Chapter Text
Simon
“I’m home, sir.”
The unmistakable sound of empty bottles falling to the floor precedes the emergence of Davy from his recliner.
“Ah, it’s you,” he grumbles, stumbling to his feet and walking over to me. I wordlessly hold out the meager twenty dollars worth of loose change I managed to earn, and he snatches it from my hand. He shoves the money unceremoniously into the pocket of his worn out jeans and grabs his keys. I don’t say a word as I watch him stagger out the door. I learned long ago that that was a fight not worth having. I’d just walk away with a fresh bruise, and bruises don’t earn any tips.
Once the headlights of his broken-down Ford Tempo leave the driveway, I breathe out a sigh and slump over on the couch. A quick glance at the time tells me that I probably have about three hours before Davy manages to get himself kicked out of whatever rundown bar he finds himself in tonight, so I set my guitar case down and pull out my mother’s old acoustic guitar. I can’t help but crack a small smile as I run my fingers over the fretboard, feeling the strings brush against my calloused fingertips. I grab the old t-shirt out of my case and begin to polish down the wood as well as I can, humming Sally Forth softly as I dedicate myself to my work.
“For the earth had taken that blue sea and turned it into black…”
I lose myself in the repetitive motions of the cloth brushing against the strings. Sometimes when I’m doing this I like to close my eyes and pretend that the soft vibrations of the tin-plated steel are the soft voice of my mother. I’ve never been able to convince myself. My memories of her may have faded over the past four years, but I remember her having the most lovely voice when she would sing me to sleep, strumming simple chords that were occasionally ruined by my tiny hands grabbing at the strings. She used to laugh and tell me that one day we’d be able to play before the world together. I wonder how many times she said that after she already knew she was dying.
I bring the guitar to my chest and hold it for a moment, hoping to absorb any of her that I haven’t managed to extract from the weathered, sun-stained wood. It’s been an hour, so I carefully put the guitar back in its protective casing and bring the case to its hiding space under my bed for safekeeping.
By the time Davy arrives two hours later, I’ve showered, cooked him dinner, eaten, and thrown out the empty bottles. He appraises me as he steps through the door, searching for any reason to take his self-loathing out on me.
“You didn’t get enough today. You should be glad I even let you look at that guitar, so the least you could do is try to convince those apes that you have some kind of talent.”
I don’t say anything in response, just set his dinner and a beer by the recliner and turn the television on so I can bring his attention away from me and onto an episode of M*A*S*H he probably watched back in the 70s while his father drank himself to death on the couch and his mother cried in the kitchen. He just grunts and waves me away in a wordless command to piss off. I don’t say a word as I head back to my room for the night.
Baz
The sun can’t set soon enough.
I glare at Molly, who seems hellbent on making my life as miserable as possible. I’ve spent the past five minutes trying to get her back into the coup, but even this damned chicken is faster than me now. I squeeze my eyes shut tight to keep the tears threatening to fall at bay.
It costs five more minutes and half my sanity to finally chase Molly back to where she belongs. My left leg is aching, but I still have to clean the pigpen and shear the sheep before I can even entertain giving myself a moment’s reprieve.
As I begin to scrape feces from the sty, I feel a sharp pain shoot up my leg right before it gives out on me and I crumple to the ground with a shout. I just lie in the mess of shit, straw, and spilled slop to stare at the sky while I try to get my breathing under control. The sky is clear, empty of anything that I could use as a distraction from the stench. As my chest heaves, I have to fight the urge to just stop—to lie here and let the earth take me. The pigs can feed on me for all I care, and whatever’s left can decompose into fertilizer. A couple of them come over, shoving at me curiously with their snouts, which only serves to further aggravate my leg. I only barely have the energy to shoo them away.
It takes entirely too long for me to get back on my feet and even longer for me to finish cleaning. I’m covered in pig shit, which hasn’t deterred them from nearly bowling me over in the slightest, but certainly makes it harder for me to power through. It’s nearly eight by the time I’m finished giving the pigs their dinner, so the sheep will have to wait until tomorrow.
I take my gloves off as I head back to the house. I wipe at the sweat on my forehead with the back of my hand and pointedly don’t look at the dirt that comes back with it. I want nothing more than a long shower, but there isn’t time for that, so I go to the garden hose and wash myself off the best that I can before heading inside.
It’s time for dinner, but as I stare down the dwindling contents of the pantry, I feel my bones grow even heavier. I’ll have to go into town tomorrow. For now, Father will have to be alright with pasta and toast. At least I’ll get to sit for a moment while I wait for the water to boil.
I bring dinner to the sitting room and place Father’s dinner plate on the coffee table next to Mother’s rocking chair. He doesn’t so much as spare me a glance, too lost in his own mind. I don’t have to follow his gaze to know that he’s staring at our family portrait from when I was five on the mantle. I vaguely remember the three of us going to get ice cream after it had been taken and dripping all over my navy slacks.
I make a place for myself nearby, trying to ignore the acrid smell of brandy that’s seeped into every crevice of this room in the past four months. I watch the sunset as I eat and listen to the sounds of the crickets and frogs starting their night time melodies.
Once I finish my portion, I stand and take my plate and Father’s untouched lunch to the kitchen. Maybe going into town won’t be the worst thing in the world. I really need to go for a drive.
Simon
It doesn’t come as a surprise when I find Davy dead in his recliner the next morning. I feel nothing as I pick up the landline and call 911. I stare at the dried bile that surrounds him and don’t say a word. I guess it’s finally time to start moving forward.
The police get there first. One of the cops takes stock of the scene while the other comes to speak to me. While he’s copying the information from my ID, the ambulance arrives. Turns out you’re not supposed to call 911 for someone who’s already dead if there wasn’t foul play, so I get to watch as they try to resuscitate Davy. By the time the coroner arrives, the paramedics have gone outside. I feel more hollow than I ever have listening to them chat amongst themselves about how David Cadwallader finally kicked the bucket. I think I hear one of them mention that he’d won a bet.
After Davy’s body is taken, I dig out Mom’s jewelry box and pull Nana’s locket and Mom’s wedding band from it. I slip the ring onto the locket’s chain and clasp it around my neck. I haven’t seen them since she died; Davy hit me when I tried to wear them because men shouldn’t wear jewelry. Neither of them weigh much at all, but they feel heavy around my neck.
I walk through the house and let memories play behind my eyelids every time I blink. I see Mom chasing me around the sofa at age six, arms extended until she gets ahold of me, pulls me into her chest, and mercilessly tickles my belly. I see her humming Blackbird in the kitchen as she cooks dinner. I see her crying into her hands on the bed after Davy lost his temper. I see Nana’s funeral reception and the empty look in Mom’s eyes. I see her playing her guitar as I sit rapt with attention, either trying to learn the chords or attempting to braid her hair.
I don’t let myself cry until night falls and I’m curled up over the blankets on Mom’s bed. I mourn Davy, even if he was a bastard. I mourn my mother, whose grave still has fresh flowers from when I visited it yesterday. I mourn the childhood that I think I lost when Mom died, but now I know I can never get back.
Mom’s bed doesn’t feel as comfortable as I remember it being. I think it’s her warmth that’s missing—her voice softly humming lullabies as she held me close and brushed her fingers through my hair. I haven’t been here since she died—Davy closed her room off long ago and moved into the guest bedroom—so maybe I’m looking at my memories through a golden filter. I close my eyes, but I don’t know if I fall asleep. The hours pass in a haze as I drift between consciousness and unawareness. I feel like I’m floating underwater, with only the sounds of the AC unit and the rickety fan to keep me company. When the sun pokes through the blinds, I stay there for a while, staring at the ceiling. I wish I knew what I was thinking, but my mind is silent.
When I get up, I go about my daily routine. I’m in such a haze, that I accidentally make Davy his coffee and eggs. I stare at his plate and feel the grief (I think I’m grieving) and anger from yesterday build within me.
It starts in my stomach then quickly spreads through my chest and up my throat, overwhelming me until I scream. I swipe my hand across the table, letting everything shatter. I fall to the floor, not paying attention to the shards of glass as they cut through the skin of my knees, pulling at my hair so hard that I actually rip out some of it. I scream and I sob uncontrollably until I’m dry heaving, desperately clawing at my chest while I try to breathe.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. When Mom died, I holed myself up in my room for months and cried. I wouldn’t eat very much, which Davy didn’t really care about until one of my teachers called him about it. I was angry all the time, picking fights with just about anyone those first couple of years. This is new, though. I feel so overwhelmed that my emotions are a tangled mess and all I can do is lash out.
The worst part is that I don’t even think I’m sad about Davy—I just can’t handle being alone.
It takes a while to put myself back together after that. When I stand, brush the glass shards off my knees, wincing as they cut deeper into my skin. “Shit,” I curse, before going to get some tweezers from Mom’s medicine cabinet.
After the painstaking process of pulling all the tiny shards free, I stand to sweep up the mess I’ve made on the floor. I give up on breakfast—it’s not worth it to try and make something again. I need to get to town in time to look for a job. I can’t rely on Davy’s veteran checks anymore to get myself through the week.
It’s a three hour walk through dirt driveways and gravel roads to get to town. I almost never go on foot, but I don’t really have another choice right now. Someone must have dropped Davy off last night, since his car is nowhere to be found. Either that or he crashed it and stumbled his way home. Nothing would surprise me at this point. I carefully pull Mom’s guitar case over my shoulder and start down the road.
---
The summer sun is beating down on me as I walk to the sixth building I’ve tried today. Davy used to say that I just had to pick myself up by my bootstraps, walk in somewhere, and ask for a job to get one, but I always knew that was BS. No one wants to employ a high school dropout with no work experience in the past seven years, much less one whose father is notorious for being the town drunk. Looks like Davy’s advice did fuck all. Shocking.
I’m about at the end of my rope for today. I tried a couple of the bars in town first and found out that someone stole Davy’s car last night, which makes this situation even better. I guess I should be surprised that this didn’t happen earlier, since I’m pretty sure everyone in town was tired of Davy’s bullshit, but it’s still frustrating. I’m going to be spending at least six hours a day commuting, and that’s if I get a job.
I’ve worked myself up quite a bit and am about ready to give up for the day when I spot Chapel Grove Stop & Shop, Mr. Wellbelove’s corner store, right on the edge of town. The shop is small, barely large enough to be considered a building instead of a room, but it’s been a staple of the community since I can remember. Kids would come here after school to get junk food, loitering outside while their friends tried to teach them how to skateboard.
I used to work here when I was still in school and dating Agatha. Mr. Wellbelove was always nice to me, but I haven’t seen him since we broke up. I don’t want to face him, but if there’s any chance that he has some good will left towards me, he could be my best shot at finding a job.
I walk in, and the bell attached to the door jingles. It’s loud inside, but only from the sound of the AC unit and the fan by the register. I look over and am shocked to see Aggie sitting there, painting her nails.
“Welcome,” she says, not looking up. If I thought I was worried about facing Mr. Wellbelove, this is so much worse.
She looks gorgeous. Her long, blonde hair is plaited and she’s wearing a tank top that shows off her lovely collarbones. I gulp and close my eyes for a moment, steeling myself. When I open them, I walk over to the counter and clear my throat.
She glances up briefly, then does a double take, her forehead wrinkling as she frowns. “Si?”
“Uh, hey Aggie. Long time no see?”
Her frown deepens and she looks around, probably searching for an escape. Aggie doesn’t really do uncomfortable conversations; she’d rather just move on. It’s why I haven’t spoken to her since our breakup, despite the fact that we were friends. “What are you doing here?”
“I, um, wanted to see about getting a job,” I respond, rubbing the back of my neck. It doesn’t help—my hands just get sweatier.
“You want to work here?” she asks skeptically, eyeing the guitar case.
I chuckle nervously. “Yeah, um, nowhere is really… looking for people like me to work there. I just thought that maybe, since, y’all know me…”
She squints at me appraisingly. “Are you going to actually show up?”
I should be offended, but she’s right to be concerned. I stopped showing up for work when Mom got sick. I think it was part of the reason why Agatha broke things off. I get it now, even if it felt like my world was crashing down around me at the time.
I nod vigorously, excited that she’s even giving the idea some consideration. “Yes, of course! I can work any hours, too. I know you always used to have trouble finding people to work the opening shift, but I can make it. And you know that I’m good with heavy lifting, so I can help stock the shelves and take out the trash, or whatever you need me to do.”
She stares at me for a moment longer before sighing in defeat. “I suppose I should give you a chance. Just… Don’t think this is an invitation for us to get back together, Si. I don’t even want to be back here, I’m just doing Dad a favor.”
“Of course not! I understand completely, I just…”—I take a deep breath—”thank you, Aggie.”
She gives me a small smile. “It’s nice to see you, Simon.”
I give her a bright smile. I do miss her, and I’m sad that I probably won’t be seeing her even though she’s here, but I’m so relieved to have a job that I can push that out of my mind for now. “It’s nice to see you, too!”
Once she’s gotten me sorted with all the paperwork, I’m free to go. I start tomorrow, so I need to get back and rest, especially since I have so far to go. That can wait, though. I have somewhere I’d much rather be right now, and I’ll be damned if I don’t make it.
Baz
Mother’s car pulls up to the curb and I can’t keep the smile off my face. I run over and she pulls me into a tight hug, leaning up to kissing my temple.
“I missed you so much, little puff.”
I bury my nose in her hair, breathing her in. I haven’t seen her since she and father dropped me off in August, and I can’t believe how much I missed just being with her. “I missed you too, Mother.”
She pulls away, reaching up to tug on my nose. I scrunch my face and bat her hand away as she laughs, eyes twinkling. “Are you ready to go?”
“Of course,” I respond, picking up my suitcase and lifting it into the trunk.
Mother is driving on a back road and singing along as A Case of You plays on the radio. She looks over and smiles at me when we stop at the only light for miles, reaching over to pull my hand into hers. I roll my eyes and stick my tongue out at her as she sings, “ I remember that time you told me, you said ‘Love is touching souls’. Surely you touched mine ‘cause part of you pours out of me in these lines from time to time.”
“Green,” I say, pulling my hand away so she can go back to driving. She turns back towards the road and lightly presses the gas right as a semi comes careening through the intersection.
I jolt awake with a gasp, fumbling for the lamp. I feel a phantom pain in my leg as I try to coach myself through my breathing exercises.
In… 2… 3… 4…
Hold… 2… 3… 4…
Out… 2… 3… 4…
Good job, Basil, now let's try to hold for eight. You can do it, little puff, you’re so strong.
The tears continue to fall down my face even after I have my breathing under control. The nightmares aren’t new—I’ve been having them since the accident. If things were the way they used to be, I probably would have been in therapy, but that’s out of the question now. I’d rather get my father a full-time caretaker if we had the funds, but it’s pointless to entertain either way.
I get in the shower and turn the water to scolding, hoping to burn off the memories and the dirt that feels like it’s seeped into my pores. I pour my shampoo into my hand, gently massaging it into my scalp. Showering is one of the few luxuries I can afford, now. I just have to make a point to not look at how brown the runoff is while I wash it out, and I can almost pretend that I’m back in my dorm at school, unwinding after an exam. The illusion usually gets broken anyway, since I have to scrub my skin raw to feel even the slightest bit clean.
I can’t help but laugh at how far I’ve fallen. I used to have a twenty-step skincare routine, and an even longer one for my hair. Showering used to be an hour and a half long affair, but now I couldn’t give a shit, even if I had the money to afford the products. I shake my head to get rid of those thoughts, but I’m not very successful. It doesn’t matter. The hot water will run out in a few minutes.
When I walk to the kitchen to start breakfast, I pass Father. He’s right where I left him, though that’s not really a surprise. I hardly spare a glance toward his dinner plate, knowing without having to look that I’ll find the majority of it untouched.
I bring Father more toast and take a moment to look at him. I grieve my mother every day, but sometimes it feels like I’m grieving my father, too. It’s like he was in the car with us, too, since he hasn’t spoken a word to me since we buried her. We’re both shells of our former selves, but it’s like he’s just skin and bones, now, living without his soul.
I used to love a good tragedy. I wish my life hadn’t become one.
“I’m going into town today,” I tell him. “We’re out of food. Do you have any requests?” His unfocused eyes shift to me for a moment and he shakes his head. I give him a weak smile in response. “Alright. I’ll be back in a few hours.” He just nods and goes back to staring into space.
I go outside to get some work done before I head out. I collect the eggs, milk the cows, shear the sheep, and feed the pigs. By the time I’m done it’s nearly noon and I’ve sweat away half my body weight. I wish I could get another shower, but I can only afford one every other day, so I’ll have to wait.
I pack up anything I think I can sell, and put it in the back of my truck. Most people will be at lunch when I get there, but that just gives me time to get set up. The market’s usually the busiest in the mornings, but I can’t wait until tomorrow.
As I start to drive down the long dirt road that leads away from the farm, I feel my worries slowly melt away. I turn up the radio, roll down the windows, and allow myself to enjoy the feeling of the wind in my hair. As the dirt turns to asphalt, filled to the brim with potholes that have been there for a decade, I let myself forget about the world, if only for a little while.