The Juke (Changes Book 2) Page 8
That was it. The last indignity he would accept that day.
He grabbed at Santa with both hands, slapping at the bell. It clattered to the ground. “Asshole!” shouted the Santa as he stepped back. Frank pushed him again and grabbed a leg of the kettle tripod. He threw it sideways, and the bucket fell with a crash, tripod legs akimbo. Coins and small bills fell and tinkled on the concrete. “You motherfucker!” shouted Santa with his fists up, ready to swing.
“Eat my asshole!” Frank shouted back, moving away. “Everybody in this fucking city can blow me!” He stuck his finger up behind him.
“Yeah, fuck you too, motherfucker!” shouted Santa.
Frank stomped off to his car, satisfied that he had at least ruined one other person’s day. When he reached his car, he slid into the driver’s seat. It all seemed clear to him now. There was no turning back, and it was pointless to try.
X
He pressed the release with his thumb, and the cylinder flipped out. All the chambers were loaded with Winchester .357 hollow points, though he would only need one shell tonight. He flicked his wrist, and the cylinder locked into place. His hand was slick from gun oil.
“This is it then,” he mumbled to himself. He opened and went through the contents of the plastic box one last time. Notes to his children, an envelope for each. Notes to his few remaining friends. Pictures. Hastily drawn last will and testament, signed last week.
And a copy of the life insurance policy. Last payment made that morning. One million dollars, put into a trust for his children. It was all he had left to give them. It would pay for their college and give them a shot at a world he could no longer provide for them. He hoped they would forgive him and have good lives. He was glad he’d had the policy long enough to avoid the suicide clause.
There’s no turning back now.
He looked into the envelope of pictures. He had included his favorites. Coaching Luke’s Little League team, and their team photo. Holding Ruth after she was born. Wrestling on the floor with the boys. And one special picture, enlarged for this final package: It was taken a few years before, all their family around his mother at a visit to the home. He pulled out this picture and looked at it. The boys were young, and Ruth was just a year old. His mother looked much the same as the last time he had seen her. Eyes distant, hair wispy. He wanted his children to remember their grandmother. He knew Shelly had made sure they didn’t attend her funeral, now just three weeks past. Perhaps for the best—he had bawled like a small child as she was lowered into the earth. Still, he wanted them to know about his family, and perhaps this picture would make them curious someday.
And lastly he had something special for Shelly. He had prepared a cassette tape with a single song on it. Found Out About You by the Gin Blossoms. It had played at the I-Ball that night, now six months past. He pulled the tape out of the manila envelope. He had written the song lyrics out by hand:
All last summer in case you don't recall
I was yours and you were mine forget it all
Is there a line that I could write,
Sad enough to make you cry?
All the lines you wrote to me were lies
The months roll past the love that you struck dead
Did you love me only in my head?
Things you said and did to me
Seemed to come so easily
The love I thought I'd won you give for free
Whispers at the bus stop
I heard about nights out in the schoolyard
I found out about you
Rumors follow everywhere you go
Like when you left and I was last to know
You're famous now and there's no doubt
In all the places you hang out
They know your name and know what you're about
Whispers at the bus stop
I heard about nights out in the schoolyard
I found out about you
Streetlights blink on through the car window
I get the time too often on AM radio
You know it's all I think about
I write your name drive past your house
Your boyfriend's over, I watch your light go out
Whispers at the bus stop
I heard about nights out in the schoolyard
I found out about you
As he read them, he could hear the song in his head. Jingle-jangle guitar. Soft, soulful voice. Melancholy tone. Yearning. Yes, the yearning. A yearning so deep inside him, aching for a future he would never have now, being here at the end of his life.
And he thought of her in that moment.
He remembered first seeing her, all those years ago. At church. She was so young and fresh. Dirty-blonde hair running down her shoulders in erratic curls. Fresh blue eyes. She had seemed so alive, and he knew she was the one for him. He had made up his mind to marry her. He had pursued her and finally convinced her to go out with him. She played hard to get, and he’d had to ask her several times. When they started dating, he had catered to her every need. He asked her what she wanted in life, and she told him. She wanted stability for a family, so he worked hard and built a foundation for their lives. Home. Career. College funds. She had wanted a large brick home, so he had bought it for her. She had wanted a faithful, dependable man, and he was home every night. He had fulfilled every wish she’d had. His now-past life he had achieved for her. He was the man he had been for her. Because of her. What type of man would he have been had he not met her? He would never know, but he knew she was the only woman he had ever loved, and the only woman he had ever wanted.
Where had that gone? How had that love died? Or did she just decide she wanted something different? Isn’t it often the case that our needs change? Maybe it was inevitable.
The rain began to patter on the roof of his ’78 Accord. It was all he could afford, and wouldn’t last much longer. That was okay, after all. He wouldn’t need it after today, and he doubted anybody would want it in the shape he was about to leave it. That thought made him chuckle dryly to himself.
For a moment he hoped his wife would be the one to find him—ex-wife in eight more weeks. Or in ten minutes. He hoped she would be the one to open the door, see the blood, see the empty stare in his eyes, smell the stench of decay and death. That would be his final words to her. He would show her what she had driven him to. His empty eyes would shout at her, Look what you made me do! The white mask of his dead face would be her final memory of him. Then she could listen to the song and read the words and perhaps understand his melancholy. Understand his loss. His yearning. Maybe.
He put everything back into this plastic box and clicked the lid into place. He put it on the seat next to him. He hoped they would have to wash his blood off of it.
He was parked down the street from his home. Their home. He could see Tony’s Ford pickup in the driveway even from this distance. As if a man like Tony needed a pickup. Compensating. Men with desk jobs don’t need pickups.
As he was about to turn the key, he saw a white-tailed kite against the brightening street light, turning left and right to coast on the updraft. He saw the beauty of the flight, alternating black and white markings as it swung from side to side. It was a perfect creature, ably suited for its purpose. Lean but strong, built to fly and hunt. He heard it whistle its cry, then flap hard and fly out of his sight. I hope my soul will fly up with that bird, he thought. I want to be free of this world…I want to fly away from it…I’m done with this life. He smiled at the thought.
He started the Accord and shifted. There was a hesitation and then the clunk as it dropped into gear. He pulled forward slowly, almost as if he would stop in front of each house along the way. Headlights off. The rain was picking up, so he turned on his wipers, though they did little but smear the grime on the windshield.
As he drew close to their home, he saw a white post with a For Sale sign, its crude base driven into his manicured grass. They’re moving? He hadn’t considered their plans. Where were
they moving to? It wouldn’t matter in a few moments.
He stopped by the mailbox, and he put it into park.
So this is it. There is no turning back now. He put the revolver on his lap…put his hand on the keys, but didn’t turn them. He looked into his old house one last time. How he had loved that house. They had loved it together. She loved two-story homes and wanted a walk-in closet. He loved the large garage, with plenty of room to store tools and toys. He knew his Jet Ski was in that garage, and his bass boat was still parked on the side of the house. Bedroom set only a year old. New china in the hutch. So many things he had cared about once. He realized he had cared about them because she had cared about them. And yet when they bought that bedroom set, she must have already been having her affair with Tony. Did he purchase it for them? Had they made love in it while he was at work or church?
And they had put those things there in that house together. Every stick of furniture they bought together. Drapes. Stereo. Carpets. Tony was living in a house with his ghost, and Frank wondered how he could enjoy that. Perhaps that’s why they were selling it. Perhaps he felt Frank’s presence when he lay in his bed giving it to her. He was in another man’s location. He was eating another man’s lunch. Shitting in another man’s toilet.
He could see movement through the sheer white drapery of the living room. Lights were on inside, but he could only see vague outlines. He wondered who it would be. Matthew? He wasn’t sure from the outline. He hoped it would not be his children who would find him. His situation instantly became more complex. He didn’t want his tall, slender son to open the door and see his blood splattered all over the interior. Perhaps he should wait until a bit later, to make sure the kids were in bed.
He shifted into drive and waited for it to drop again. He eased the car forward two houses. He needed to think. He checked his watch: 8:21. Maybe he should come back at about 10:00. He slid down in his seat and watched the house through his passenger side mirror. Yes, waiting until later would be wise.
And then he saw Tony in the porch light. The door was open, and he was talking to someone inside. He stepped back inside for a few seconds, and then out again. His old friend was dressed in acid-washed jeans and wore a down vest over a red flannel shirt. He thought the lumberjack look didn’t mesh with denim. Tony stepped into the black F-150, started it, and then backed down the driveway.
Tony leaving gave him the best opportunity to ensure his wife would find him, which was what he wanted most of all. This would be the right time. She would be curious about the sound and go out herself. He wanted more than anything that she be the one to see him dead in that car in front of their house. Shelly wouldn’t send Matthew to investigate…she’d do it herself.
As the Ford’s headlights hit his rearview mirror, he put his hand on the shifter, intent on backing up and finishing what he came for. His other hand sought the heavy steel revolver on his lap.
Frank slid as far down as he could, waiting for the Ford to pass by. As it did, he found himself shifting into drive and not reverse. He kept the lights off, and pulled out to the street. It took him a few seconds to realize he was following the truck. Just for a minute, I guess, he thought.
The Ford moved through his old neighborhood. He kept a distance back, but could clearly see the white letters on the tailgate. Out of habit he waved to his neighbor Harry Mitchem, who was putting his garbage cans out on the curb.
The Ford wended through the narrow residential streets, then out to the main drag. Frank knew he would turn around at any moment and go back to do the work he planned for tonight. Yet he kept following. When the black pickup turned into the Raley’s parking lot, he realized he had followed Tony to the grocery store. Probably buying a six-pack for the night. Before he fucks my wife on my new bedroom set.
Frank was about to drive past the entrance to Raley’s when he caught a glimpse of a familiar face standing by a crimson Camaro. His hand cranked on the steering wheel before he processed the recognition, flicking on his lights.
Red.
Now dressed in more fitting attire—black jeans and a leather jacket—he was growing out his hair and Frank could see the beginning of curls and a scruffy, uneven beard. The pickup pulled next to the Camaro. Frank drove past them with his face turned away and drove toward the Raley’s. In his rearview mirror, he saw Tony shake the other’s hand as he stepped out of his truck.
As he pulled between two other cars, his eyes were locked on these two men. He saw them talking; Tony had one hand on Red’s shoulder. They stood together, both facing toward the street, far enough away from lights so as to not be illuminated. Black jacket and red flannel in the shadows.
Frank was now moving involuntarily. He stepped out of the car, pushed the door closed, and slid the pistol into his belt at the small of his back. He looked over at the two men, letting the blood rise in him. Betrayal ripped his guts. Bile burned the back of his throat. Flashes of courtrooms and jail and divorce court and the I-Ball flew across his vision, rushed at him from all corners of his mind. A bad movie he couldn’t un-remember. He felt his hands curl into fists, so tight his knuckles popped.
And then he walked. His heels hit the pavement, and the crunching sound was as steady as a ticking clock. Frank felt as if he were floating, but his legs pumped underneath him. His muscles were taut, and he felt as if his feet were gripping the blacktop below him. Crunching steps.
Rage. Burning. Seething.
He drew closer to them. Both thought something was funny, and both let out loud laughs. His footsteps sounded clamorous, but the two men were oblivious to his drawing presence. A semi was going by on the street, and its shifting low gears growled, minimizing the click of his heels. When he was within ten feet, his hand reached behind him, and the large silver pistol with black grips was out. He looked at it dumbly, there in his hand. Its cold steel. Its balanced heft. It was at his waist.
Still the clicking of the heels, the crunch of asphalt rocks.
There’s no turning back now.
And then the pistol was stuck out in front of him, between him and the two men. He didn’t will it to be so. Like so many events in his life lately, it just was. His hand squeezed the grip, and his knuckles turned white.
As the last few crunching steps sounded, Tony’s head turned. He saw him but didn’t see him. And then Red saw him. And then they both turned.
And then they saw the gun.
“Frank! Fuck!” Tony shouted. He threw his hands in front of his face.
Frank panned the gun between them. “On your knees…both of you,” he commanded, teeth clenched. Tony instantly complied, but Red just looked back at him. Cold eyes. Frank sensed the man sizing him up. He leveled the gun at Red’s face. “You want this? Should I give you what you deserve?”
Red looked at the gun dispassionately, but he slowly lowered himself down. Frank then turned the gun back to Tony.
“Don’t do it, Frank…FRANK!” Tony began to shout.
“Do what? Shoot you?” He jabbed the gun forward, and heard a thunk when it hit the crown of Tony’s head. Tony hunched over, hands on the ground in front of him, face to the blacktop, as if in Islamic prayer. “It’s what you deserve, isn’t it?” He swung the gun back at Red. “And you? You want this, Mr. Karrick? You want it?”
There’s no turning back now.
The high, strangled tone in his voice scared him. His eyes swung wildly around. Time seemed slowed, as if he were moving faster than this event. That disjointed time gave their events a surreal quality. He could feel his heartbeat in his neck. The coursing adrenaline caused his muscles to twitch. Fight or flight. He wanted to fight.
“What’re you gonna do, Joseph?” Karrick asked flatly. “You gonna shoot me or what?” His eyes were clear and even. Tony looked up from his crouch. He was now poised, muscles taut, and seemed to be coiling for a spring. Frank could feel their unspoken communication. Tony’s face was up again, and on Frank’s gun. A mad dash or physical attack seemed imminent.
“Mr. Karrick, you look like you want to test me,” he said, with the gun steady between them. He tried a wry smile, but knew he probably wasn’t very convincing. “Do you think that’s wise?”
“What do you want?” There was no fear, though Red was just a squeeze from death.
“What were you two up to?” The thoughts now began to take shape. He began to understand, though that recognition was a bird chirping in the distance of his mind. Two men who testified against him in court were meeting in a parking lot. What could they be discussing? What had they planned? What had been on the agenda tonight?
“I think you know, don’t you? I see in your eyes you understand,” Red said. That was all the confirmation Frank needed. Red had no qualms confessing, which meant he felt no guilt. “Did you think a paper-pusher like you could really beat my ass in a fight?”
“Yeah, I know…I know you two worked together to try to get me put in prison. You thought I’d get locked away. Your friend wanted my wife, so you helped him.” Flecked spittle flew from his mouth as he shouted. His voice was unearthly. Terror and rage both fought for control of his vocal chords.
“You’re not as dumb as you look, Frank,” and he now understood the game. Red was trying to unnerve him. Challenge his manhood. Emasculate the balls he would need to pull the trigger. But Red underestimated Frank in that moment. Frank’s furor was rising in him now. His face burned. His hand tightened again on the rubber grip. His adrenaline flushed his muscles. The flight was gone, and only fight was left.