Chris Whitaker - We Begin at the End

Duchess snatched the bag, grabbed Robin’s hand and felt Milton’s eyes on her as she hurried away.

At Rosie’s Diner, Duchess took a breath and led Robin in, shutting out the girls and their looks. Busy inside, vacationers filled tables, the smell of coffee rose thick. Loud talk, second homes, plans for the summer.

Duchess stood by the counter and saw the jar, the packets of ketchup inside, free if you bought something. A quick look over at Rosie, busy, tending the register.

Duchess collected a single ketchup packet for Robin and was about to turn.

“Don’t you have to buy something to take the ketchup?”

She looked up. Cassidy Evans, from her class. Robin looked on, nervous, shifting from foot to foot.

Cassidy smirked, lip gloss pout, shiny hair, resting bitch face.

“It was only one packet.”

“Miss Rosie, don’t you have to buy something to take a ketchup?” Cassidy said it loud, innocence dripped from her voice.

Talk died, strangers’ eyes so hot Duchess felt the burn.

Rosie set down a cup and came to the counter. Duchess shoved the packet back in the jar, then flinched as it fell to the floor and the glass shattered.

She snatched Robin’s hand and led him through, Cassidy on her heels, Rosie calling out.

They walked in silence down quiet streets.

“We don’t even need the sauce,” Robin said. “It’ll still be nice.”

Along Sunset Road they saw a couple of kids tossing a ball on the sand below. Robin watched them intently. Duchess played with him often, toys, soldiers, cars, a stick he thought looked like a wand. Sometimes he’d holler for Star to come out, most days she’d be lying in the dark living room, television muted. Duchess heard talk of bipolar, anxiety, dependence.

“What’s going on?” Robin said.

Ahead they saw kids, three boys running back toward them, sprinting fast as they passed them by.

“It’s the King house,” Duchess said, and they stopped across the street and looked on. The front window blown, a jagged hole in it the size of a small rock.

“Should we tell?”

She watched the house, saw a shadow move inside, and shook her head. She took Robin’s hand and led him away.

5

WALK SAT IN THE BACK row of the bleachers and watched the football spiral its way fifty yards into the endzone, where the receiver fumbled it. The quarterback raised a hand and the kid smiled then shook it off. They’d run it again.

Walk had followed The Cougars his whole life. Vincent once played, wide-receiver. Natural talent, talk of all-state. They hadn’t won much since, never more than a couple of games on the bounce. Still, Walk took his place on a Friday night between clusters of teenage girls with painted faces, screaming themselves raw. After a win they’d pack out Rosie’s Diner, players and cheerleaders and the kind of feeling that made Walk smile.

“He’s got an arm,” Vincent said.

“He has.”

Walk had picked up a sixer of Rolling Rock but Vincent hadn’t touched a drop of his. He’d called by after his shift and found Vincent working on the house, despite the fading light. He’d already sanded back most of the rear deck, hands blistered and face tight with the exertion.

“He’ll turn pro.” Vincent watched as the kid loaded up another. This time the receiver caught it and whooped.

“Like you could’ve.”

“You want to ask me about it?”

“What?”

“Everything.”

Walk sipped his beer. “I can’t imagine what it was like.”

“You can, you just don’t want to. And that’s cool. Whatever it was, I had it coming.”

“You didn’t. Not the way it went.”

“I went to her grave. I didn’t … I didn’t leave flowers or nothing. I didn’t know if I should.”

Beneath the lights pass after pass landed. Way down, in the furthest corner, Walk saw the shape of Brandon Rock, ball cap backwards. Walk saw him at every game.

Vincent followed his eye. “Is that Brandon?”

“Yeah.”

“Now I thought he’d make it. I mean, back then he was good, right.”

“Knee. It popped out and never back in, not properly. He works for Tallow Construction, something in sales. He limps, should probably use a cane but you know what Brandon is like.”

“Not anymore.”

“He’s still got his father’s Mustang.”

“I remember the day his old man got it. Half the street gathered.”

“You wanted to steal it.”

Vincent laughed. “Borrow it, Walk. Just borrow it.”

“He loves that car. I think he sees it, you know. A better time in his life. The hair, the clothes, the guy still lives in seventy-eight. You see, he hasn’t changed, Vin. None of us have, not really.”

Vincent stripped the label from his beer but still did not drink. “And Martha May? Has she changed much?”

Walk stalled at the mention of her name, just for a second. “She’s a lawyer over in Bitterwater. She handles breakups and family stuff mostly.”

“I always thought she was it for you. I know we were young, but the way you looked at her.”

“Kind of like the way you looked at Star.”

The receiver fumbled and the ball bounced its way toward the stand. Brandon was up quick and moved fast considering the limp. He scooped up the ball but instead of passing it to the receiver he sent it forty yards to the quarterback, who plucked it out of the air.

“He’s still got the arm,” Walk said.

“Makes it worse, I guess.”

“Will you go and see Star?”

“She told you she didn’t want me there.”

Walk frowned and Vincent smiled. “I can always read you, Walk. When you said you think she needs a little time … shit, hasn’t it been long enough? But then I was thinking she’s right. Sometimes there’s just too much history there. But you and Martha.”

“She … we don’t speak anymore.”

“You want to tell me?”

Walk opened another beer. “That night, after the verdict. We were together. She fell pregnant.”

Vincent stared at the field.

“And her father. What with him being a minister and all.”

“Shit, Walk.”

“Yeah.”

“And she wanted to be a minister too, follow in his sacred steps.”

Walk cleared his throat. “He made her … abortion. I mean, it was for the … we were kids. But you can’t come back from something like that. And it wasn’t just the way he looked at me, it was the way she did. Like she saw a mistake.”

“And you looked at her and saw—”

“Everything. I saw it all. Like my parents, they were together fifty-three years. House and kid and life.”

“Did she marry?”

Walk shrugged. “I sent her a letter. About six years back, it was Christmas and I had the old photos out and, you know. She didn’t reply.”

“It’s not too late to fix things.”

“I could say the same to you.”

Vincent stood. “I’m thirty years too late to fix things.”

* * *

The bar was in San Luis, which wasn’t more than a wide stretch of highway that carved fallow fields and sloped its way toward the Altanon Valley.

Star had borrowed the old Comanche from Milton across the street. The aircon didn’t work so Duchess and Robin leaned their heads out the window like a pair of dogs, both tired but this was how it went at least once every month.

Duchess had brought her project with her, and she clutched the papers tight as Star led them across the lot, squeezing between two pickups and through a back door. Star carried a beat-up guitar case, wore denim cutoffs high on her ass and a top cut low on her chest.

“You shouldn’t dress like that.”

“Yeah, well, the tips are better.”

Duchess cursed under her breath and Star turned. “Please. Just lay off tonight, watch your brother and don’t get in any trouble.”