Blacktop Wasteland(77)

Kia put her head in her hands. Her chest was a nest of knots that were continually tightening. Jean rubbed her back as she stared at the floor through splayed fingers. He was only eight years old. Eight-year-olds aren’t supposed to die. They’re supposed to make stupid jokes and refuse to wash off a fake tattoo their brother gave them.

“Kia.”

She raised her head. Beauregard was running through the waiting room. He was calling her name. Not screaming it but using the full force of his deep baritone voice. When he came around the corner, he stopped five feet away from her. He looked like Hell warmed over. The left side of his face was one huge angry bruise. He had on a long-sleeve black Lynyrd Skynyrd shirt two sizes too big. A pair of oversized pants hung from his frame.

“Kia. What did they say?” he asked.

She glared at him. “You not even gonna ask what happened?” Kia asked.

Beauregard dropped his eyes. “I went to the house. I saw the bullet holes. I went next door. Linda told me. The car broke down. I would have been there, but the car broke down,” he said. She could barely hear him.

“Men came to our house. Men that were looking for you,” Kia said. She rose from her seat.

“I know. I tried to call but you didn’t answer,” Beauregard said.

“Don’t do that. Don’t you do that. If you hadn’t gone off with that white boy pulling some goddamn job, you wouldn’t have had to call,” Kia said. She spoke through bared teeth.

“Kia. Let’s go outside and talk,” Beauregard said.

“Talk about what, Beauregard? About how you fucked around with some gangsters and they came to our fucking house? You wanna talk about how I told you to sell that goddamned car? But you wouldn’t do it, would you? Because you didn’t want to get rid of your dear Daddy’s car. My son is on an operating table fighting for his life because you care more about a dead snitch than you do your own children. My other son is down at the police station because he had to shoot two people to keep them from taking his mama and his little brother. Do you get that, motherfucker? My son had to kill somebody today. But I guess you think that’s alright. It’s a Montage family tradition, right?”

Beauregard knew she was trying to hurt him. The only person who knew your weak spots better than the woman who raised you was the woman who shared your bed. But he took it. Took it like he had never taken it before because she was right. He had brought this horror down upon his family. But that didn’t mean he didn’t love them.

“They my sons too, Kia,” Beauregard said.

Kia stepped forward and slapped him. Her tiny hand caught him flush on his bruised cheek. Flashing lights appeared in front of his face. For a moment he felt something cold and alien bloom in his chest. He raised his right hand and curled it into a fist but only for a split second. He deserved that. That and so much more.

“Not today they ain’t. Today they my sons and I’ve got to protect them. Protect them from people like you,” Kia said. She pressed her body against his. Her limbs felt like steel wires. Her breath smelled of smoke and stomach acid.

“Kia, I’m not people. I’m their father.”

“Go,” she said.

“The car broke down. I would have been here, but the car broke down.”

“GOOOOO!” she shrieked. She pounded on his chest with her fists. When he tried to put his arms around her, she recoiled like he had the plague.

“GET THE FUCK OUT!”

“No, Kia please,” he said as he reached for her. She shrieked again. A raw guttural howl with no discernible words but in a language that was clearly understood.

Jean got up and pulled her into her bosom. Kia went limp in her sister’s arms. Jean guided her back to her seat.

“Beauregard, just go. I’ll call you when we hear something,” Jean said.

He turned around in a near perfect 360-degree circle. The intake clerks, the nurses, the janitors, other patients, they were all gawking at them.

“The car broke down. I would have been here, but the car broke down. I fixed it and I came straight to the house. I fixed it,” he said under his breath. He said it again as he headed for the sliding glass doors. And again, as he walked toward the rust-covered Jeep sitting in the parking lot with a screwdriver jammed in the ignition. Beauregard got in and slammed the door. He began to scream and pounded his palms against the steering wheel. Every muscle in his body worked in concert with his diaphragm. His chest began to ache as he arched his back and howled. People walking across the parking lot lowered their heads and looked away as they hurried past the Jeep. The sound coming from that battered vehicle needed no explanation or translation.

It was the pure and unmistakable sound of despair.





TWENTY-EIGHT



Boonie unlocked the door to his house with one hand while balancing a six pack in the crook of his free arm. The sky was filled with streaks of magenta as the sun dipped below the horizon. As he stepped across the threshold, his guts jumped up into his mouth.

Beauregard was sitting in his leather recliner.

“Jesus, boy, you scared the shit out of me. What the hell are you doing in here?” Boonie asked.

Beauregard raised his head. “I fucked up, Boonie,” he said.

Boonie closed the door and got a good look at him.

“What the hell happened to your face?”