Jeff Jacobson - Growth

Nobody saw him or heard from him for years. That’s why folks weren’t sure about him. Until all three of his boys were the right age, and Purcell sprung them on the Parker’s Mill public school district at the same time. Edgar went into the third grade, but was eventually moved down to the first grade so he could learn the basics of reading and arithmetic. He eventually caught up when he was in the fifth grade, but forever suffered being adrift, and never had any friends. Axel unleashed holy hell on the kindergarten and was eventually expelled in the first grade. His education came in the form of homeschooling until he was fifteen. Charlie’s academic career began smoothly enough, until he managed to scandalize the entire town when he was arrested for releasing all of the animals tethered to the lawn of the First Baptist Church’s nativity scene. Sheep, goats, and a blind mule went wandering through Parker’s Mill in the early morning hours, while Charlie took the baby Jesus doll and sent him down the Mississippi River, much like Moses.

“Evenin’” said Purcell as he approached the gate.

“Evenin’” Sandy said. “How you doing?”

“Aw hell, you know. Can’t complain. Well, I could, you know, but nobody’d listen,” Purcell laughed. “How’s the new job working out for ya?”

“Not exactly what I expected.”

“I’ll bet.”

“Heard you were working on an organic certification.”

“Yeah, yeah. They’re makin’ me jump through more hoops than a goddamn circus freak.” He rested his forearms on the gate and shook his head. “They got people crawling all over my farm, taking samples of everything, the soil, the water, the corn. Surprised they didn’t want a sample of my piss.”

Neither Purcell nor Sandy acted as if the three brothers in the backseat of the cruiser even existed. They might have been two old friends shooting the shit on a slow Sunday afternoon.

“Still, it’s worth it,” Purcell continued. “Seems to me it’s maybe the last act of freedom we have left, not being forced to put all these asshole chemicals in our food.”

Sandy got a better look at the man. It looked like his wife had been keeping his hair short with the sheep shears. Ropy muscles slid and rolled under leathery skin. His eyes sparkled in the glow of the headlights. Purcell was getting old, but he was still tougher than tree bark.

“Well, best of luck to you,” Sandy said. “Suppose it’s time we get down to the reason I’m out here.”

“Thought you might, sooner or later.”

“Your boys, they were causing the Whistle Stop some problems. Gave the bouncer a hard time. Now, he’s a good guy. Not the kind of bouncer that picks on folks ’cause he gets bored.”

“Can’t say I’m surprised. They been awful jumpy these past few days. Thought they might blow off some steam somewhere. So… why’d you bring ’em back here? Seems to me, folks like you think they belong in jail for a night or two, they cause that kind of ruckus. Ain’t that what usually happens?”

“Usually.”

“Yeah, and you brought ’em back here. Why’s that?”

Sandy shrugged. “You helped my dad out once. Figured I owed you one for my family.” Her family car’s tire had blown out on the way for an Easter Sunday church service in 1994. Purcell, who had clearly spent the night in his pickup, was on his way home from a night out. He pulled over and helped Sandy’s dad pull off the tire and even donated the spare tire when he discovered Sandy’s dad didn’t have one.

“Shit. I’ll take your word for it.” He grinned in the headlights. “Don’t remember much. That was what, twenty some-odd years ago? You been waiting all this time to say thanks? Coulda sent a thank-you card.”

Sandy didn’t answer. It was difficult to explain. She just knew she would never forget the image of this man as he loped across the highway twenty years ago, long hair in his face, carrying the tire over his shoulder, hair sticking to both the tire and his tongue. He took the jack from Sandy’s dad without a word and crawled under the car. Sandy and her mom waited way, way back, damn near in the freshly plowed field. It was still a little close for Sandy’s mom, who wasn’t sure if they should break into a run, fleeing to the nearest farmhouse, or offer the man some freshly baked cookies as a thank-you. Sandy didn’t know why her mom was so nervous; she understood just fine that the man was helping them.

This wild man, this force of nature, this was her first real encounter with a human who had endured unthinkable violence as well as inflicted severe pain on others. At eight, she had listened keenly to her parents’ private conversations and had heard of Purcell Fitzgimmon. He supposedly put a poor mail carrier in intensive care due to the unacceptable condition of a package.

And yet here he was, calm and collected and kind as Mr. Rogers. She would never forget his languid wave as he got back in his truck and pulled back onto the highway. She wasn’t around when her dad returned the spare, but she didn’t need to be. Purcell had already made a long-lasting impact. He taught her that the world could be gentle and beautiful and wild and vicious all at the same time.

The Chisels were on their way in less than ten minutes and even made it to church on time.

Sandy finally just said, “If your boys get out of line again, they will face some serious problems.” She wasn’t kidding. If Charlie got arrested, he could get kicked out of the armed forces, or whatever the hell he was doing. Edgar and Axel had enough combined charges to put them in the state pen for a long time if they were unlucky enough to face a pissed-off judge who wanted to prove he was tough on crime.

“And I appreciate that,” Purcell said. “What happens next?”

“Up to you. They’re your problem now.” Sandy went to the back door and pulled out the boys, one by one. They stood, a little too meek and mild, like they were trying not to laugh. Sandy unlocked the cuffs from Edgar and snipped through the zip ties on Charlie and Axel with her Leatherman.

Purcell never opened the gate. “Well then. It’s gonna be like this. You three. You look at me. You too, Charlie. You ain’t so big, boy. You get caught doing dumb shit and you’re out with my vehicle, thought you were smarter’n that. We gonna have a talk when you get back.”

They flinched as if he’d thrown a punch.

Purcell’s polite, civilized veneer was gone. His features had shifted slightly, eyebrows lowered, eyes narrowed, lips pulled back, as the headlights lit his face from below, giving him a feral, savage look; Sandy understood she was looking at the real Purcell. The transformation unnerved her.

For a moment, she worried she had made a terrible mistake. If the Fitzgimmons wanted, they could be on her before she could reach her weapons, let alone her radio. And she was the one that had let them loose.

But Purcell never looked at her. His rage was aimed at his sons, every word a razor wrapped in barbed wire. “Right now, you gonna march on back down to the Whistle Stop and bring my truck back.” Sandy now understood why the brothers had reacted as if each word was a physical blow. God knew what this man had done to them as they grew up.

“The walk will sober you up and make you think,” Purcell said and gave Sandy a challenging look. She didn’t object. It was a hell of a walk. The Whistle Stop was over twelve miles south. “And if there is one dent, one single hint of a scratch, when you get back here you will beat the living shit out of each other for my amusement.” It was not an idle threat.

They didn’t argue, didn’t glare at their old man—nothing. They waited silently, like cowed dogs that had the shit stomped out of them.