Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

“My mother said it’s a penis extension.”

She saw his cheeks flush.

“It’s a ’67 Mustang.”

“Sixty-seven, same year that jacket was made.”

“That’s my number. Ask your mother about me. All-state. Used to call me the bull rush.”

“The ball rash?”

Robin walked back over and grabbed her hand. She felt Brandon watching her the whole way up the street.

“What’s he so mad about? I didn’t go near the Mustang.”

“He’s just pissed because he wanted to date Mom and she blew him off.”

“Did Darke stop by last night?”

Ahead there was sunlight, shutters up and shopkeepers readying.

“I didn’t hear.”

Duchess preferred Cape Haven in winter, where honesty stripped away the veneer and left a town like the rest. She suffered the summer, long and beautiful and ugly.

She saw Cassidy Evans and her friends sitting outside Rosie’s, short skirts and tanned legs, tousling their hair and pouting at each other.

“Let’s go down Vermont,” Robin said, and she let him lead her, away from Main and the girls that would laugh. “What’ll we do this summer?”

“Same thing we always do. Hang out, go to the beach.”

“Oh.”

He kept his eyes down. “Noah is going to Disney. And Mason, he’s going to Hawaii.”

She put a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “I’ll find something for us.”

Robin ran over to the trees by Fordham. She watched him part the willow and move beneath, he would try and climb the low branch.

“Morning.”

Duchess turned, she had been too tired to hear the cruiser, drifted too far to notice Walk pull up beside.

She stopped a minute and he killed the engine, took off his sunglasses and watched her too close.

“Everything alright?”

“Sure.” She blinked away Darke’s hand, her mother’s scream.

Walk let it hang there, fiddled with his radio and drummed the door. “Last night, all okay?”

He always fucking knew. “I just said, didn’t I.”

He smiled then. He never rode her about anything at all. He watched out, but Duchess knew sometimes adults thought watching out meant doing shit that’d lead to the kind of consequences that rippled far from them.

“Alright,” he said.

His hand shook, thumb and index finger meeting over and over.

He clocked her noticing and pulled it into the cruiser. She wondered how much he drank.

“You know you can talk to me, Duchess.”

She felt too tired for it, his fat, kind face and loaded eyes. He was soft, jelly, pudding. Soft smile, soft body, soft way of looking at her world. She had no use for soft.

When they got to school she saw Robin into kindergarten and then waved to Miss Dolores and turned. Last days of school, she needed to keep low, but the paper was a problem, her family tree would get her into shit. She didn’t miss assignments. Her stomach hurt and she placed a hand there, feeling the knot all tight like something bad was coming. She couldn’t stand before the class, say she didn’t know who her father was. She could not do that.

In the halls she found her locker, tried to smile at the girl beside but got nothing back. It had been like that a long time, like the other kids knew, all she was, spent, responsibility and consequence, no time for what they wanted in a friend.

In class she took her seat, middle, by the window with a view out over the field. A cluster of birds tilled the dirt.

She thought of Robin, who’d collect him if she got detention. There was no one. No one. She swallowed a lump, her eyes hot. She did not cry.

The door opened, and it wasn’t Mr. Lewis. An old lady shuffled in, holding a Styrofoam cup, steam lines, coffee, glasses hung from string. A substitute teacher.

Duchess slumped on the desk when the lady told them to get out their text books and have a little quiet time.

* * *

Walk found him on the lot, vacant now, the Fairlawn house little more than rubble. Men cleared the site, making it safe, diggers moved wood and slate and loaded trucks ready to cart the memory away.

Darke watched them, his presence alone enough to see them pick up the pace. When he saw Walk he straightened up a little, and Walk couldn’t help but take a step back.

“Nice day out here. Leah said you called the station. Trouble at the club again?”

“No.”

No small talk, no matter how hard Walk tried. It was not possible to get the man to say more than absolutely, painfully, necessary.

Walk tucked a shaking hand into his pocket. “So?”

Darke pointed to the house behind. “I own that place.”

The small home behind, peeling shutters and rotting porch, an effort to keep it but it looked about ready to be pulled down and replaced.

“That’s Dee Lane’s place.” Walk saw her standing by the window. He waved a hand but she stared straight past him, the water now there, the million-dollar view opening up in a callous breath of nature.

“She rents it. She won’t leave. I served the papers in time.”

“I’ll talk with her. You know she’s lived there a long time.”

Nothing.

“And she has the girls.”

Darke turned away, toward the sky, maybe something finally landing.

Walk took the opportunity to appraise him. Black suit. Simple watch wrapped around a wrist as thick as Walk’s ankle. Walk wondered what he benched, guessed maybe a family car.

“What will you do with it now, the house?”

“Build.”

“You applied for a permit?” Walk monitored applications, objected to the change each and every time. “I heard there was a little trouble last night. The Radley house.”

Darke just stared.

Walk smiled. “Small town.”

“Not for much longer. Did you speak to Vincent King again?”

“He said … I mean he’s just got out, so at the current time …”

“You can say it.”

Walk coughed. “He said to tell you to go fuck yourself.”

Darke, his face a mask of sadness or maybe just disappointment. He cracked his knuckles, the sound like gunshot. Walk could only imagine the damage he could do with his size eighteen boots.

Walk moved on, up the site, broken ground, men at their machines, cigarettes hanging and eyes squinting toward the sun.

“Chief Walker.”

Walk turned back.

“Miss Lane can take another week. I have a storage place. If she’s got anything tell her to leave it out front, I’ll have it collected and kept. No charge.”

“That’s good of you.”

In Dee’s yard was a small deck and the kind of neat border of flowers that spoke of pride of place, no matter how small that place was. He’d known her twenty years, each of them she’d spent in the home on Fortuna Avenue. She’d been married, till her husband fucked around and left her with the bills and two kids to bring up.

Dee met him at the screen door. “I should fucking murder him.” She was small, maybe five-one, attractive in a hard way, like the past years had gunned down the person she had once been. Her against Darke, mismatch didn’t come close.

“I can find you someplace to—”

“Fuck off, Walk.”

“Is Darke right? Is it today?”

“It’s today, doesn’t make him right though. Three years I rented this place from him, after he took on the mortgage … dealt with the bank. Then the Fairview house fell, opened up my view and I get this in the mail.” She fished through a stack of papers and thrust the letter at him.

He read it carefully. “I’m real sorry. Can you talk to someone?”

“I’m talking to you.”

“I don’t think, legally …”

“He told me I could stay here.”

Walk read the letter again, then the notice papers. “I can help you box things. The girls, do they know?”