Smith Henderson - Fourth of July Creek

The judge punched Pete’s arm.

“That’s funny.”

“I can tell. You’re in stitches.”

“I’m at a wake.”

“You’re uphill of one.”

Dyson arced a brown bullet of spit that plashed a plate of stone.

“Mom would hate this.”

“Yeah, I don’t think she’d be much pleased to bury your father.”

“Bunnie. This Jesus stuff, I mean. When we put Grandpa in the ground, the preacher just said a few words and that was it. What was that gibberish they were singing when I was walking away?”

“I think they were talking in tongues.”

“What the hell is that?”

“Like you’ve never been around religious people.”

“Not in my own family . Even Luke.”

“Well, that one could use a good dose of religion.”

“No, he needs a dose of jail.”

The judge put his hand on Pete’s arm.

“Your pa just died. You’re upset. It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not. Let me tell you something about Charles Snow,” Pete said. “When his truck ran him over, he wasn’t thinking it was a great goddamned opportunity to get some other son of a bitch into heaven too.”

A laugh escaped the judge and he tried to cover it with a cough.

“I never heard anything so stupid in all my life,” Pete said.

Wes Reynolds exited the house. They watched him cross the yard, look up the hill, and then hike to them.

“Who’s the fella in the cast?” the judge asked.

“The PO.”

They watched him make his way up, and then try to stay balanced just down from them, teetering on the incline, his cast throwing off his balance somewhat. Pete introduced him to the judge.

“I know Judge Dyson. One of your father’s friends,” he said, hiking the last few feet up to shake the judge’s hand. A red yolk of blood on the white of his eye.

Pete thanked him for coming.

“It was a good service.”

“I didn’t care for it,” Pete said.

“I can imagine. It’s a sad time,” Wes said. “But it’s good to get everybody together. To see people you haven’t seen in a long time. Friends and relations. Most of ’em anyhow.”

“He ain’t here,” Pete said.

“Who’s that?”

“You know who.”

Wes sniffed, looked off.

“We just come to pay our respects, Pete. It’s like a whole era ended today.”

“What in the hell is that supposed to mean?” the judge asked.

“It means what it means. It means Charles Snow can’t protect his sons no more.”

Pete stood, grabbed Wes, and pushed him backward so that the only thing keeping him from tumbling down the steepness behind him was Pete’s grip on his belt. Wes paddled the air trying to regain his balance.

“My father never called in a single favor for us. Any slack we were cut was because he was a mean fucking son of a bitch, and I’m glad he’s in the goddamn ground.”

“Pete,” the judge said, perhaps more at the disparagement of Pete’s father than at what he was doing to Wes, who now grabbed Pete’s wrist with his good hand.

“And Luke,” Pete went on, “was in jail on my wedding day and has just missed his own father’s funeral because he couldn’t stop himself from kicking your ass.” Pete swung Wes into the hillside, where he winced, landing on his shoulder instead of his cast. “I’m not protecting anybody.”

Pete hid in the outbuilding until the last of the mourners and condolers left, sitting in the quitting light with the discarded horse tack, bits and bridles, coils of rope, wooden pallets, old glassware, carboys, and reams of tar paper. Then he went up to the house. Bunnie’s cats dashed under the porch at his approach. She was at the dishes.

“I’m gonna head home.”

“All right,” she said, drying her hands.

He didn’t know what to say to her. She set the towel by.

“I don’t want anything from here,” he said. “If Luke ever comes back, you can work it out with him. But you won’t get any trouble from me.”

She turned to the sink and seemed to be crying or about to, but when she looked up, all he saw was ferocity and fear, like he’d come to take something from her rather than just the opposite.

How is Austin?

It is a cute little bungalow in a funny neighborhood of hippies and college kids. A room for each of them and their things and otherwise furnished throughout, colorful towels and antique furniture, cacti and pots and pans and spices. A cat that comes and goes. Bright Mexican tile. Tins and colored glass in the trees. A bird feeder and hummingbirds.

It’s shining water at Barton Springs, the two of them lazing on the grass, marveling at this Texas October.

It’s brunch. Huevos and tortillas.

It’s her mother leaving at four in the afternoon to work her shift at the bar and not coming back until three in the morning.

Is Rachel alone?

There’s a deal. Her mother calls at ten to see that she’s going to bed. Says, You better be getting in bed.

I will if you let me off the phone.

You have school in the morning. You can’t skip tomorrow.

You’re the one who always wants me to stay home with you.

What?

Nothing. Good night.

Go to bed.

That’s what I said.

What?

Good night.

Are there already people at the house?

Not yet. But in the coming weeks there will be. She is getting good at this.

At what?

At making introductions, fast friends. At playing host. At pretending the place is all hers. At kicking everyone out at two in the morning and cleaning up.

Covering her tracks.

Yes. She won’t drink. She will hold the same can of Lone Star all night. She likes being part of something, even just a party, a clique. But of her choosing. Not just mother, father.

Does she think of her father?

Yes. Certain guys will remind her of him. A laugh. A build.

Does she miss him?

She will remember with a certain curiosity that she used to.

In Waco?

Before that.

When he went to Tenmile.

Before that.

When she was a little girl. She used to favor him, the way girls sometimes favor their fathers over their mothers. She would pine for him when he was gone all day and into the night. And later, when she was older and started to understand what he did for a living, she would wonder why does he help these other families when I miss him so much when I need him here why does he have to be the one?

Does she feel that now?

No. She quit a while ago.

When?

When she realized that he chose the job, that he wanted to be there for the other families. That he didn’t want to be there for the one he had.

That’s not true. Does she really think that?

What else could she possibly think?

They often slept deep into the day so complete was the dark, but come this morning bars of light cut the room and woke him. Ell was sitting cross-legged in front of a guy, a skinny blond guy with a wispy dandelion mustache and beard, tattoos on his long fingers, fingers that were feeling her arms, her hair, her face. Cecil stifled a cough. Ell looked over. Then the guy, slowly turning his head to Cecil but not looking away from her until the last second.

“Bear, this is Cecil,” she said.

“Cool,” he said.

Bear had a little money. They went to the Safeway for donuts. Bear and Ell ate on a spot of grass by the road and held hands, and from time to time Bear put his head on her belly and listened. He cupped his hands over her bump and spoke into them and tapped out soft beats on his baby’s entire world. He tickled her. The leaves were quitting the trees.