John McManus - Born on a Train - 13 Stories

Now then, sir, may I help you?

These is my boy Floyd’s, Pa said again. He picked them up by a narrow belt loop and dropped them.

The clerk carefully touched the hem of the left ankle and raised his eyebrows. These pants? he said.

You see some others?

You’re bringing these back?

Pa nodded his head. They didn’t last too good.

What is it you want?

I want a new pair, is what I want. Pa crossed his arms and stepped forward so his legs pressed against the hard plastic counter. He looked around.

You can’t exchange these.

Sure I can. Look at the durn things.

The clerk looked blankly out at the store. Floyd came forward to the counter, holding his mouth open, and said, They’re all screwed up, nodding his head at the clerk. Pa scrunched up his nose.

You can only exchange unused clothes, the clerk said.

That’s a lie, said Pa.

It’s our policy.

It’s a goddamn lie.

I beg your pardon, sir, the clerk said.

As he picked up the phone to call the manager, his face looked funny, like he was trying not to giggle or choke. Barbara stood behind Pa and Floyd, a foot shorter than either of them, and counted her breaths. She twirled Sheila’s hair with a finger, and Sheila slapped her hand away. She watched Mama nurse the baby and remembered how thirsty she was. Can I go buy a Coke? she asked. As she spoke, Granny whispered that she needed to sit down.

Crap, Rhonda said.

My girl’s thirsty, Pa told the clerk. Why don’t you give me some new pants so I can get her a Coke?

The manager’s on his way, sir.

And my granny needs to sit down.

Ain’t you got a chair or something? asked Floyd.

Chairs are back in lawn and garden, said the clerk, back by tires. He pointed behind himself and to the left. As he did, the manager appeared from behind a tall shelf and came to the counter, and Pa showed him the jeans and explained his guarantee. He got irritated and began to raise his voice. No, for the last time I ain’t got a receipt.

Do you remember when you bought them?

It was summertime. It was for the tomaters.

This summer?

Pa shook his head.

Last summer?

I don’t recollect what summer it was.

Sir, if you’ll just look at these jeans for yourself—

You think I ain’t looked at em? They ain’t eyes in my head?

This looks like a bullet hole.

That’s cause it is a bullet hole.

It’s a bullet hole?

Yeah, you dumb shit, it’s a bullet hole. You ever seen a bullet hole before? Pa looked down at Garrett and pointed at him. Hey you. Take Barbara back there to the back to see whatever she’s goin on about.

Can I look at guns?

I don’t care what you do. Go on.

We can’t take these jeans back from you with a bullet hole in them, said the manager.

Will you shut up about the bullet hole?

The bullet hole’s an important part of the issue.

Pa looked back to make sure Garrett was gone. The man that was wearin em got shot, he said. It wasn’t none my fault.

He got shot?

Twiced.

Who was it?

That got shot?

That was wearing the pants.

It’s the same thing, Pa said. The bastard that was wearin em got shot.

So who was it?

It was my cousin Coogar was who it was.

So these jeans aren’t even yours?

I done told you, they’re Floyd’s. He pointed with an open frown at Floyd.

What about Coogar?

They never was Coogar’s, Pa said. That was what Coogar didn’t seem to understand. He thought he could take whatever the hell he wanted to. Pa lowered his head and narrowed his eyes. And what are yuns so nosy for? he asked, and when they didn’t answer he kicked the counter with his boot and snarled, Say.

I’m just trying to ascertain the situation.

I’ll give your damn situtation. You’re gonna take these pants and get me a new pair, and then there won’t be no situtation.

There’s a bullet hole in the leg, said the manager. He sounded flustered.

I wouldn’t have shot him in the leg, Pa said, but he ran so damn fast, I had to stop him before I could shoot anyplace else.

* * *

Garrett dragged Barbara through the sporting goods department until they found the glass case that held guns. He walked back and forth in front of it, touching the glass, and he tried to turn the lock. Looky there, he said. Barbara kicked her feet together as Garrett read aloud the names on tags.

My daddy had ten guns, he said.

Barbara shrugged.

Did you hear me? I’m talkin about my daddy.

I heard you.

He had ten guns.

I said I heard you.

He don’t have em no more though.

What happened to them?

They got stole from him, back when he was killed.

Oh, said Barbara.

I’m gonna buy ten more to replace em. Then I’m gonna find out who shot him, and I’ll shoot him in the nuts. He stuck his finger at Barbara’s crotch. Pow! Barbara jumped at the noise. Garrett banged his body against the glass case and peeked around the corner to see if anyone was watching him. He found a flat-head screwdriver hanging on a rack and jammed it into the case’s narrow keyhole and pressed until his cheeks turned red. When he gave up, he inserted the tool’s head between the sheets of glass to jimmy the door.

You better be careful.

Shut up, Garrett said. I’m the one watchin you, not the other way.

No you ain’t.

Yes I am. I’m the boy.

So?

Plus I ain’t got a daddy no more.

So what?

That makes me more responsible than you.

Barbara rolled her eyes.

Say, was you there when my daddy got shot? said Garrett.

I done told you I wasn’t.

Was Floyd there?

No.

Was your pa there?

I don’t know a thing about it, Barbara said.

Garrett drew an imaginary gun and aimed it at Barbara. Tell the truth or I’ll shoot, he said.

Leave me alone.

Your pa said for me to watch you.

No he didn’t.

I’m a year and a half older than you, plus I’m a man. That means you’ve got to do what I say.

You ain’t a man. You’re fourteen.

I’m more of one than you are.

Barbara didn’t know whether to feel bad for Garrett. She thought of her own father and imagined him dying, and it didn’t make her sorry for herself, only thirsty. Pa wouldn’t give her fifty cents for a Coke. She didn’t like Garrett and never had. Now Garrett lived with them and used the same bathroom as her and dribbled piss on the floor sometimes and got hairs on her bar of soap. He loaded his imaginary gun and cocked it. Pow pow pow. Bang!

Be quiet.

Two for flinching, Garrett said, but Barbara hadn’t reacted at all that time.

* * *

It was Barbara who had screamed two weeks ago when Coogar Cargill broke their bathroom window with a rock in the middle of the night; she jumped at sudden noises. It was her scream and not the rock that woke Floyd; his room was next to hers. She zipped her mouth shut tight and hid beneath her covers as Floyd yelled, Wake up, Pa. Get your gun. She prayed for God to help her not make noise. She hoped the lump of her body beneath the quilt looked like nothing but bumps in the foam mattress.

Coogar, is that you? her father had yelled. She heard a solid thud.

Half a minute passed before she heard a gunshot. It was right outside her window, and she curled into a ball to prepare for God to whisk her out of herself. She was glad no one could see her fear. A man screamed.

Goddammit, said Floyd, who sounded was also outside. You shot him.

No I didn’t.

Yes you did, Floyd yelled. Look at him.

Coogar’s screams cut straight into Barbara’s bones. The air beneath her blankets had grown stale, it seemed, and she hoped she wouldn’t suffocate. You’ve got to shoot him again, Floyd said. He’ll kill you if you don’t.