The Last Exit to Normal Read online

  “Will do.”

  “You should talk about things like this with your father.”

  I shook my head. “Tell that to him. Every time I do, he wants to turn it into some kind of lesson on life.” I looked at him. “Sort of like you’re doing now.”

  “I’m not your father, and because I’m not, I can say whatever I want. And don’t go around thinking that I actually care about you or anything, because you’re nothing more than a nuisance to me.”

  “Blah blah blah.” I looked around. “Am I going country, or are you going to keep preaching?”

  An hour later, I walked out of the Saddleman wearing tan ropers, which are lace-up cowboy-type work boots (you can’t work in regular cowboy boots, apparently), a pair of straight-leg Wranglers that made me feel like my nuts were wrapped in duct tape, and a neutral-colored button-up work shirt that gathered the heat like a blowtorch in my waistband. Three pairs of regular Levi’s, leather work gloves, and three shirts bulged in the Saddleman bag I carried.

  At my insistence, I had also picked out a cowboy hat. Edward smirked disgustedly every time he looked at it. I felt like I should be trick-or-treating, but I also thought it was sort of cool. Like a uniform or something. Maybe Edward was right. Maybe I was conforming. He told me I was conforming to lust.

  When we got home, Dad was sitting on the front porch with a file in his lap. We’d made one other stop along the way, and Edward had loaned me some money. I’d purchased something for Billy, but left it in the van for now. I’d give it to him later. Dad looked at me when I got out of the car and gaped. “What happened to my son? Edward? Is he sick?”

  Edward smiled. “Love is in the air.”

  Dad leaned back. “Oh. Enough said. You look nice, son.”

  Miss Mae banged out the door, a scowl on her face and her hands on her hips, ready to breathe fire about something or other. Flinty eyes riveted on me, and she closed her mouth. Then she walked down the stairs and looked me up and down like I was a cow at auction. She nodded, brought her hands to my collar, straightened it, pressed the lapels down, and patted them with gnarled hands. “Very handsome.” Then she turned around and walked up the stairs, muttering about me possibly turning out human.

  As she reached the screen door, she turned around. “You get your chores done or I’ll make you wish you had a suit of armor on instead of those new duds, boy. I ain’t foolin’ around, either. I’ll switch those stitches into your skin if you make me say it again.”

  CHAPTER 9

  In regular–person speak, what Miss Mae meant was that I had to get my chores done before I went on my work date or I’d be bludgeoned with a giant-size wooden spoon. I went inside, stuffed the rest of my new clothes in my dresser, and walked out back.

  When Miss Mae wrote on my chore list that I needed to paint the fence, I didn’t realize I had to fix it before I did. Twenty feet of it lay on the ground. I found a hammer and a can of nails in the woodshed, grabbed the shovel, looked around for the wheelbarrow, and remembered that Billy had borrowed it.

  As I walked across the lawn, I heard the familiar banging of bricks being dropped into the metal tub of the wheelbarrow. I shook my head on my way over, thinking about Billy getting strapped because I’d helped him.

  I knew it before I saw it, and as I came around the corner, I saw Billy loading bricks. Mr. Hinks’s car was gone. My stomach crawled. “Hey, Billy.”

  He looked up, didn’t say anything, then bent to his work.

  I took a breath. “Is he gone?”

  He nodded, not looking at me.

  “He’s making you move them back to the first pile, isn’t he?”

  He stood up. “You dumb or something? Stay away from me.”

  “It’s not your fault, Billy. You know that, right?”

  He kept piling bricks in. “Don’t look like it matters much, do it? You ain’t from here an’ you don’t know nothing.”

  My guts crawled even more. I watched a stray cat slink along the fence line, remembering it as the one who’d rubbed itself between my calves the first day we’d arrived. Charcoal gray. I’d seen Billy petting it the other day on his back porch, playing cat’s-paw with it. “I know I’m not from here, but it wasn’t your fault and I’m sorry.”

  Billy straightened, a broken brick in his hand, his sweaty face contorted. I couldn’t tell if there were tears in his eyes or if it was just sweat. “ ‘Sorry’ don’t cut it around here, faggot. My dad’s right. You prob’ly just want to put it in me, like he says.”

  I’d dealt with stuff before, but never in my face like this. “Whoa. Not even, man. And your dad is an asshole for even saying it.”

  Billy’s eyes swept to the cat slinking along the fence. He walked a few steps to the back door, opened it, then reached inside. He brought out a rifle.

  My stomach fell to my feet, images of being blown away by an eleven-year-old boy flashing through my head. “Hey, man, put that away.”

  He looked at me like I was the biggest dork in the world, levered a round into the rifle, took aim, and shot the cat. It jumped, then crumpled to the ground. The shot echoed, but it wasn’t that loud. Not like I expected it to be.

  I stared. “Dude, no way. Why’d you just do that?”

  He stared at the cat. “Ain’t your business.” With that, he walked over to the cat and nudged it with the barrel.

  I’d seen my fair share of bad shit back in Spokane, but I’d never seen somebody kill something for no reason, like this kid had just done. I looked at him. There was no feeling in his eyes. Complete indifference that he’d killed a living thing. I pointed to the cat. “There was no reason to do that, man. None.”

  He put the rifle back inside the door. “Ain’t your business.”

  I stared at the cat. Blood seeped from its mouth. This kid was whacked in the head, and I couldn’t believe I’d just seen him do what he’d done. “That was wrong. Totally wrong.”

  He shrugged. “Stray.”

  “You were playing with it the other day; I saw you.”

  He ignored me. I stood there staring at him for a moment, but his face was as blank as a sheet of paper. I turned around and walked inside.

  Dad was sitting at the table, with paperwork spread out in front of him. I slouched into a chair. “That kid over there is a nutcase.”

  He looked up. “How so?”

  “He just shot a cat. Didn’t you hear it?”

  “I thought it was a firecracker.”

  Miss Mae walked through the room, not bothering to stop. “Subsonic .22. Good for pests.” Then she disappeared. Apparently everybody who lived more than five miles out of a city was a firearm expert.

  I stared at Dad. “I’m clicking my heels three times, Dad.” I closed my eyes, then opened them. Still here. “This place is not right.”

  Dad stood up. “Is he still out there?”

  “Yeah. His dad is making him move all those bricks back for no reason.” I gave him a look. “You know, building a work ethic.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  A few minutes later, Dad came back in and sat again, staring at the table.

  “What happened?”

  “Not much.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Well, after he told me to go away, he told me that there were strays all over the place.”

  “So he should shoot them? God, Dad, we’re not talking pellet gun here, and I don’t care if it’s a sub-whatever .22, it’s a rifle. Like a real one.”

  He shook his head. “I’m not concerned about the cat, Ben, I’m concerned about him.”

  “I told you Mr. Hinks is screwed up. He beat the crap out of him with a belt right at the back door yesterday because I helped with the bricks.”

  “You’d better get your chores done.”

  I stared at him. “What?”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Of what? Billy?”

  “Yes. I said I would take care of it, and I will.”

  I knew my
dad too well. Ever since I was a little kid, he had to follow the proper rules and regulations, and he never took anything else into consideration. Like Billy getting it double if the authorities were called. “If you call the sheriff, he’ll beat the crap out of him again, Dad. You can’t.”

  Dad’s eyes sharpened. “I said I’ll take care of it.”

  I walked outside. I could hear Billy moving the bricks, and I stood by the garage for a few minutes, listening. The kid had busted that cat like it was nothing. He’d killed it because it was there, and it slid off his back easy as anything.

  I imagined him over there, spending another four hours working because of me, and I couldn’t figure out if I felt sorry for him or not. I sat on the back-porch steps and lit a smoke, glancing over at the house every few seconds. Why should I feel sorry for him? I didn’t really think you could call it murder, but that was the closest thing to it that I could think of, and besides, it wasn’t any of my business anyway. Miss Mae was right. I should stay away. But I wouldn’t.

  I snuffed my butt out and walked over to the minivan, grabbed a bag from the backseat, and went next door. Billy looked at me, dumped the wheelbarrow on the pile, and turned around, trundling over to the old pile. I set the bag down on the bricks, calling to his back, “You can put it in our woodshed if you don’t want him to know I gave it to you.” Then I walked back home.

  I decided to mow the lawn because first of all, the motor would drown out the sound of the damn bricks, and second of all, I needed the wheelbarrow to dig postholes for the stupid fence, and I wasn’t about to go over and get it. Twenty minutes into trying to get the mower started, I knew why people wore boots to work in. They were good for kicking things that didn’t work right.

  I finally got the thing started and mowed like a madman, my arms aching from the day before and my hands killing me. I had two hours before the hay date, and I wanted to take a shower before I walked down to Kimberly’s house.

  The mower didn’t have a bag on it, so I had to rake, and by the time I got done with the backyard and moved back to the front to rake, I saw the sheriff pulling up in his truck. My dad had called. Leave it to him to do things properly.

  The sheriff got out, nodded to me, and walked down the Hinkses’ driveway. “Hey, Billy, your daddy around?” he called.

  I listened from the yard, and Billy answered. “No, sir.”

  “Come on down here for a minute, huh?”

  Billy came down. The sheriff glanced at me, and I started raking. He turned to Billy. “How ya doing, partner?”

  “Fine, sir.”

  The sheriff leaned down, his hands on his knees, and looked into Billy’s eyes. “Daddy coming home soon?”

  “He said six.”

  The sheriff looked at his watch, then at Billy. “Your daddy whip you yesterday, son?”

  Billy nodded.

  “On your bottom?”

  He shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “You just turn on around and let me take a peek, then.”

  Billy shook his head.

  The sheriff took off his sunglasses. “Turn around, Billy.” The sheriff twirled his finger as he said this, and Billy did, turning around and looking over his shoulder. The sheriff hooked a finger under the shirt and lifted it. I could see the welts from where I was. It almost hurt just looking at them. He studied the marks. “You get in trouble?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The sheriff lowered the shirt and turned him around. “For what?”

  “Bein’ bad.”

  “Like what kind of bad?”

  Billy glanced at me. “Not doing my work the way I was supposed to.”

  “You shoot a cat today?”

  Billy nodded.

  “Particular reason?”

  “Strays get into the garbage and the garden. Make a mess.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Fair enough.” Then he sighed, taking a minute. “I’ll tell you what. You abide what your father says from now on, okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He straightened up. “Get on back to work, then.”

  Billy walked back, and the sheriff turned toward his truck.

  I stopped raking and called to him: “You know what’s going to happen if you talk to Mr. Hinks!”

  He looked at me, then stopped walking. A moment passed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “You know what it means, Sheriff. He’ll just get more of the same.”

  He took a toothpick from his breast pocket and popped it in his mouth, hitching his belt up. “I suppose I don’t know that.” Then he tipped his hat to me. “Take care.”

  As I watched him go, I realized one thing: Billy Hinks was alone in this world, and nobody cared about it. I couldn’t keep my mouth shut. “Sheriff?” He turned. “So you can just shoot shit around here any time you feel like it?”

  He smiled. “This isn’t the city, Ben.”

  CHAPTER 10

  By the time I got out of the shower, got dressed, and went downstairs, it was four-thirty. I didn’t want to be late, and I realized I wouldn’t be having dinner, so I grabbed a couple pieces of bread from the bread thing, spread some peanut butter on them, and walked out, saying goodbye to whoever was around to hear it. Miss Mae called to me from her room: “Get in here.” I walked to her door, looking in. She sat in a chair by the window, reading a book. She looked up. “You have manners at that Johan house, understand? I won’t have my good name smeared around this town on account of some boy who don’t know no better.”

  “Your name is different than my name. Me Campbell, you Evil.”

  She snapped her book shut, fire in her eyes. “I don’t need you to tell me what my last name is, and the first day I do, I’ll be in a pine box being laid to rest next to my dead husband. Now get. And don’t smart off to me.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  As I hit the lawn, I saw Billy out by the curb, on the skateboard I’d left him. The bag lay crumpled on the driveway. He glanced at me, then hit the board, skating a few feet before hitting a pebble and tumbling to the pavement. Just then an old Ford Bronco, with three guys in it around my age, passed, slowing as it came by Billy. One of the passengers, a guy with blindingly white, straight teeth and a high school baseball cap, leaned out the window and smiled. The Bronco idled next to Billy. “Hey, freak, you all right?” The other guys laughed.

  Billy stood up, shifting from one foot to another and looking anywhere but at them. The guy laughed again. “Your daddy know you’re in the street, scaring people? Get inside, boy!” More laughter ratcheted from the Bronco.

  Right then Miss Mae’s voice cackled from behind me: “Ronald Jamison, you get off my street an’ leave that boy alone ’fore I call your daddy and have you strapped for bein’ the no-account you are! You hear me?”

  Ronald Jamison laughed; then the driver goosed the Bronco and they were gone. I turned, giving a questioning glance to Miss Mae. She shook her head disgustedly and tottered inside, slamming the screen door shut.

  As I passed Billy, he ignored me. “They hassle you a lot?” I asked.

  He didn’t look up. “I ain’t supposed to talk to you.”

  “Then don’t.” I walked on.

  “Hey.”

  I turned.

  He picked up the board, looking away. “It’s cool.”

  “Yeah.” I started walking again.

  “Hey.”

  I turned.

  He looked at my outfit, then at my cowboy hat. “That hat ain’t gonna do.”

  I smiled, then tipped my Stetson to him and moved on down the street.

  Kimberly’s house, like so many other places in the town, was a three-story Craftsman with a porch running along the front. Kimberly’s truck was parked outside. I walked up the steps, took a deep breath, and knocked. A minute later, a hulking blond giant with arms bigger than my legs answered the door. From the worn shit-kickers on his feet to the John Deere cap on his head, he was cornfed trouble if I ever saw it. Except he wasn’t Kimberl
y’s dad. Way too young.

  He had the same eyes as Kimberly and the same blond hair, but from there the resemblance ended. I didn’t know if they had the same smile, because he wasn’t smiling. He was looking at me like I was a stray cat in Billy’s rifle sight. I took a deep breath. “Hi. Is Kimberly here?”

  “Who wants to know?” His voice had all the menace and depth of a killer, just without the German accent.

  His body took up the whole doorway. My first thought was to tell him I had come from the church to pick her up to go pray for refugee children. “Ben. Campbell. I . . .”

  Then a voice from heaven called from somewhere in the house: “Dirk! Leave him alone! Dad!”

  Footsteps through the living room brought another male to the door. This one wasn’t six-four and menacing. This one was around fifty years old, balding, pudgy, and wearing office slacks and a white-collared button-up shirt. He looked like an accountant, with his round face and round glasses. He had the same eyes as the guy who looked like he was going to stomp me into the porch. I realized Edward had been playing a game with me. Big Boy moved out of the way.

  The older man held his hand out. “You must be Ben. I’m Mr. Johan.”

  I shook his hand, refusing to wince, because any sign of weakness in front of Dirk would mean he’d eat me. Though Mr. Johan’s shake was rock hard, there wasn’t a callus on his hand. “Nice to meet you, sir.”

  Dirk looked at my hat and smirked, shaking his head and mumbling something about a clown as he disappeared into the house. Mr. Johan scooted me in. I couldn’t help but think he looked like a well-dressed and genteel Mr. Potato Head, then banished the thought because Dirk might be some sort of psychic redneck and smash me with a sledgehammer.

  The first thing I noticed was the cows. At least a hundred porcelain miniatures were spread throughout the living room. Pink, blue, black-and-white, polka-dotted—they sat on shelves and tables and glass-encased boxes. Somebody in this house had a clinical fetish for bovines, and it scared me. Mr. Johan took a seat in a recliner, looking at my hat. “Have a seat, Ben.”