Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

Dolly reached over and closed a hand over hers. “Maybe you don’t choose who you get to be. Maybe it’s predefined. Some of us are outlaws. Maybe we find each other.”

“And maybe it’s all nothing. No one in control but the person willing to go out and take what they want.”

“Do you know about justice, Duchess?”

“Three-Fingered Jack. He rode five hundred miles to avenge the death of his partner, Frank Stiles.”

“But what do you think it means? And I don’t mean defined, I mean what do you think it means for the people that get hurt.”

“An end. I could take it back to breathing. But I know that’s not enough.”

“And for Robin? What do you think he wants?”

“He’s six. He does not know what he wants. He does not know a world beyond the immediate.”

“And you?”

“I know too much.”

The waitress came over with two cocoas and a small cupcake with a single candle in it. She placed them down, winked at Duchess and then returned to the counter.

“Happy birthday, Duchess.”

Duchess stared at the cake. “You didn’t need to—”

“Hush, now. It’s not every day a girl turns fourteen. You need to make a wish.”

When she realized Dolly would not quit she leaned forward, closed her eyes and blew.

Outside they walked the shaded side of the street. When they got to the parlor Duchess picked up the bicycle and wheeled it along.

Dolly stopped beside her truck. “There’s a lot I should say here.”

“But nothing I don’t already know.”

“Will you come back to the house? There’s something I’d like to show you.”

“I can’t. I have to get on.”

“Another time.”

“Sure.”

Dolly took her hand. “Promise me you’ll stop by one day.”

“I will.”

“And I know you’ll make good on that. An outlaw is only as good as her word.” Dolly looked frail then, written with concern, like Duchess was even close to being her problem.

“I can check on Robin.”

Duchess nodded, a slight tremble in her lower lip. She would have to get tougher for what would come.

“You stay safe, Duchess.”

And then Dolly reached into her bag and took out her purse. As she began counting bills Duchess got on the bicycle and rode.

She turned at the end of Main.

She waved and Dolly raised a hand.

Duchess made it to Radley land an hour off noon, legs burning, T-shirt damp through, hair slicked down. She buried the bike in grassland by the gates and walked slowly up the winding driveway, beneath the praying trees, beside the dead water.

She thought of Robin, if he was at school now, if Shelly was with him. It took all she had not to break from her path, return and fall to her knees and take him in her arms. She’d kept one photograph, him smiling, a year back when his hair was longer. She took it from her bag as she climbed the old porch steps and sat on the swinging seat.

There was a board back on the gates, SULLIVAN REALTY, there would be an auction one day in the future and someone else would move in, take care of the land, run the same tired circle.

In the distance Duchess watched elk, clustered like always at the foot of the hills. The fields needed tending. She thought of Hal out there, a lifetime alone.

At the red barn she opened the door and saw his tools still where they were, nothing of value to anyone. She crossed into the shade and walked to the rug and dragged it back.

She pulled up the door in the floor, it was heavy. Sweat dripped from her chin. She propped it and walked down the steps.

A low store. Guns on shelves, a rifle rack.

An old leather chair, Hal’s place where he could be alone. Beside was a small table, and on it a thick stack of letters. She thumbed them, settled on the last and opened it, and as she did, two papers fluttered to the ground. She picked them up, two halves of a check. She pressed them together, swallowed dry, a million dollars. Post-dated, a couple months after the trial was due to start. The signature was simple, more like print. Richard Darke. On the back she saw Vincent had endorsed it, signed straight over to Hal.

She placed it all back, thought of the cost of atonement, warmed by the thought of her grandfather ripping it in two.

She stood.

Across she saw boxes.

She walked over, took a knee when she saw the colored wrapping paper. Gifts. She checked the tags, saw her own name scrawled, and then her brother’s. There were dates on each, going back each of her years. She sat back on the low rung and tore one open. A doll. Then another. A puzzle. She did not open any of Robin’s.

She stalled at the last one, dated that day. She opened it with care, took the lid from it and swallowed when she saw what was inside.

She lifted the hat out and admired it. Leather studs on the band, vented crown and four-inch brim. She thumbed the tag, the intricate gold.

John B. Stetson.

And then, slowly, she placed it on her head, the fit perfect.

She took two guns, hers and one of his. She took a box of bullets, the kind he’d shown her.

When she was done she placed everything back, loaded her bag and felt the weight.

His ashes drifted away by the water, in the spot they sometimes sat.

She steeled herself and dipped her hat. “So long, Grandpa.”

41

WALK SPENT A DAY DODGING calls from above.

News traveled quick, he would be summoned to Governor Hopkins’s office where they’d talk over his replacement, no doubt offer him a desk job. Three calls so far that day, like they ran with the assumption he was nowhere near fit to serve.

He sat at his desk, the file spread out, Milton’s bloated face staring at him. The man had no family to speak of, a distant aunt that lived in a care facility in Jackson. He’d called, she’d claimed she did not know a Milton.

He looked up when he saw her at the door, tried a smile but it was hard.

Martha closed the door behind.

“You been dodging my calls, Chief?” She said it with a smile.

“Sorry, I’ve been busy here.”

She sat, tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. “Truth?”

“I haven’t been able to face you.”

“You hustled.”

“But I didn’t want to hustle you.”

She crossed her legs. “I’ll get over it. We both went into this with our eyes open, right.”

“I think me more than you.”

“I’ve got business coming in now. Fuckers on death row want me to run their appeals. Forget it. Give me deadbeat men and broken-down women. They’re my bread and butter.” She ran a hand through her hair and he watched every move.

She reached over, tried to take his hand but he drew it back.

“Talk to me,” she said.

“When we started this, I only saw the end. I saw Vincent walking free and the clock rolling back. That was enough for me. That was my end game. I’m sick, Martha. My cells, they’re dying. What’s happening, this is the early stage, it’s just the start.”

“I know that.”

“Do you? I’ve read up, spoken to the doctor, seen others in the waiting room further down the line than me.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I don’t want you to be a carer. I want more for you. I always did.”

She stood. “You sound like my father. Like I’m some little girl that doesn’t get a say in her own life. I choose … you’re my choice. And I thought I was yours.”

“You are.”

“Bullshit. You choose yourself, your fucking noble, dependable self.”

He looked down.

She wiped her eyes. “I’m not sad, I’m mad. You’re a coward, Walk. That’s why you left it all this time.”

“I didn’t think you’d want to see me.”

“Well, I did.”

“I’m sorry.”