We Begin at the End(10)

“She’s fine,” Duchess said.

Milton took a step nearer, that smell so strong it got in her throat. Blood and death.

“You look an awful lot like her, you know that.”

“Yeah, you told me that before.”

She noticed small bits of flesh embedded in the thick hair on his arms. He stared at her awhile, like he’d forgotten his place, then snapped back when he saw her grocery bag, and what was inside.

He tutted. “That’s not even sausage. They grow that in a lab. Wait there.”

She watched him head in, wheezing with each step.

A couple of minutes and Milton returned, brown paper bag folded over, sealed with a blood print. “Morcilla. You tell your mother where these came from. Send her over if she wants to know how to cook them right.”

“Don’t you just fry it?” Robin said.

“Maybe in prison. If you want those flavors dancing you need to get acquainted with a Dutch oven. You see, it’s all about the pressure and the—”

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.”