The Highway Kind(82)

“You did a good job,” Eddie replied. “It’s hard, isn’t it?”

“It wasn’t that hard, but I couldn’t get the hood.”

“I’ll get the hood,” said Eddie.

“Do you need the brushes done?” the boy asked.

“There’s five in the bucket. The big one, the three-inch, is pretty trashed so don’t worry about it too much.”

The boy moved toward the bucket.

“Why don’t you come over here and say hey to Early before you get to work?”

But Russell wouldn’t come closer to Eddie or the dog.

Eddie looked at him. “Can I ask you a question?”

The boy nodded.

“Why do you have blue paint on your hands?”

Tears fell down the boy’s face.

“You can’t always cry, man...Get me a beer and yourself a Coke and then come over here and sit.”

Russell nodded and went into the house. He came out with two cans and sat across from Eddie.

“I bet you tried like a mother to wash that paint off your hands.”

Russell nodded.

“But it wouldn’t come off?”

“No.”

“That’s ’cause it’s oil paint. I’ll get you some thinner. You have to use thinner with oil.”

“I didn’t mean to steal them, Eddie. I didn’t. Curtis made me.”

“Why?”

“He takes them somewhere and they give him money for them.”

“Is Curtis home?”

Russell shook his head. “I told him you were my friend and that he shouldn’t take them. But...but then he made me take them.” Tears again filled his eyes. “You have to believe me, Eddie. I didn’t want to take them but he made me.” The boy pulled up his shirt and his small chest was black and blue.

Eddie took a drink off the beer and lit a cigarette. His face didn’t change. He said quietly, “Follow me to the garage and we’ll get the paint off your hands and then you’re going to wash my brushes. After that we’ll get something to eat. Are you hungry?”

“I am if you are,” the boy said.

“Good. You get the brushes done and we’ll get a quick bite to eat. I have some errands to do tonight so we’ll just get tacos.”

“From Alberto’s Truck?”

“Sure, we’ll go there if you want.”

“I want to go there if you want to go there.”

Eddie laughed.

“I was worried you’d never like me again,” Russell whispered.

“It’s your brother who’s in trouble,” Eddie said and put out his cigarette. “Not you. How old is he again?”

“Fifteen.”

Eddie nodded, got up, and waved to Russell to follow him. The blue paint came off the boy’s hands with a rag full of thinner and then Eddie sent him to the basement with the bucket of dirty brushes to clean. When he could see the light in the basement go on he went next door to Russell’s home. The side door was open and he called out and the old woman, Russell’s grandmother, yelled from a back room for him to come inside.

It was a home she had lived in for thirty-five years. Her husband, Des, worked as a truck driver and had kept his shop, lawn, and house clean and well maintained. Eddie and Des had gotten along well, but two years back Des had had a heart attack and passed on. The old woman fell apart after that and her only daughter, Connie, moved in with Russell and Curtis.

The kitchen was nothing but dirty dishes, pans, and garbage. In the living room, clothes were thrown about everywhere and the TV was on. An Xbox sat on a small coffee table next to soda cans, candy-bar wrappers, and fast-food bags.

The old woman sat in her room in a recliner reading a book with the help of a magnifier. She was frail for seventy years old. She had long gray hair that came down to her chest. She wore a bathrobe and slippers. The room was stale and hot and smelled of urine. Both the windows in the room were closed. There was a hot plate with a teapot on it and a stack of Cup-a-Soups on her dresser.

“How you been?” he asked.

“Hello, Eddie,” she said.

“What are you reading?”

“A murder mystery.”

“Are you still watching Days of Our Lives?”

The old woman shook her head.

“No Bo and Hope?”

“I don’t like going outside my room.”

“Because of Curtis?”

“Curtis and Connie.”

“Curtis’s not around?”

She shook her head.

“You eating enough?”

“I don’t have much of an appetite anymore.”

“It’s hot in here. Do you want your windows open?”

She nodded.

Eddie went to them. They were both old weighted windows. It took him a while but he got them open and fresh air came into the room.


Houston was in his underwear when Eddie beat on his door two hours later. He was drinking off a forty-ounce bottle of Olde English and came to the door carrying it.

“I thought you said nine?”

“It’s eight forty-five,” Eddie said. “I don’t see how you can drink that shit.”

“I like malt liquor.”