Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

“I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat.”

She turned her back on him, reached for her brush and swept dirt from the cracked driveway with hard strokes.

Ten minutes then Duchess dropped her brush and walked back, slow. At the house she stepped up onto the porch and looked through the window. Hal with his back to her, her brother eating a sandwich, coming up a head over the table. He had a cup of milk.

She walked through the back door and into the kitchen, cheeks burning hot. At the table she picked up Robin’s cup and emptied the milk into the sink, rinsed it and pulled a carton of juice from the refrigerator.

“I can drink milk at lunch, I don’t even mind,” Robin said.

“No, you can’t. You drink juice, like you did at—”

“Duchess,” Hal said.

“You shut up.” She turned to him. “You don’t say my name, you don’t fucking say it. You don’t know anything about me or my brother.”

Robin began to cry.

“Enough now,” Hal said, gentle.

“You don’t tell me ‘enough.’” She was breathless, shaking, the anger coming up so hot she could barely control it.

“I said—”

“ Fuck you .”

He stood then, raised a hand and brought it down hard on the table, sending his plate to the floor. It smashed on the stone and Duchess flinched, and then she turned and ran. Past the water and the driveway, arms pumping, across the long grass and into the rough and toward the trees.

She didn’t stop till she had to, till she took a knee and swallowed mouthfuls of warm, heavy air. She cursed him out, kicked a thick oak and felt pain shoot back through her. She screamed at the trees, so loud birds lifted and speckled the clouds.

She thought of her home. The day after the funeral, what little they owned outright was boxed by Walk. Nothing in the checking account, thirty bucks in her mother’s purse, nothing passed down.

She walked a mile before the Douglas fir thinned. She was mucky and sweaty, her hair damp and knotted. She slowed a little and walked the center line of a road, counting off broken lines.

Beside was grass and wood, edging out, a river in the distance and moving on, the sky all blue forgiveness. Sometimes she expected more, a clue, something wilting or graying or not carrying on, something that told her the world was a different place now her mother was dead.

A sign announced the town. Copper Falls, Montana. A line of stores, orange brick too new for the scene, flat roofs and fading awning, flags that fell limp. Bleached signs long forgot, Bush and Kerry, stars and stripes. A diner, HUNTERS WELCOME , convenience, pharmacy, Laundromat. A bakery that made her mouth water. She stood and looked in, saw old couples at each table, eating pastry and drinking coffee. Outside a man sat and read a newspaper. She passed a barber, the old kind with the glass pole and the offer of a shave. Beside it a beauty salon, women in chairs, heat reaching out the open door.

At the end of the street was a mountain that held the horizon, so towering like a challenge or reminder, there was plenty bigger out there.

She passed a small, skinny black boy. He stood on the sidewalk, coat over his arm despite the eighty degrees, watching her intently. He wore slacks and a bowtie, suspenders pulled the pants high enough to highlight white socks.

He would not turn, no matter how hard she glared. “What the fuck are you looking at?”

“Some kind of angel.”

She took in the bowtie with a shake of her head.

“I’m Thomas Noble.”

He continued to look, mouth a little open.

“Stop staring, you freak.” She pushed him and he fell back onto his ass.

He looked up at her through thick lenses. “That was worth it, just to feel your touch.”

“Ugh. Is everyone in this town retarded?” She felt his eyes on her all the way to the top of the street.

She took a seat on a bench and watched the pace, so slow her eyes weighed heavy.

A lady stopped beside, maybe sixty, so much glamour Duchess stole glances. Towering heels, lipstick and stinking of perfume, her hair falling in waves like she’d just stepped from the salon.

She set her bag down, Chanel, and jammed in beside.

“This summer.”

A kind of accent Duchess didn’t know.

“I keep telling my Bill to fix the air conditioner but you reckon he has?”

“I reckon I don’t give a shit. And maybe Bill doesn’t either.”

She laughed at that, slipped a cigarette into a holder and lit it. “Sounds like you know him, or maybe you’ve got a daddy like him. Start a job and lose interest quick. That’s men for you, sweetheart.”

Duchess exhaled, hoping to ward her off with attitude alone.

The lady reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a smaller paper bag. She took out a donut, then offered one to Duchess.

Duchess tried to ignore her but the lady shook the bag a little, like she was enticing a wary animal. “You ever had one of Cherry’s donuts?” she persisted, shook the bag until Duchess took a donut, sugar falling onto her jeans as she bit into it carefully.

“Best donut you’ve ever had?”

“Average.”

The lady laughed like she’d made a joke. “I could eat a dozen maybe. You ever tried to eat one without licking your lips?”

“Why the fuck would I do that?”

“Let’s give it a go then. Harder than it sounds.”

“Maybe for an old lady.”

“Only as old as the man you feel.”

“How old is Bill?”

“Seventy-five.” Heavy laugh.

Duchess ate, felt the sugar on her lips but didn’t lick them. She watched the lady do it too, for a while, fighting it, like an itch, and then she licked her lips and Duchess pointed and the lady laughed so raucous Duchess fought a smile.

“I’m Dolly, by the way. Like Parton, only without the chest.”

Duchess said nothing for a while, just letting it hang there, feeling Dolly look over once, then away.

“I’m an outlaw. You probably shouldn’t be seen conversing with me.”

“You’ve got swagger. Not enough do in this world.”

“Clay Allison’s gravestone read, He never killed a man that did not need killing. That’s swagger.”

“So does the outlaw have a name?”

“Duchess Day Radley.”

A look, not pity, but close. “I know your grandfather. I’m real sorry about your mother.”

Duchess felt it in her chest then, a tightening, like she couldn’t breathe. She looked down at the street, locked on her sneakers, eyes too hot.

Dolly stubbed out her cigarette, didn’t even take a single drag.

“You didn’t smoke it.”

Dolly smiled, neat, blinding white teeth. “Smoking is bad for you. Ask my Bill.”

“So why then?”

“My daddy caught me smoking once. Beat me something awful. But I kept it up, on the sly. I didn’t even like the taste. You must think I’m a mad old bat.”

“Yes.”

Duchess felt a hand on her shoulder. He stood, smiling wide, curls matted with sweat, dirt beneath his nails.

“I’m Robin.”

“Pleased to meet you, Robin. I’m Dolly.”

“Like Parton?”

“But without the tits,” Duchess added.

“Mom liked Dolly Parton. She used to sing it, that song about working nine to five.”

“Ironic, seeing as she never could hold down a job.”

Dolly shook his hand and told him he was just about the most handsome boy she’d ever seen.

Duchess saw Hal across the street, leaning on the hood of the old truck.

“I’ll see you soon, I hope.” Dolly handed Robin a donut and left them, headed back down the street, nodding at Hal as she passed.

“Grandpa was scared. Please don’t make trouble.”

“I’m an outlaw, kid. Trouble finds me.”