Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

Cape Haven was carved into the cliffs, tranquil and preserved, a town lifted from Anaheim. Walk felt it, each new brick laid right on top of his childhood, on the memories he so desperately needed to hold on to.

Walk stole a look at his friend’s hands, at the legion of deep scars that crossed his knuckles. He’d always been tough.

Finally, they rolled the slope onto Sunset Road, where the King house stood like unwelcome shadow on the brightest day.

“The neighbors are gone.”

“They fell. The cliffs are breaking, like Point Dume. Last one yesterday. Fairlawn. Your place is far enough back, and they put in the breakwater a couple of years ago.”

Vincent looked at the scene, taped off like the crime it was. There were homes behind, near enough to keep the street from isolation, but far enough for the King house to command the most spectacular view.

Vincent got out and stood before it, an eye on the rotting gables and fallen shutters.

“I cut the grass.”

“Thank you.”

He followed Vincent up the winding path, the steps and then into the cool, dark hallway. Papered walls with flowers recalling the seventies and a million velvet memories.

“I laid sheets.”

“Thank you.”

“And stocked the refrigerator. There’s chicken and some—”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t have to keep saying that.”

Above the fireplace was a mirror and Vincent passed it without looking. Walk thought he moved differently now, each step a cautionary tale about placement and better judgment. He knew the first years had been rough, and not rough in a cry-and-can’t-sleep way, rough in the handsome-boy-amongst-the-darkest-kind-of-men way. They’d written letters, Walk and Gracie King, to the judge and the supreme court and even the house on Pennsylvania Avenue. They’d asked for segregation at least. They’d got nothing.

“You want me to stick around?”

“You get back, do what you do now.”

“I’ll check in later.”

Vincent walked him to the door and offered a hand.

Walk pulled him into a hug, his friend, back now. He tried not to feel the flinch, the way Vincent tensed up.

They both turned when they heard the engine. Walk watched the Escalade. Dickie Darke.

Darke climbed out. He wore his size like an ill-fitting suit. Shoulders slumped, eyes down. He dressed in black each day, jacket, shirt, pants. Distracted, affected.

“Vincent King.” His voice was deep, serious. “I’m Dickie Darke.” No smile. Never a smile.

“I got your letters,” Vincent said.

“The town must look different now.”

“It does. The wishing tree is about the only thing I still recognize. You remember we used to stash cigarettes in the hole under there, Walk?”

Walk laughed. “And a sixer of Sam Adams.”

Darke finally looked up and met Walk’s eye with the kind of stare that chilled him. Then Darke eyed the house. “The last of the front line. You own the land behind as well.”

Vincent looked at Walk.

“I’ll pay a million. Current value is eight-fifty, the state it’s in. And the market is turning.”

“It’s not for sale.”

“You’ll have a price.”

Walk smiled. “Come on, Darke. The man just got home.”

Darke stared a little longer. And then he turned and left them, strolling, unhurried, so big his shadow cast far.

Vincent watched him, his eyes locked on Darke like he could see something Walk could not.

* * *

Duchess had an arrangement with the kindergarten teacher, Miss Dolores; she would let Robin stick around for three long hours till Duchess finished class each day, mainly because Walk had stepped in and asked, and also because Robin was not even the slightest bother.

When Robin saw her he tidied his things, picked up his bag and ran over. Duchess knelt and hugged him, then waved to Miss Dolores and they turned.

She helped Robin slip the straps over his shoulders and then checked he had his storybook inside and his water bottle.

“You didn’t eat your sandwich.” She glared.

“Sorry.”

The school bus passed, parents in SUVs, teachers out on the grass and chatting as kids tossed a football beside.

“You need to eat, Robin.”

“It’s just …”

“What?”

“You didn’t put anything inside,” he said reluctantly.

“Bullshit.”

He looked down at his shoes.

Duchess unzipped his pack and took out the sandwich. “Fuck.”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not.” She put a hand on his shoulder. “I’ll fix hotdogs when we get in.”

He smiled at that.

They kicked a stone together, kept it going till they got to the end of East Harney and Robin sent it into a drain.

“Did the kids say things, about Mom?” he said, as she took his hand and they crossed the street.

“No.”

“Ricky Tallow did, he said his mom told him about our mom.”

“What did she say?”

They ducked beneath the limbs of a willow and cut down the track between Fordham and Dupont.

“She said he couldn’t come to our house because Mom wouldn’t watch us right.”

“You could go there.”

“His mom and dad are always yelling at each other.”

She mussed his hair. “You want me to talk to her, see if I can sort something?”

“Yes.”

Duchess knew Leah Tallow. Cape Haven PD, just her and Walk and an auxiliary named Louanne, who was old as shit. Duchess couldn’t imagine any of them working a real crime.

“Ricky said he’ll move into his brother’s room when he leaves for college. He said his brother has an aquarium. Can we get one?”

“You’ve got a mask. Go look at fish in the sea.”

When they got to Main they saw a group of girls outside Rosie’s Diner, same group, always, drinking shakes and taking over two tables in the sun. Whispers and laughter as they passed.

They went into the grocery store, Mrs. Adams at the counter.

Duchess found a pack of frankfurters and Robin fetched the buns. She took out her purse and counted out three dollars in bills, all she had.

Robin looked up. “Can we get French’s?”

“No.”

“We need ketchup at least. It’ll be dry.”

Duchess took the can and the buns up.

“How’s your mother doing?” Mrs. Adams looked down over her glasses.

“Fine.”

“That’s not what I heard.”

“Why the fuck did you ask then?”

Robin tugged her hand. Mrs. Adams might’ve told her to leave but Duchess tossed three dollar bills onto the counter before she could.

“Don’t curse like that,” Robin said, as they walked up Main.

“How’s your mother today?”

Duchess turned and saw Milton, out front of his butcher shop. He wiped his hands down his apron, blood smeared.

Robin walked up to the glass and looked at the rabbits, hooked at the throat.

“She’s fine,” Duchess said.

Milton took a step nearer, that smell so strong it got in her throat. Blood and death.

“You look an awful lot like her, you know that.”

“Yeah, you told me that before.”

She noticed small bits of flesh embedded in the thick hair on his arms. He stared at her awhile, like he’d forgotten his place, then snapped back when he saw her grocery bag, and what was inside.

He tutted. “That’s not even sausage. They grow that in a lab. Wait there.”

She watched him head in, wheezing with each step.

A couple of minutes and Milton returned, brown paper bag folded over, sealed with a blood print. “Morcilla. You tell your mother where these came from. Send her over if she wants to know how to cook them right.”

“Don’t you just fry it?” Robin said.

“Maybe in prison. If you want those flavors dancing you need to get acquainted with a Dutch oven. You see, it’s all about the pressure and the—”