Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

And then the change, the swing reaching its high and coming back down, middling the gains. She’s … she’s still here, Walk. She does her jobs and she doesn’t complain. Some days I lose her to the land, she crosses the barley and she’s just gone. I panicked, at first I ran down the lines, crossed the dirt and drove the truck around. I found her on her knees, there’s a spot by the wheat, away from the water and hidden. It’s hollowed out, a space I made for a barn but never needed. And she was there on her knees and I couldn’t see her face but I think she was praying.

She made sure not to go back to that place. She’d already scoped out a new one, a clearing in forest so thick she knew Hal would not find her again.

She looked back at the night when her mother died, and she thought maybe she had been in shock each day since. But the grief came now, slowly, each hour, little by little, catching her out when she needed to be strong.

Some days she screamed.

When she was deep, half hour from the farmhouse, from her brother and his ruddy cheeks as he helped dig the soil, she’d tilt her head back and scream to the clouds. The kind of scream that saw the gray straighten, head up in her field, long neck so graceful. When she was done she’d raise a hand to the horse, tell her go on, eat the grass.

At night, in the dark, they talked.

“Those cops,” Robin said.

“Yeah.”

“They thought I was lying to them.”

“That’s just the way cops look.”

“Walk doesn’t look like that.”

She didn’t argue. But whatever he was, the guy that came and filled their refrigerator and drove them to the movie theater, he was still a cop.

“How did it go today?” she said, same each week.

“She’s nice. She let me call her Clara. She’s got four cats and two dogs, imagine that.”

“Hasn’t found the right man. Did you talk about that night?”

“I couldn’t. It’s just … I try, but there’s nothing there at all. I just remember you reading to me, then sleep, then I think maybe I woke in Walk’s car.”

She leaned up on her elbow as he rolled to the flat of his back. “If you ever do remember hearing something you should tell me first. I’ll decide what we do about it. You can’t trust these cops now. Or Hal. We’ve only got each other.”

Each afternoon she fired the gun. Hal took her to the spot with the wide tree, Robin leading them now, unafraid. She still spoke only when she had to, and when she did she aimed for the gut, something about God or abandonment, but Hal took it different now, the barbs did not grip, the hook slipping harmlessly from his skin. She let him know she did not love him and never would, would never call him anything but his sanitary given name, and would think nothing about taking Robin and leaving him to die alone the second she was old enough.

His response was to teach her to drive.

The old truck bumping along wildly, the flattest acres saw her speed climb and Hal’s hands tighten on the seat. Behind them Robin sat in his booster, watching them, wearing his bicycle helmet and elbow pads because Hal worried she’d roll it. She got the hang of stick, not grinding out the gears so much, feeling the bite like he told her. Some days she got to sixty before he scolded her, when his eyes were on the sky like there was too much of the day now, waiting on first rain. A week in and she could bring the truck to a stop without Hal slamming hard into the dash, cursing for forgetting to belt himself in.

After, they’d walk back toward the house, Duchess holding Robin’s left hand, Hal, his right. Hal would tell her she did good and she would tell him he was a lousy teacher. He would say she handled the runs smoothly and she would say his truck was a piece of shit. He would promise to take her out the next day and she would say nothing to that, because, well, she liked to drive.

Some mornings she’d catch the old man watching Robin eat or watching him with the chickens or climbing on the harrow, and he’d get this look in his eyes that was part love and part regret. And those times she’d fight to hate him, a fight she’d won with ease when they’d arrived, but now a fight she was having to put more and more in to.

She still kept her clothes in a case, folded neat. Sometimes he’d do the laundry and she’d yell at him to leave their shit alone. She’d find their clothes hung in the closet and she’d take them down and return them to the case. He’d buy the wrong kind of toothpaste for Robin and she’d yell at him, the wrong kind of shampoo, the wrong brand of breakfast cereal. She’d yell so much her throat would hurt. Through it Robin would watch. Sometimes he’d ask for quiet and she’d give it, she’d walk the acres and curse at the dropping sun like a fucking mad girl.

She gave less thought to Vincent King, to Dickie Darke, they were turned pages in the darkest chapters of her life. She knew they would appear again, the twists, the sting in her tale.

Most of all she felt tired. Not from the work or the sleep, just from the wretched hatred that lived so deep inside her.

17

“I NEED TO CARRY A GUN to school.”

“No.” Hal was anxious that first morning.

Robin was anxious too, he had questions about the school, about where he’d meet her and what would happen if she didn’t show. There was no bus that ran out as far as their land so Hal said he would drive them and collect them. He groused about it eating into his day, till Duchess told him they’d hitch a ride with a rapist trucker instead, or maybe she’d sell her body to raise cash for a taxi.

“Will the other kids like me?”

“You’re a prince.”

“Of course,” Hal said. “And if they don’t then they’ll deal with your sister.”

“And yet you still won’t let me pack.” She finished her cereal, then checked Robin’s schoolbag, made sure he had his pencil case and his water bottle.

Hal let her drive the track, just to the point where the gum trees folded over the sky. She left it idling as she climbed from her seat and Hal climbed from his. They crossed at the trunk, Hal nodding once and Duchess nodding a return.

“You watch out for each other,” he said, eyes on the road.

“In case the big kids take our lunch money?” Robin said, perking up and wide-eyed.

“They can try. I’m the outlaw Duchess Day Radley and I’ll put a bullet between their eyes.”

“You need to learn to ride the gray if you want to be an outlaw,” Hal said.

“You know nothing. I can ride, it’s in my blood.”

“I did some reading on Billy Blue Radley once.”

Duchess looked over, the scowl replaced by interest.

“If you want I could tell you about him sometime.”

“Okay.” It was not a truce or offering.

Robin tensed when they moved into the turn, the bus and the parents, noise and SUVs. She saw a Ford with muddied wheels and a Mercedes too shiny. She thought of Darke, his Escalade, his fading promise.

“You want me to walk you in?” Hal drew the truck up to the curb.

“No. People might think you’re our father. The bullying would be merciless.”

She took Robin’s bag and his hand and they emptied into the street.

“I’ll be here at three,” Hal said from the window.

“We don’t get out till three fifteen,” Robin said.

“I’ll still be here.”

They moved between groups of kids, tan from the summer and catching up with loud, exaggerated stories. She caught pieces that made a similar whole, vacations and beaches and theme parks. They drew looks and she gave them back.

She led Robin to his classroom and took him inside, a cluster of mothers knelt and kissed and fussed over their children. A little boy was crying.