you just fry it?” Robin said.

  “Maybe in prison. If you want those flavors dancing you need to get acquainted with a Dutch oven. You see, it’s all about the pressure and the—”

  Duchess snatched the bag, grabbed Robin’s hand and felt Milton’s eyes on her as she hurried away.

  At Rosie’s Diner, Duchess took a breath and led Robin in, shutting out the girls and their looks. Busy inside, vacationers filled tables, the smell of coffee rose thick. Loud talk, second homes, plans for the summer.

  Duchess stood by the counter and saw the jar, the packets of ketchup inside, free if you bought something. A quick look over at Rosie, busy, tending the register.

  Duchess collected a single ketchup packet for Robin and was about to turn.

  “Don’t you have to buy something to take the ketchup?”

  She looked up. Cassidy Evans, from her class. Robin looked on, nervous, shifting from foot to foot.

  Cassidy smirked, lip gloss pout, shiny hair, resting bitch face.

  “It was only one packet.”

  “Miss Rosie, don’t you have to buy something to take a ketchup?” Cassidy said it loud, innocence dripped from her voice.

  Talk died, strangers’ eyes so hot Duchess felt the burn.

  Rosie set down a cup and came to the counter. Duchess shoved the packet back in the jar, then flinched as it fell to the floor and the glass shattered.

  She snatched Robin’s hand and led him through, Cassidy on her heels, Rosie calling out.

  They walked in silence down quiet streets.

  “We don’t even need the sauce,” Robin said. “It’ll still be nice.”

  Along Sunset Road they saw a couple of kids tossing a ball on the sand below. Robin watched them intently. Duchess played with him often, toys, soldiers, cars, a stick he thought looked like a wand. Sometimes he’d holler for Star to come out, most days she’d be lying in the dark living room, television muted. Duchess heard talk of bipolar, anxiety, dependence.

  “What’s going on?” Robin said.

  Ahead they saw kids, three boys running back toward them, sprinting fast as they passed them by.

  “It’s the King house,” Duchess said, and they stopped across the street and looked on. The front window blown, a jagged hole in it the size of a small rock.

  “Should we tell?”

  She watched the house, saw a shadow move inside, and shook her head. She took Robin’s hand and led him away.

  5

  WALK SAT IN THE BACK row of the bleachers and watched the football spiral its way fifty yards into the endzone, where the receiver fumbled it. The quarterback raised a hand and the kid smiled then shook it off. They’d run it again.

  Walk had followed The Cougars his whole life. Vincent once played, wide-receiver. Natural talent, talk of all-state. They hadn’t won much since, never more than a couple of games on the bounce. Still, Walk took his place on a Friday night between clusters of teenage girls with painted faces, screaming themselves raw. After a win they’d pack out Rosie’s Diner, players and cheerleaders and the kind of feeling that made Walk smile.

  “He’s got an arm,” Vincent said.

  “He has.”

  Walk had picked up a sixer of Rolling Rock but Vincent hadn’t touched a drop of his. He’d called by after his shift and found Vincent working on the house, despite the fading light. He’d already sanded back most of the rear deck, hands blistered and face tight with the exertion.

  “He’ll turn pro.” Vincent watched as the kid loaded up another. This time the receiver caught it and whooped.

  “Like you could’ve.”

  “You want to ask me about it?”

  “What?”

  “Everything.”

  Walk sipped his beer. “I can’t imagine what it was like.”

  “You can, you just don’t want to. And that’s cool. Whatever it was, I had it coming.”

  “You didn’t. Not the way it went.”

  “I went to her grave. I didn’t … I didn’t leave flowers or nothing. I didn’t know if I should.”

  Beneath the lights pass after pass landed. Way down, in the furthest corner, Walk saw the shape of Brandon Rock, ball cap backwards. Walk saw him at every game.

  Vincent followed his eye. “Is that Brandon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Now I thought he’d make it. I mean, back then he was good, right.”

  “Knee. It popped out and never back in, not properly. He works for Tallow Construction, something in sales. He limps, should probably use a cane but you know what Brandon is like.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “He’s still got his father’s Mustang.”

  “I remember the day his old man got it. Half the street gathered.”

  “You wanted to steal it.”

  Vincent laughed. “Borrow it, Walk. Just borrow it.”

  “He loves that car. I think he sees it, you know. A better time in his life. The hair, the clothes, the guy still lives in seventy-eight. You see, he hasn’t changed, Vin. None of us have, not really.”

  Vincent stripped the label from his beer but still did not drink. “And Martha May? Has she changed much?”

  Walk stalled at the mention of her name, just for a second. “She’s a lawyer over in Bitterwater. She handles breakups and family stuff mostly.”

  “I always thought she was it for you. I know we were young, but the way you looked at her.”

  “Kind of like the way you looked at Star.”

  The receiver fumbled and the ball bounced its way toward the stand. Brandon was up quick and moved fast considering the limp. He scooped up the ball but instead of passing it to the receiver he sent it forty yards to the quarterback, who plucked it out of the air.

  “He’s still got the arm,” Walk said.

  “Makes it worse, I guess.”

  “Will you go and see Star?”

  “She told you she didn’t want me there.”

  Walk frowned and Vincent smiled. “I can always read you, Walk. When you said you think she needs a little time … shit, hasn’t it been long enough? But then I was thinking she’s right. Sometimes there’s just too much history there. But you and Martha.”

  “She … we don’t speak anymore.”

  “You want to tell me?”

  Walk opened another beer. “That night, after the verdict. We were together. She fell pregnant.”

  Vincent stared at the field.

  “And her father. What with him being a minister and all.”

  “Shit, Walk.”

  “Yeah.”

  “And
she wanted to be a minister too, follow in his sacred steps.”

  Walk cleared his throat. “He made her … abortion. I mean, it was for the … we were kids. But you can’t come back from something like that. And it wasn’t just the way he looked at me, it was the way she did. Like she saw a mistake.”

  “And you looked at her and saw—”

  “Everything. I saw it all. Like my parents, they were together fifty-three years. House and kid and life.”

  “Did she marry?”

  Walk shrugged. “I sent her a letter. About six years back, it was Christmas and I had the old photos out and, you know. She didn’t reply.”

  “It’s not too late to fix things.”

  “I could say the same to you.”

  Vincent stood. “I’m thirty years too late to fix things.”

  * * *

  The bar was in San Luis, which wasn’t more than a wide stretch of highway that carved fallow fields and sloped its way toward the Altanon Valley.

  Star had borrowed the old Comanche from Milton across the street. The aircon didn’t work so Duchess and Robin leaned their heads out the window like a pair of dogs, both tired but this was how it went at least once every month.

  Duchess had brought her project with her, and she clutched the papers tight as Star led them across the lot, squeezing between two pickups and through a back door. Star carried a beat-up guitar case, wore denim cutoffs high on her ass and a top cut low on her chest.

  “You shouldn’t dress like that.”

  “Yeah, well, the tips are better.”

  Duchess cursed under her breath and Star turned. “Please. Just lay off tonight, watch your brother and don’t get in any trouble.”

  Duchess led Robin to a booth at the back, slid him in first then sat beside, fencing him off from a place he had no business being in. Star fetched them a soda each as Duchess set out her report, and then some plain paper for her brother. She took out his pencil case and laid his pens out.

  “Will she sing about the bridge?” Robin said.

  “Always.”

  “I love that one. Will you sing it with her?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I hate it when she cries up there.”

  Smoke drifted from spilling ashtrays. Dark wood, flags above the bar, the light dim enough. Duchess heard laughter, her mother sinking shots with two men, she needed them before she went on.

  Robin reached for the bowl of nuts on the table, Duchess pushed his hand away. “Full of piss.”

  She stared at the page, the space for her father, the long empty branches of her family tree. The day before, Cassidy Evans had stood up front and told of her lineage, then showed off a crooked, noble line that ran from her to the Du Ponts, so vivid was her telling that Duchess could almost smell the gunpowder.

  “I drawed you.”

  “Drew.”

  He pushed the paper across and Duchess smiled. “My teeth that big?” She pinched his side till he laughed so much Star looked over and motioned them quiet.

  “Tell me again about Billy Blue Radley,” Robin said.

  “The way I read it he was fearless. He held up a bank then led the sheriff for a thousand miles.”

  “He sounds bad.”

  “He was looking out for his own. His men, like family.” She put a hand on his chest. “That’s our blood right there. We’re outlaws.”

  “Maybe you are.”

  “We’re the same.”

  “But my daddy and yours, they’re not the same—”

  “Hey.” She gripped his face lightly. “Radley blood, we’re the same. Just because our fathers were no good at all … we’re the same. Tell me.”

  “We’re the same.”

  When it was time the light dropped a little and Star sat up front on a stool and played a set of covers, a couple of her own. One of the men she drank with whistled and hollered and catcalled after each number.

  “Assholes,” Duchess said.

  “Assholes,” Robin agreed.

  “Don’t say that word.”

  And then the man stood, gestured toward Star and grabbed his crotch. He said something else, like there was history there. Called her a cocktease. Said maybe she was a dyke.

  Duchess got to her feet, picked up her soda and launched the glass across the bar. It fell short and smashed by his foot. He stared at her open-mouthed, she stared back, arms out wide, telling him to bring whatever he could, that she wouldn’t turn away.

  “Sit down,” Robin tugged her hand. “Please.”

  She blinked down at him, saw the fear there, then turned to her mother, who mouthed the same words.

  The man glared. Duchess flipped him off and sat.

  Robin finished his soda as Star called for her daughter. Duchess, come up here. My baby can sing better than her momma.

  Duchess sank into the bench, stared at her mother and shook her head no matter how many turned and beckoned and clapped. There was a time when she would sing, when she was smaller, before she knew about the world. She would sing at home, in the shower, in the yard.

  Star declared her daughter no fun at all and moved on to the last song, the song that saw Robin set his pens down and watch their mother like she was the last of the blessed. “I love this one.”

  “I know.”

  When Star was done she slipped from the stage, collected her money and stuffed the envelope in her purse, maybe fifty bucks. And then the man was back, and this time he grabbed a handful of her ass.

  Duchess was on her feet before Robin could plead no. She moved fast, across the floor where she knelt and picked up a shard of the glass.

  Star pushed the man back but he reared, clenched a fist till he caught the eyes, not on him but beyond. He turned, and there she stood small and ready. She held it high, the jagged edge aimed at his throat.

  “I am the outlaw, Duchess Day Radley. And you are the barstool pussy, and I’ll cut your head clean off.”

  She heard the faint cries of her brother. Star grabbed her wrist and shook it hard till she dropped the glass. Other men came, stepped between and made things calm. Drinks were poured without charge.

  Star shoved her out the door, scooped up Robin and followed.

  The lot was dark as they climbed into the truck.

  Star laid into her, yelled and told her she was dumb, that the man could’ve hurt her, that she knew what she was doing and didn’t need a thirteen-year-old looking out for her. Duchess sat still, waiting for it to end.

  When it did Star moved to start the engine.

  “You shouldn’t drive now.”

  “I’m straight.” Star looked in the mirror and fixed her hair.

  “You don’t drive my brother when you’re like this.”

  “I said I’m straight now.”

  “Straight like Vincent King was?”

  Duchess saw the hand coming, didn’t turn from it, just took the slap to her cheek like it was nothing.

  In the back Robin cried.

  Duchess leaned over, took the key from the ignition and crawled back there with him. She smoothed his hair and tears and helped him change into his pajamas.

  Duchess slept an hour, then climbed up front and handed Star the keys. They left the lot and drove toward home, mother and daughter side by side.

  “You know it’s his birthday this weekend,” Duchess said, quiet.

  A beat before Star answered. “Course I know. He’s my prince.”

  It made Duchess’s stomach hurt. She had no money of her own. She worked a paper route, she pedaled and sweated each weekend, it did not pay well.

  “If you can give me some money I’ll take care of it.”

  “I’ll sort it.”

  “But—”

  “Shit, Duchess, I said I’ll sort it. Have a little faith.”

  She might’ve said she lost her faith each time her own birthday passed by without mention.

  The car bumped along till they turned onto the highway.

  “You hungry?” Star sai
d.

  “I fixed hotdogs.”

  “Did you pick up any sauce? You know Robin likes it.”

  Duchess looked at her mother with tired eyes. Star reached across and stroked her cheek. “You should’ve come up there tonight.”

  “Singing for a bunch of drunks. I’ll leave that to the professionals.”

  Star pulled a cigarette from her bag and gripped it between her teeth while she fumbled with her lighter. “If I put the radio on will you sing something for me?”

  “Robin is sleeping.”

  Star slipped a hand around Duchess’s shoulder and pulled her close. She kissed her head as they crawled along the freeway. “There was a guy there tonight, he’s got a studio in the valley. He gave me his card and told me to call. This could be it.”

  Duchess yawned, her eyes growing heavy, the streetlights beginning to blur.

  “The Duchess of Cape Haven. You know I always dreamed about having a daughter. Pretty bow in her hair.”

  Duchess knew that.

  “Do you know about Billy Blue Radley?”

  Star smiled. “Your grandfather used to tell me about him. I thought he was making it up.”

  “He was real. Radley blood, Mom.” She thought about asking after her father again, but let it slide because she was too beat to get into it.

  “You know I love you, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “Serious, Duchess. Everything I do … all I got, it’s all for the two of you.”

  Duchess stared out at the night. “I just wish …”

  “What?”

  “I just wish there was a middle, you know. Because that’s where people live. It doesn’t have to be all or nothing … sink or swim like that. Most people just tread water, and that’s enough. Because when you’re sinking, you’re pulling us down with you.”

  Star wiped her eyes. “I’m trying. I’ll be better. I said my affirmations again this morning. I’ll say them every day. I want to do it for you.”

  “Do what?”

  “I want to be selfless. Selfless acts, Duchess. They’re what make you a good person.”

  It was almost midnight when they drove through town, Duchess dying a little when she saw Darke’s Escalade in the driveway.

  They drew up, the gate open, Darke would be in the yard, on the porch, waiting, staring out into nothing in that way that scared her, like he could see something in the shadows. She didn’t like him. He was too quiet, too fucking big, stared too fucking much. She’d seen him outside of school, by the fence, just sitting in his car and watching her.