Tim McGregor - Killing Down the Roman Line

A figure rumbled into the manager’s doorway. The security guard. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Everything okay?”

Carswell rose, met Jim’s stare and hissed. “You made your bed, Jimbo. Lie in it.” He nodded to the security guard. “See Mr. Hawkshaw out, please.”

Jim elbowed past the ogre in uniform and staggered into the lobby. Just past the doorframe, he heard Carswell groan. “Mr. Hawkshaw’s business here is done.”

“Why was everyone so rude?” Travis dragged his feet ten paces behind his mom. She marched at a steady clip, flip-flops clacking. Her mouth set in that grimace like she’d just bitten into a lemon but stitched shut. Stoicism, inherited from her mother’s family tree, had been drilled into her bones at an early age.

“I don’t know, honey.” Emma looked back, waiting for him to catch up. When he wanted to, Travis could sprint to beat lightning. The rest of the time, the boy moved like chilled molasses. She wanted to get as far away from the greasy spoon as possible. “Maybe they’re just having a bad day..”

“Maybe they’re just assholes.”

She stopped cold. “Travis, what has gotten into you?”

“What?”

“Your language. You can’t say two words without swearing.” The sour set of her mouth locked. “You know how much I hate that.”

He shrugged. “Just words. Jesus.”

“No it isn’t. It’s the last resort of the simple-minded. Do you think it sounds cool when you curse?” She saw his shoulders about to shrug and cut him off. “Well you don’t. You sound like every other thoughtless idiot in this town. Is that what you want to be?”

Travis bit his lip before the words ‘ fuck you’ tipped off his tongue. “You think you’re better than everyone else?”

She turned on him again and this time he thought she was going to hit him. Her hand up, ready to backhand his mouth. He could see the jaw muscles grinding under her cheek. Her hand lowered.

“Wait up!”

They both turned. Jim, crossing Galway to catch up. Travis watched his dad stomp towards them, his whole frame bristling with anger. What the hell is wrong with everybody?

Jim caught up and kept marching. “Let’s go home.”

“Is everything okay?” Emma pushed down the rage in her belly, recognising the same in her husband’s stomping gait. “Jim?”

“It’s fine,” he said, not slowing down. Rounding the corner to the alley where they’d parked the truck.

“Jim, stop.” Emma took hold of his arm. “What happened? You look ready to explode.”

He scrambled his brains for a convenient lie, something to patch the moment over and move on. Nothing came.

Travis kept walking, wanting no part of his folks arguing in public. He’d hide in the truck and hope he didn’t see anyone he knew. Then he saw the truck.

“Holy shit!”

Emma lost it. “Travis James Hawkshaw! What did I just say about cursing?!” She turned on her husband. “Talk to your son! He’s become a foul-mouthed little grump!”

Travis didn’t hear a word of it. Eyes bugging, he pointed at the old Chevy. “Look.”

The headlamp on the port side was smashed in. Brittle shards peppered on the ground. The sideview mirror was knocked off, dangling loose from one bolt.

Travis went around to the other side and his mouth dropped. “Jesus Christ.”

The starboard side was defaced with spraypaint. Candy apple red, rivulets of it dripping down the panels to the bubbled rust spots on the runners. A single word:

TRAITOR

Jim snapped up and down the alley. Down the street. Not a soul in sight, no car speeding away. Just a crow cawing mindlessly from a fencepost.

Emma looked at him. “What is going on?”

Jim tore the dangling mirror from the bolt and set the piece in the box. “Get in.”

The ride home. Kicking up dust down the old Roman Line in a truck labelled ‘ traitor’ . Pulling out of town, Travis wouldn’t stop with the questions. Who did it? Why did they do it? What does it mean?

Jim snapped at him to shut the hell up and they drove home in silence.

Coming home, Jim pulled up before the barn and slammed the shift into park. Weighing his options on how to fix the graffiti. Taking it to Murdoch’s garage for a fresh paint job was out of the question but he sure as hell couldn’t leave it the way it was. How much primer did he have in the workshop?

Travis hopped out of the cab, then Emma. They came around the port side to where Jim stood, looking at the damage.

Emma touched a fingertip to the red spray-paint. “It’s still tacky. Can you fix it?”

“Some gasoline might scrub it off.” Jim looked at his son, oblivious to the anger still brewing in the boy’s eyes. “Travis, bring me the small gas can and some rags. We’ll see if we can’t scrub this mess off.”

Travis didn’t move. “Why do you always yell at me like that? I just wanna know why someone would tag our truck.”

Jim looked at his son, saw the sting in the boy’s eyes. When Travis was born, Jim had made a silent vow to be a better parent than his own father was but this was another reminder of how far he’d missed the mark. Each day he crept closer and closer to becoming exactly like his old man. Yelling and hollering. Quick to anger. Impatient. Harsh.

Emma put a hand on Travis’s shoulder. “We’re all a little shaken up, honey. Your dad didn’t mean to yell.”

Another milestone in Jim’s transformation, remembering how many times his own mother would apologize for his old man’s behaviour. Christ, how did this happen? “I’m sorry, Travis.”

Travis still wouldn’t look at him. “Everybody hates us now.”

“No they don’t. This is just some idiot with nothing better to do.”

“No. Everyone at the diner kept giving us dirty looks and bein’ rude and stuff.” He turned his eyes on his mom. “Tell him.”

Emma didn’t say anything but her face gave it away.

Jim switched tactics, trying to patch over the mess he’d made. “C’mon, Travis. Let’s see if we can fix this. If we can’t scrub it off with some gasoline, then we’ll cover it with some primer.”

“Can’t.” The boy nodded in the direction of the old house up the road. “I gotta go to work.”

Anger rushed back fast. “No you don’t,” Jim said. “You’re not working there anymore.”

‘Since when?”

“Since now.”

“Why? I like working for Mr. Corrigan.”

“You are not working for that man anymore.”

Travis barked, near shrill. “Why?!”

Jim defaulted to the laziest excuse of every parent everywhere. “Because I said so.”

“Oh. Well that tells me a lot!” Travis spun on a heel and stormed for the house. He stopped and fired back. “I’m so sick of being treated like a fucking baby around here!”

Jim pounced, marching hard on the boy and towering over him. Sheer force of will kept his hand from slapping the sass right out of the boy. He yanked up a fistful of collar and pulled Travis to his tiptoes. Squeezed the words out slowly. “Go.To.Your.Room.”

Travis pushed off him and backed away, knowing he’d crossed a line. His legs wanted to bolt for his room but no way was he going to give his old man the satisfaction. He turned his back to his father and sauntered back to the house.

Jim smeared his forearm across his brow. Turned to Emma. “What the hell’s gotten into him? I don’t even know who he is anymore.”

“I don’t know, honey.” Emma brushed a fly away, folded her arms. “Maybe he’s taking after his dad.”

Not what he expected. A fight crackled in the air like static electricity. “What’s that supposed to mean?”