The fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children's teeth are set on edge.
—Ezekiel 18:2
In appearance, the boy's father didn't look like what he'd become in his near 42 years, which was self-hate. His wasn't a consequence of loathing life, which he'd often thought striking to behold, pleasant enough to be in, had he just some advantage to get ahead. He'd suffered in the getting ahead and been advised by his closest allies he'd fare better if he learned to hurt easier. He was under average height but not short enough to notice. He had a sturdy posture. He had muscle, a full head of hair, burnished teeth, a long jowl, an air of earnestness, a look of dependability.
If anything, his eyes gave him up. He'd quit seeing the now and only saw history, what he had and had no longer: her elegant nudity, the warmth of her and their baby boy in a shared bed, enough cash to buy a six pack and a tank of gas to ride the back roads for no reason at all, a periwinkle and orange brush-stroked sunset over the cypress and pines and lake.
For years now, when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the red heaving sting of her leaving. He rarely slept. So, he got into some trouble he couldn't see a way out of and rode his truck into shallow swamp water in the back wood, untied the leather strap to his rifle, tied one end around the top of the door frame and the other around his neck. He took one last deep breath, pulled his legs to his chest, and jumped into death.
The strap didn't snap. His neck did.
By most measures in their area of the world, at 16 the boy was more man than child, and folks in the neighboring trailer homes didn't bat an eye at him being left alone, which he'd been more and more for the better part of a year. Mrs. Turner next door would sometimes drop by with leftovers when the days added up, said the macaroni or fried chicken were too good to toss. She pitied him and worried he might have qualms about accepting charity. She'd talk about the importance of education without noting it was the middle of a weekday afternoon, but he didn't mind high school or Mrs. Turner's cooking. Like his daddy, he couldn't sleep, and when he did, it always seemed to come right before he was to walk down to the bus stop.
He didn't know how to speak with folks not his age. He'd look at Mrs. Turner's drawn-on eyebrows and mumble thanks and nod his head silently, sometimes remembering to ask about Mr. Turner's ankle, which was riddled with gout and usually taking a turn for the worse.
The boy's name was Samson. On the day he was born, his momma knew right away he'd be handsome and have the strength of ten men. His momma said everything like she glowed for loving him too much.
She was a knockout without having to try. Her chocolate-colored hair hung to her hips. She was the best listener. Her eyes never wandered when he spoke, giving the impression there was nothing so important as what he said.
Samson could see why his daddy would miss that. He could see why the other man wanted it, too. She'd always felt more friend than mom to Samson, and he missed that friendship every day of his life.
He didn't live up to his name. He'd gotten his dad's shortness and his mom's small frame. He tried wearing his hair long, but it was oily and made his acne worse. It was easier to buzz it from time-to-time. He didn't have the strength of even one average man. Nothing suggested to him he had any handsomeness or gifts. He felt misnamed. Little James would've suited him better.
Samson hadn't gone to bed. He hadn't seen his daddy in three nights, so he got into the carton of cigarettes he'd been warned not to touch and smoked on the front stoop listening to Russell in the trailer across the way blare ZZ Top. Russell had stringy blond hair that fell on his face like frayed straw on an old broom. When Russell got the blues, he didn't give a shit. He'd get amped up and drink rot gut whisky until the wee hours. Anyone who didn't like it could shove it.
Samson liked ZZ Top and thought it wouldn't hurt if Mrs. Turner saw him there through her kitchen window. He hoped she'd bring by some of the pork chops he'd smelled frying.
He fell asleep on the stoop and woke under the milky sky feeling more rested than usual, feeling good.
He smelled the cigar as he towel-dried in the tub. He felt a flicker of hope his daddy had come home, but his daddy wasn't one for cigars. Samson couldn't recall he knew a cigar smoker. He remembered he'd not pulled the front door closed and wondered what news a stranger might've brought. He pulled on his underwear, flung the towel around his neck, and hurried down the hallway.
The man sat at the kitchenette table. Nearly as round as the table itself, he wore a black polo shirt with red stripes stretched tight against his mammoth frame. His gold-rimmed glasses recessed into his square face and temples. He puffed at his cigar and flicked at a silver tin ashtray Samson had never seen before.
"Wanted to catch you before school," the man told Samson. He exhaled each word and had a surprisingly small, high voice. Samson stood at the edge of the hallway, not even breathing, and the man said, "Do you know who I am?"
Samson didn't say anything until it became clear nobody would say another word until an answer was given.
Finally, "Yessir."
Samson did know. The man's picture was frequently featured in the town newspaper, which was still delivered weekly despite his father having not paid for the subscription a few years now. The man nodded, eyed Samson, and finally told him to sit down, pointing with his cigar at the chair across from him. Samson obeyed.
"Who am I?"
"You're the Mayor," Samson mumbled.
The man was, in fact, the town's Mayor, winning reelection uncontested 24 years running. He was celebrated for his philanthropy. The local community center bore his name. Samson liked the photographs of the Mayor and lawmen standing over wads of money, dope, and guns they wanted readers to know were now off the streets. Some version of that picture appeared in the paper about once a month.
"Did you know your old man works for me?"
Samson did not know. He only knew his daddy to work off and on as a grocery store butcher. When he was working, he'd bring home a paycheck and expired meat. Samson once longed for those times, but he'd already stopped expecting them.
"Your name is Samson, right?"
Samson sat stunned, wondering what life his daddy lived without him. Was he a cop? An undercover detective? Did he pick up people's garbage? Where was the paycheck? Where were the groceries?
"He spoke of you time-to-time. He ain't worked for me long. I gave him an opportunity, you see, but the only thing he knows to do with an opportunity is fuck it up." The Mayor shook his head and clicked his tongue, chastising himself. "Pardon my French, son. I know you're just a boy."
He chewed his cigar and considered the trailer. It was tidy enough, but there wasn't much to untidy. The place reeked of emptiness. It was little more than roof and walls. There wasn't even a TV. A record player sat on the TV stand. An American flag was pinned to the wall paneling.
The Mayor understood no one would miss these people.
"You don't say much, do you?" the Mayor said, clearly annoyed. Samson continued to stare at the man in disbelief.
"I don't know how to sugar coat what I got to tell you, so I'll be direct," the Mayor said. "Your old man lost something valuable to me. I gave him a deadline to get it back. If he fails at that, I told him I'd kill him, and I'd kill his family." The Mayor stopped, leaned forward, and put his hand on Samson's shoulder. "I see the blood rushing to your face. I'm not here to kill you, son. The deadline is still before us." The Mayor shook Samson's shoulder. "Breathe."
Samson released the air from his lungs. He blinked hard and wiped his eyes with his wrist.
"There you go, son. Breathe."
Samson said, "Are you kidding me, mister?" He didn't know why he said that. The words came out before he thought them.
"I said those words in a bout of anger, but I said them."
"What did he lose?" Samson was again surprised to hear his own voice.
The Mayor rubbed his cigar into the ashtray. Samson watched the narrow cloud of smoke rise until it was no more. "Son, it's nothing you can replace. It's worth more than your life."
"Maybe he'll find what he lost. Maybe I can find what he lost."
The Mayor felt sorry for the boy, knowing he wasn't at fault, knowing too the sad son of a bitch never had a chance. His old man had doomed him long before the Mayor had met either of them.
"Where do you look for two hundred twenty grand in cocaine, son?"
It became clear, again, the big man waited on an answer, and nothing else would be spoken until he got one. Samson whispered, "I don't know."
"Do you know where your old man is?" Samson shook his head. "Any ideas at all?" Samson shook his head. "You're a smart boy, aren't you?" Samson shook his head. "Come on now."
"I ain't smart, mister. Everybody in my class is smarter than me."
It dawned on Samson the Mayor didn't really expect him to know where his daddy was.
"Respectfully, sir, why'd you come here if it ain't to murder? I've got to get to school."
The Mayor set his elbows on the table and spoke into his folded hands. "If I have to do it, to kill you, do you want to know beforehand, or do you not want to know? I've got men who can—" He snapped his fingers. "You're here one second, gone the next."
"Why are you saying these things to me?" Samson asked. He felt the drip on his cheek and wiped it away with the towel.
"I thought you might like to pray," the Mayor said. "I would want to know I'm right with the Lord before I go."
He leaned forward to rest his hand on Samson's face, to wipe a rolling tear with his thumb. Samson saw what passed for sincerity in his eyes.
"I ain't cruel," the Mayor said. "It would be cruel not to give you the choice. I can give you time to pray before we do it, or we can do it without you even knowing it's about to happen."
Samson whimpered and said he didn't want to die.
"We all have to die," the Mayor told him.
Samson whimpered and said he didn't want the Mayor to murder him. He said he didn't want to know when he was going to die. He told him to leave, to please leave.
The Mayor stood, looked down upon Samson, shook his head, and heaved disappointment.
"You best live a life without sin in the next few days," he said.
He coughed into his fist and then picked up the tin ashtray and left, the trailer rumbling with each step.
Samson paced the length of the living room and wallowed in hapless terror, wondering where to run when he'd never been anywhere to run to.
Then he thought of Darby and how it'd surely be her if anybody could help him.
He looked at the clock on the range and realized it wasn't too late. He threw on some blue jeans and spilled out the door, still shirtless, his fly unzipped and towel still wrapped around his neck. He tripped on the stoop and fell into the road, and she was upon him with her little sister, walking down to the bus stop.
"Samson Jerome Jointer," Darby said. "Has somebody done beat your ass again? It's hardly seven o'clock in the fuckin morning."
Darby stood little more than five feet and weighed 99 pounds, though most who met her swore she was a lot bigger. She had naturally curly light hair and gray eyes that saw right through everything. She wore red lipstick because she found her lips too thin. It was the one vanity she allowed herself.
She lived in a unit up the hill with her momma and little sister.
Her momma mostly used the place to crash a couple nights a week. She was an addict. Amphetamines gave her a euphoria life never did. In those first hours after swallowing or snorting pills, nothing seemed impossible or worth much worry. Life felt surmountable, and she recognized the fierce affections she carried, especially for her daughters.
More damaging still, she was beautiful and always tangled up with some son of a bitch. Her girls had different fathers, and she wasn't sure who Meg's was. She'd sworn off bringing men home; it was one thing she could do for her girls after having made that mistake too many times. One stole six dollars from her wallet, another walked in on Darby in the shower, and another overdosed on their couch.
She knew she should do better by her girls, but having had Darby at 15, she felt unready, clueless. She paid the bills from her cleaning job and left grocery money. Otherwise, her girls stood a better chance without her.
Darby's sister Meg was in her first year of junior high, four years behind Darby. Unlike her older sister, she was an unassuming child. She felt devoted to Darby and didn't count herself among the derelict. Darby looked after Meg, and Meg felt protected by her. Meg loved life with Darby. She obeyed the chore schedule her older sister set for them. It was fair; Darby never asked more of Meg than she asked of herself. Meg looked forward to bedtime, to their conversations that stretched into the night. About the shirtless boys in gym. About maybe college someday, if they could swing it. Darby assured her, hell or high water, they'd swing it. She always found money when a need presented itself.
Nobody at school bullied or even teased Meg for fear of Darby's retribution. It helped that Darby was regularly suspended for beating the shit out of someone, usually a boy twice her size, or for mouthing off, usually for cussing, intentionally or by sheer habit. On days Darby missed school, Meg missed sitting beside her on the bus, the security of having her there.
Samson was in a lather, begged Darby to listen, continuously repeated he was in trouble. He kept scratching at his head with both hands.
"You got to help me," he said. "I can't explain out here."
He pulled Darby's arm and begged her to follow. It was common for Samson to look pitiful, but he rarely presented as so hysterical. It piqued Darby's interest, so she told Meg to go on without her and followed Samson inside his trailer.
He told her. He told her how his daddy had been gone days. He told her about the cigar smell. Told her about the Mayor sitting at that very table, how he knew his name. Told her about the silver tin ashtray. Told her how his daddy owed the Mayor drug money and how the Mayor intended on collecting it or murdering his daddy and him, too. Told her how the Mayor offered him a chance to pray before he died.
Darby took it all in without expression, her hands folded into her chest. Her gray eyes blinked with each sentence as she registered each new thing he said.
"What a sick fuck," she said when Samson ran out of talking.
He was winded. He dumped himself on the couch and laid a hand against his forehead.
"What do I do?" he asked.
"When's the deadline?"
"All he said is it's still before us."
"You always ask when the deadline is, dipshit."
It was Samson's habit to overly apologize, and he did so profusely at this moment. She ignored him and sat in the same chair the Mayor recently occupied. She poked her index finger into a smattering of ash on the table. It had fallen over the ashtray's side when the Mayor rubbed out his cigar.
"Don't you think he only aimed to shake you down, find out where your old man is?"
"He was serious," Samson said. "He was so serious. You got to help me. Please. My life depends on it."
Darby met the Mayor once. She and Meg went with their momma to city hall last summer after their water had been cut off for failure to pay. Their momma contended it was a mistake, that she was signed up for automatic withdrawal. She stubbornly wouldn't concede automatic withdrawal wasn't a cure for insufficient funds. Their momma asked her girls to come along, said she'd like the company, but Darby knew they were pawns to garner sympathy, that their momma hoped to get the water returned without paying the balance owed and the ridiculous reconnect fee. She needed a little mercy, and having rarely received any herself, put her daughters forward in hopes they might warrant some.
It was the Mayor himself who fielded their momma's complaints. It was a small town, and he routinely filled in at the counter when the administrative assistant, city hall's other full-time employee, was at lunch. The Mayor was a giant, easily twice their sizes combined, leaving him to hulk over them even with the countertop between.
He never raised his voice despite their mother's pleas and broken arguments and then her own shouting, but everything he said came with a slight smile and unabashed condescension. Water wasn't free, he explained. It took a person's time to drive out for a disconnect and reconnect. Bills were cheaper when paid on time.
What Darby remembered most was how the Mayor looked at her, how his dim blue eyes took her young body in with obvious carnal want. She wore her red lipstick and a matching red A-line skirt, and the Mayor ogled with abandon, seemingly without care who noticed.
Her momma noticed.
"She's 15, you sicko."
"You have beautiful children," he told her and didn't bother to avert his stare.
Samson sat up on the couch and put his head in his hands.
"I'm nobody," he said. "Why does this stuff always happen to me? Do I go to the police?"
"He is the police," Darby said.
"Maybe some other police?"
She shook her head. "There's only one thing to do."
"What?"
She took out her phone and inputted the Mayor's name. "If anybody asks, it's perfectly natural to look up the Mayor of your own fuckin town. He lives on Maple Street. It's 22 miles away."
"What are we gonna do?"
"Kill him. We got to kill him today. We got to kill him before he kills you."
She told him to get ready, she'd be back within the hour.
The feud began in 1887, when Cora Wooten abandoned John Boatright at the altar. Four known murders had since been attributed to the bad blood sparked by that jilting, including Cora's.
The Boatright compound bordered the trailer park where Samson and Darby lived and spread across 590 acres. Lester Boatright had protested the park's existence for decades, claiming it an eyesore, even with 200 acres of woodland and pond separating it from his Georgian-style mansion. He regularly addressed city council, arguing the park bred immorality and crime.
The Boatrights hunted and rode quads, built tree stands, carved trails. Lester longed to level the mobile homes and claim the land.
Cyrus Wooten owned the park, having bought it decades prior specifically to install cheap single-wides. He kept rents low to ensure his tenants were mostly poor white trash. Profit wasn't the point; chaos was.
When park residents wandered onto Boatright land, the family demanded they leave. Two years earlier, Wendell and Gauge, Lester's boys, cornered Russell. Russell was broke and desperate to shoot something for supper. The boys stepped from the trees with rifles trained at ten and two. Russell lowered his only because he was outgunned.
When they drank beer late into the night, the Boatright boys liked to ride their quads over to the woods' edge, rev the engines, holler, and shine headlights into trailer windows. When they drank whiskey, they sometimes drove into the park, spinning tires, spitting gravel, and honking until police lights appeared on the horizon or someone on a stoop with a shotgun.
Darby knew all too well about the Boatright-Wooten vendetta. She didn't believe either family better than the other.
She only cared that the Boatrights had a four-wheeler, and she needed to get somewhere. She figured rich people were usually lazy and speculated she might find a key in an ignition and a four-wheeler parked right beside a gas can.
Darby knew Samson wholly lacked ingenuity, and he didn't have the spine to commit bloodshed himself. It was on her, then, to plan and execute.
At her own trailer, she emptied her bookbag onto her mattress. She packed her red lipstick and red A-line skirt. She packed the blouse she remembered wearing when she met the Mayor. She made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, packed some oranges, and filled a thermos with water.
She opened the medicine cabinet and took out a straight razor her momma used to shave her legs. As she considered the blade, she considered her own spine, whether she truly had the moxie to end a man's life.
She understood violence was leverage. The people willing to use it got and stayed ahead, and the people most willing to brutalize others were often the same ones serving as stewards for the myth of law and order.
She didn't want power, but she was good and tired of her kind being powerless.
She figured she could do it if he looked at her like that again.
In the half-hour she was away, Samson put on a shirt, shoes, and a Braves ballcap, but Darby still needed to remind him to zip his fly. She said they were going to the Boatright compound and instructed him to follow. He did as she told him without protest. He didn't say a word until they reached the woods, Boatright property, and she advised they should keep quiet from here on. At that point, he suddenly couldn't shut up, and everything came in a whisper hardly quieter than his normal voice.
"Do you think they're out here?" he asked. "It's still early. What'll they do if they find us? Are you scared?"
She told him to shush, but he could only stay silent for a minute at a time.
"Did you hear my stomach growl? Why are we going to the Boatrights', anyway? They don't like us out here."
She pushed on and tried to ignore him.
Darby had spent plenty of time in the woods but never so early in the day, and she was charmed by how strong and alive it all was. The sun came through limbs in crisscrossed brawny beams. Everything felt connected enough, she could almost feel the forest inhale and exhale after its good night's rest, in its morning stretch. Birds cooed. Leaves fluttered. Squirrels ran the branches, pausing every so often to screech at one another or give the passersby the finger.
It was so beautiful, she felt like sitting in it for a spell. He'd already announced he was hungry a hundred times. She could eat, too, so she revealed she'd packed some sandwiches. She got them out of her bookbag and handed him one. He inhaled half his in one gulp before she got hers out of the plastic.
"You're starving," she said.
In recent days, Samson had begun to wonder if he was starving. He had no recollection of ever having had a full belly or what that felt like. If he could, he'd be big and fat. He'd be as big as the Mayor. He longed for the comfort of weight.
Darby sat and ate and thought about the canopy above her, the crowns and the branches' twisty overlap, how the trees provided shield for the forest. She thought how she'd love to be in nature more, how she'd sit in the woods all the time if there wasn't so much human shit she always had to unravel.
"You think Daddy might show up with the money in time?"
"When has your daddy ever showed up in time?"
His daddy hadn't been there when he needed money for school trips or when the groceries ran out or when the commode wouldn't stop running or even his last birthday, but Samson remembered a time.
"I was in third grade when Momma left for good," he said. "It was a Friday, and it was already World War III when I got home from school. They was so mad, they hocked loogies on each other's faces. He slammed the door on his way out. She told me she had to leave before he came back for more. She hugged me and kissed the top of my head and promised she'd be there to walk me to the bus stop Monday morning. I didn't see another soul all weekend. For some reason, I decided to wait it out on my bed. I was afraid to get off it, even to pee, so I peed right in my drawers all weekend. He came home Monday around six in the morning with bags of McDonald's breakfast. I hadn't eaten that whole time. He said there wasn't a woman of the house no more and I'd have to grow up quicker than the rest. Said it'd make me stronger. He walked me to the bus stop. That was the best meal I ever had. I can still taste them hashbrowns."
"Stop talking," she said. "You're depressing the living fuck out of me." Darby had meant her question to be rhetorical.
"Sorry," he said. "I'm sorry."
It was quiet for a moment, and Darby listened to a warble and decided to one day learn how to identify a bird by its call. Samson leaned his face into a sunbeam.
"Darby," he said.
"Yeah."
"If the Mayor's so worried about my soul, how come he ain't worried about his own?"
"It's a good fuckin question."
"You think he already gave up on his?"
"Maybe. Or maybe he thinks all his special ass has to do is say sorry after every evil thing he ever does."
They crouched in the cover of the wood line and took in the Boatright compound. There stood the rectangular brick house: three stories high, multi-paned windows, a pilastered front entrance with pediment, a patio with awning in the back, and a gabled roof. A tennis court and pool were on the far side of the property. An old gray barn sat closest to them, though still a hundred yards away.
A dirt road led up to the house, practically to the front door. A black Escalade and a white Jeep were parked on the sun-beaten grass out front, also practically to the front door. There were no bushes. No flower beds. Nothing suggested any Boatright had spent time pondering the lawn beyond having it mowed.
There were quads everywhere: two near the front door, three by the patio, one by the tennis court, and two by the barn. Some were designed to haul, most to race off-road. The smallest one by the barn was clearly meant for a child.
There were also a couple of golf carts parked by the pool. A man and a woman rested on chaise lounges beside the water.
"How rich can a motherfucker be?" Darby said aloud before meaning to. She anticipated posh, but she didn't expect them to have their own gas pump. It stood at the side of the barn. "All they need now is a fuckin Taco Bell."
"There's people at the pool," Samson said.
She told him they'd cut through the thicket and make straight for the barn. He followed and grumbled about the sweetbriars tearing their skin and clothes. She told him to shush. He said he was sorry.
She motioned for them to stop, counted to three on her fingers, whisper-shouted now, and they ran.
They reached the breezeway. She peeked around one corner. Then the other.
The pool goers climbed into separate golf carts and made the same short drive over to the house. They were close enough now to see it was an elderly couple in sunglasses and floppy hats.
"Ready for an umbrella beverage?" the old man asked.
The woman giggled. They went inside.
"Welcome."
The voice belonged to a young girl behind them.
They turned to see her standing in the middle of the breezeway. She wore a pink princess dress, a bodice with blue lacing from waist to neck and a skirt flared like a ball gown. She wore a blue sheer cape and a gold tiara. She had thick honey-brown hair and sapphire eyes. She was barefoot. She was ten.
"Who the fuck are you?" Darby asked.
"I'm Abigail. What are your names?"
Abigail Boatright was Gauge and Addison's only child. She was homeschooled by her grandparents and spent most of her time alone on the compound. She couldn't imagine wanting a toy before it was presented to her, but what she wanted more than anything was a friend her own age.
"I'm Samson." He nudged Darby to answer. When she didn't: "This is Darby. We live on the other side of the woods."
"I'm not old enough to go into the woods by myself," Abigail said. "I'm glad you came. Would you like to play?"
Samson saw a chest freezer and an old-timey refrigerator in the corner behind her. He wondered what they kept in a refrigerator in a barn.
"We want to borrow a four-wheeler," Darby said.
Samson worried Darby sounded too gruff, too unfriendly, but then he realized she'd just said a full sentence without cussing, which meant she was really trying.
"We'll bring it back," Darby said.
"You can use mine, but—" Abigail said.
"Is it that small one? We need the fastest one that can take a passenger."
Abigail let out a small, exasperated breath. She looked at Samson. Then Darby.
"You can use a fast one, but you've got to promise to return it, and—"
"Deal."
"You've got to promise to come back and play with me."
Samson and Darby looked at one another; neither quite knew how to respond. Darby considered telling her about Meg, who was closer to Abigail's own age, but then thought better of placing her sister with this strange child and her awful rich family.
"I'll do it," Samson said. "I can be your friend."
"That's fuckin weird," Darby told him.
Abigail leaned her head sideways.
"No, not you," she said. "It has to be her." She pointed her whole arm and then her index finger at Darby.
"Why not me?" Samson said.
"You'll just fall in love with me," Abigail said.
"No, I won't," he said.
"But you will."
"I will not."
"Yeah, I'll come back and fuckin play with you," Darby said.
"She's not even my age."
"Shut the fuck up."
"Sorry," he said and hung his head.
Abigail smiled wide. She had dimples in both cheeks.
"Does that gas pump outside work?" Darby asked.
Darby drove, and Samson hung on best he could. They sped down the Boatrights' driveway, and a yellow sand dust storm followed them. Maples, pines, and poplars lined the road. The sky above was blue and cloudless. They rode east, toward the sun.
For the first time ever, Samson felt free. He was happy to have the wind slap his face, to ride in the wind and late morning light. He squeezed Darby's waist. It was the only way he knew to thank her and the only way he figured she would accept being thanked. He had more reason to be scared in this moment than he ever had in his lifetime, but he didn't harbor fear. He only felt whole and alive.
Darby slowed the four-wheeler and said something.
"What?"
"Stop squeezing me so fuckin tight."
At the end of the drive, they could take a left onto Boatright Road to get home, but they turned right instead, toward town. They passed the occasional culvert, someone else's drive to a house set back into the woods. Except for the trailer park, it was a long stretch of two-lane where wealthy folk resided who didn't want nearby neighbors.
They reached Owens Road and came to a stop. The high school was only five miles to the right. At this intersection in the fall, you could see the glow of the football field in the night sky. Samson flipped off the whole general direction. Seeing him, Darby did the same.
They went left. Owens was a busier road. Darby wasn't worried about their safety; she'd already proved she could get the four-wheeler to 60 with ease, and young and old alike regularly drove quads and golf carts around town. She just didn't want to be seen, especially by a cop bored enough to cite them for truancy and haul their asses back to school.
They passed the road to the county dump, the rundown minute mart kids flooded before and after school, a junkyard of dilapidated ambulances and hollowed out school buses, and acres upon acres of pine. They reached Highway 84, the lone four-lane cutting right through the middle of town.
A sheriff's patrol car passed in front of them as they came to a stop. Darby smiled and waved. She believed cops were oftentimes lazy enough to leave you alone if you acted nonchalant and friendly, like you were supposed to be doing the thing you weren't supposed to be doing. They kept on their way.
She gunned the engine and crossed 84 and the railroad tracks immediately thereafter. She didn't mean for them to go airborne, but that's what happened. Samson screamed for his life in her ear, and, after they landed with a hard thump and then a bounce followed by another thump, she slowed down enough to tell him to hold on.
She then made a hard left into Ledford's onion fields, a shortcut she reckoned would save them at least a half-hour. The crops were near ready for harvest: stalks a little more than knee-high and leaves beginning to turn golden. The air smelled sweet and bitter, like petrichor, even though it hadn't rained in days. Samson watched the irrigation sprinklers to their right. They sat atop a long line of pipes and wheels and sprayed everything within reach. He wondered why Ledford would water his fields in the middle of the day.
They bobbed along the onion rows, and Samson grew more certain he no longer had the capacity to sire children. Finally, they reached a red clay road cutting between the crops and a timberline of pine and evergreen. He begged for a break, and she cut the engine.
"My nuts," he said. He fell off the four-wheeler and curled into a ball.
"We don't have time for nonsense," Darby said. "Ain't you ever rode a four-wheeler before?"
"No, never."
"Huh. Well, do the opposite of whatever the fuck you just did."
The Mayor's neighborhood was on the other side of the woods. She initially thought they'd go through it and be there in ten minutes, but the brush was a lot thicker than she anticipated. She didn't know these woods well enough to know if they could be navigated through on a four-wheeler. If they went left, they could be there in 20 minutes, but that'd take them right through the heart of town. They'd surely be seen, and some nosey ass person was bound to stop them to ask why they were out and about in the middle of a school day. Going right would take them at least another 40 minutes.
She watched Samson writhe around in the dirt and accepted there was only one choice: they'd have to take the long way. She told him to get up, walk it off, they had to keep moving.
The closer they got, the easier Darby took it. Like Samson, she began to relish the wind and the sun and early spring air full of earth and bloom. She got lost in the engine's meditative repeat and vibration. She liked the homes they passed: cabins and farmhouses, decorated lawns, above-ground pools and in-ground ones, fire pits.
Darby felt her nerves grow raw at the weight of what she'd committed herself to do. She briefly tried to imagine killing the Mayor, to steel herself for what that might look like, but feared doing too much imagining might lessen her resolve. She could do it if he looked at her that way again.
She found Maple Street but drove on a couple streets over, where there was a small, tree-shaded park with picnic tables and charcoal grills. She parked the four-wheeler behind a line of shrubs.
"What are we doing?" he asked.
She got off the four-wheeler, and he did the same. She stretched, took off her bookbag, and sat on a tabletop. She took out the oranges and gave him one. She took out the thermos and gave him some water.
"Maple is two roads down," she said. "I need you to walk over there and tell me if you see any cameras on people's houses, see if you see any video doorbells."
She didn't imagine he'd find any. This part of town was full of old money retirees who still bragged you could leave your doors unlocked. Her chief concern was some son or daughter living elsewhere had installed a security system for their parents. The old folks themselves probably didn't know how to operate it, but their kids could start downloading footage once a murder got reported in the neighborhood.
"What if he sees me?"
"You have your phone?"
He hung his head; he was the only person she never once saw with a phone in his hand. She told him to take hers and handed it to him. She told him to walk with it like he saw everyone do at the high school, looking down at the screen and not where he was going. She told him to look where he's going, though, to not even turn the phone on, and look for cameras. She told him to put his hat on.
"The house number is 18. Pay special attention to 18 and the houses around it."
He looked puzzled.
"What?"
"Have you done this before?"
"No, I've never killed the fuckin Mayor before."
"I'm sorry. That was stupid."
"Look, we only got to be smarter than the dumb-as-shit police. You understand?" He nodded his head. "If somebody sees you or hollers at you, keep looking at your phone like you can't be distracted from Insta for one goddamn second and get the fuck out of there. Don't look up, and don't run. Just walk faster."
"Are you sure?"
She wasn't, but it had to be done. "Yeah, I'm fuckin sure."
He returned in 15 minutes, excited and breathing hard. He put his hands on his knees and tried to talk and catch his breath at the same time.
"See them trees yonder?" he said.
"Yeah."
"He lives right on the other side. The people across the street have a big wooden fence facing his driveway. I think it's their pool. I smelled chlorine. I didn't see any cameras."
"How deep is that patch of trees?"
"Not very."
"Big enough to hide in them?"
"I guess so."
"Let's go."
The Mayor's house had a red brick horseshoe driveway, a grand portico with columns, and a low-pitched gable roof. A line of rocking chairs sat on the porch. Rows of sculpted boxwoods stood behind rows of sculpted red rose bushes. There was a three-car garage on the far side. Closest to them and the woods was a pool enclosed by a waist-high picket fence.
Darby thought it looked like a meeting house for Greek gods and found it strange such a massive structure sat so close to tiny Maple Street.
They'd waited in the cover of the woods for two hours. In that time, Samson remained mystified the Mayor's house didn't have cameras, or from what they could tell, any security system whatsoever. He questioned how a drug runner and murderer could be so lax with his safekeeping.
"Everybody thinks he's the world's best Mayor," Darby said. "They don't know him for what he really is."
"But somebody knows, right? A man like that must have people out to get him—other than us, I mean."
"Men like him get away with every damn thing, and they come to believe they're untouchable," she said. "They usually are."
They debated the red Cadillac in the driveway. Samson said it was the Mayor's because it was expensive and fancy. Darby said it was his wife's, that he obviously drove an obnoxiously large pickup truck. Either way, they'd wait long enough to find out.
"Darby," Samson said.
"Yeah."
"How come you're helping me like this?"
"You're my friend."
He sat in the quiet for a moment and watched the back of her curly-haired head as she watched the house.
"No friend in the world would do this for anybody but you. I'm nobody. How can you risk everything for a nobody?"
"I'm nobody."
"No, you're— you're Darby."
"He uses violence and lies, then tells everybody he's peaceful and honest. He uses power to keep people like us stupid and quiet while he lives in this fine house, eats fine food, drinks fine ass wine, and fucks whoever he wants.
"He says he earned it cause he works harder. Cause he's better than us. Smarter than us.
"He ain't. The only difference is he's willing to do evil shit. And until somebody does something back, nothing changes."
Samson was in awe of Darby, of how clearly she saw the world and how unafraid she was to name what she saw. It occurred to him how he'd lived his whole life only to survive it, as though surviving it were triumph enough. He wondered what he'd do if he ever got another chance.
"Thank you, Darby," he said.
"Fuck off, Samson."
The front door opened, and a lady stepped onto the portico carrying a tan leather purse. She wore a matching tan pantsuit and a white curl neck blouse. Her hair was fashioned in a short, tapered bob. She was 50 and in remarkable shape for a woman her age. She reached the Cadillac as a black Ram 3500 rumbled into the drive. The Mayor gave the horn a gentle press. She stood by her car and watched him climb out of his truck, watched it rise as he relieved it of his weight.
"Where you going?" he asked. He walked to the front of the truck and leaned against the hood.
"You're on your own for supper tonight," she said. Then: "What did the doctor say?"
"Nothing good."
The Mayor's wife devoted her life to being a decent, proper woman and model Christian. She would've preferred to be a mother, but they weren't able to have children. He refused adoption, said the only ones nobody wanted were black or mixed. She often wondered if her drive elsewhere came from trying to fill that void.
"Well, then," she said, "maybe consider a salad."
She didn't take her parents' or husband's wealth for granted. It infuriated her when, during their fights, he claimed she'd never worked a day in her life. She kept a schedule as rigorous as any factory employee. She served on the retirement home board and the community center board. She was a Pink Lady and among the first women admitted to the local Lion's Club. She belonged to the Garden Club and the Women's Book Club. She attended church three times a week, led the preschool ministry, and worked the food hall for funerals and Easter lunch. She prayed before every meal and before bed every night.
She'd spent much of her adult life justifying its significance, to herself if not to him. They'd been married so long, he knew exactly what buttons to push. That he pushed them so freely led her to question his integrity and his concern for her peace of mind.
Yesterday, when she mentioned their annual United Way donation, he told her money didn't grow on trees.
Samson watched the Mayor and his wife and felt Darby moving around behind him.
"Don't turn around," she whispered.
"Why?"
"I'm getting ready."
"Where you going?" they could hear the Mayor ask again.
"I need a night out. I'm meeting Joyce."
The Mayor told her to have fun, and she got into her Cadillac and drove away without saying another word. He went into the house.
Samson waited for Darby to give him the "all clear" and turned to face her. She'd changed into her red skirt and white blouse. She was putting on her lipstick. She said she didn't have a mirror, asked if she'd smudged it.
"It's not smudged," he said. "You look good."
"Alright," she said and hugged him. She breezed past him, and he had to grab her by the hand.
"Wait."
"What?"
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to kill the motherfucker."
He was confused. He'd counted on her to have a plan, but he hadn't expected it to exclude him.
"What do I do?"
"Wait here. If you see anybody, ring the doorbell and run like hell. I'll meet you back at the four-wheeler. If I'm not back in an hour—"
He pressed his fingers into her hand.
"If you're not back in an hour, then what, Darby?"
"I don't know what to tell you. We're both fucked."
"Is this really happening?"
She saw panic settle into his shaky eyes. He was scared, and scared for her, too. She wanted to tell him everything would be alright, wanted to believe it herself, but she knew she couldn't promise such things. The next little bit was bound to change their lives forever. She needed to trust her instincts and act before fear caught up to her.
"Let me do it, Darby. It's me he's after."
"Shut the fuck up, Samson."
With that, she walked out of the woods, across the driveway, and up the portico. She pressed the doorbell and heard it clang and then echo inside. The Mayor opened the door.
Darby planted her right foot behind her left, put her hands on her hips, stuck out her chest, and stared directly into his eyes.
"Want to buy some Girl Scout Cookies?"
He'd noticed a wheeziness in his breathing the year before, then a small occasional cough that matured in persistence, especially with strenuous activity. He chalked it up to spring allergies. He'd suffered that congestion since boyhood, and it seemed natural the symptoms would evolve now that he'd passed life's midpoint. The dysphonia set in six months ago, not long before his annual checkup. His doctor noticed the hoarseness right away and, as if he already knew, asked him if he'd been coughing or short of breath or feeling unusually lethargic.
It'd been six weeks since his doctor said it was time for radiation and chemo, but he still resisted because he didn't feel poorly. He just couldn't kick the cough or the wispy voice. If anything, he felt more virile than usual.
"Where's your order form?" the Mayor asked Darby.
"What you mean?"
He invited her inside, said he'd get his wallet. She followed him down a hallway past a flight of stairs, a formal sitting room, the dining room, the kitchen, and a bathroom. Their footsteps echoed on the marble flooring.
They finally made it to the den, which was darker than the other rooms they'd passed. Bookshelves lined the walls beside a giant television and curtained windows. There was brown shag carpeting. Two steps down led to the fireplace, sectional sofa, and an oversized recliner. The room was lit by sunlight coming through heavy sheers and a banker's lamp on a desk in the corner.
"Get out your order form. I'll take two boxes of everything."
"Big spender," she said.
"What's your name?"
"Darby."
"Darby, make that four boxes of everything. Show me your form."
"Paper forms are old news," she said and took out her phone. She let it hang from her wrist and didn't bother to take her eyes off him to look at it. "It's all online now. How would you like to pay? Cash? Credit card?"
"I was about to have a little wine," he said.
He turned his back to her and walked over to a bar setup in the bookshelves. She watched his wide shoulders work, heard ice cubes clink on glass. He turned and handed her a rosé on ice.
She'd given herself three rules for their encounter. Rule one: remember what you touch. She'd have to wipe the glass before she left.
"I have a little confession," she said. "I'm not really a Girl Scout."
"Is that right?" he said and gave her the look she came to see. "Let's sit on the sofa, Darby, and you can tell me why you're really here."
He touched her shoulder, and when she turned, he moved his hand to the small of her back and led her down the two steps.
Rule two: Smile and don't show disgust no matter where he touches you.
He'd kept the cancer diagnosis from his wife and from everyone, but it led him to meditate on his relationship with Christ. He understood he was a mighty sinner. His only saving grace was so was everyone else.
In his introspections, he concluded his sins were rooted in his blessings, that throughout his life, opportunity—whether women or business or whatever—appeared before him without his hardly having to try. He'd found himself unable to resist temptation.
Even now, even while potentially facing final judgment soon, he couldn't resist. He could only pray there was some mercy in admitting to a weakness he was powerless to overcome.
He also hoped the good he'd done in life would be considered, and, especially since his diagnosis, he had made more of an effort to nurture other souls, to steer others to a salvation he himself may never see.
He sat and patted the sofa beside him, and she sat.
"I've always been attracted to powerful men," she said. "Do you remember me?"
"You don't think I'd forget somebody pretty as you, do you?"
"Aw. You think I'm pretty?"
"Drink," he said and raised his glass.
"Cheers," she said and drained hers.
Samson watched the Mayor answer the door and Darby go inside. His heart felt like it might break loose and climb out his throat. He felt like he might shit himself any second.
He understood it was a fine time to fret about committing a murder, but he couldn't help himself. Somehow, he never believed they'd actually kill the Mayor. He thought they'd go on an adventure together, Darby would confront the man, and she'd talk sense into him. No one was more persuasive than Darby. It'd work itself out, and they'd all have a laugh about it. They'd have a laugh about it for years to come.
He knew now she really was set on murder, and he himself was complicit. He considered he should stop it while it was still not too late. He should go ring the doorbell. He should save Darby from herself.
In that moment, he could not. His bowels were about to empty. He looked for leaves to clean himself, but there wasn't time. He pulled down his pants and squatted.
"What's it like being the Mayor?"
"It's a small town. It's not hard work. I try to do good where I can."
"Like shutting off people's water?" She smiled.
"Little girl, I promise you'll never have to worry about a water bill again."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Darby was twelve. She was in the shower when her momma's boyfriend walked in. Her momma was passed out on the couch after not having slept for days. Meg was in her room getting ready for school.
The boyfriend was in good shape and had dark, movie-star hair. He was richer than most of her momma's boyfriends. He promised them the world, starting with a house with land. He promised Meg they'd put a pony on them acres they'd all have together.
Darby saw her momma's straight razor on the edge of the tub. Not a day passed she didn't regret not picking it up.
"What about our power bill?" she said. "Do we need to worry about the power bill ever again?"
"Will you look at that?" the Mayor said. He had to cough into his fist to regain his voice. "What you gonna do for me in return?"
She took his glass and set both glasses on the coffee table. She lifted her skirt an inch and planted a knee on each side of him.
"What you want me to do?"
Samson wiped himself the best he could with a couple of nearby leaves.
It was so quiet. He heard a robin sing, and that was it.
He moved to the edge of the woods and hid behind the widest tree trunk he could find.
Should he ring the doorbell? Should he barge in and save the day? Did Darby need saving? What would Darby do if she were him?
He knew she would never be him. She would never be so vulnerable, so caught off guard. She'd never be so scared she soiled herself. He wanted to cry out his shame, but he would not cry. He would at least spare himself that one embarrassment.
He looked at the house. He would've thought it was empty if he didn't know better. He wished for a sign. Maybe he should wait for some kind of sign before acting.
Rule three: make sure the side that exits cuts as deep as the one that's entered.
She straddled his lap. He had one hand on her breast and the other went for her butt, but she grabbed it before it got there. She pushed his hand to the couch's back pillow and leaned her head into him so he could kiss her. He did and flicked her lips with his tongue.
With her free hand, she fetched the straight razor from her rear skirt pocket. She let his hand go. She pushed up tight against his body and, with both hands free, pulled the blade from its case.
"You should pray," she whispered into his ear.
"Thank you, Jesus."
"For forgiveness."
"What you mean?"
She leaned far back and, in one motion, cut left to right as deep as she could from one end of his neck to the other. He sat motionless, and she saw the surprise in his eyes.
Nothing seemed to happen for a moment, and she thought she'd done it wrong. Then his neck opened along the line she'd cut with the blade. There was a trickle, then a waterfall, and then so much blood he could've vomited it onto her.
With one final burst of strength, he pushed her so hard she crashed onto the coffee table and then the floor. He held his neck and tried to heave himself off the couch, but he fell forward, onto her, his face beside hers, and died.
He'd knocked the air out of her. She worked to catch her breath and felt the heat of his blood as it continued to soak her. She tried to push him off but didn't have the strength. She tried to wiggle out from under him but didn't have the strength. She waited until she could breathe normally and tried again, but he was too heavy.
She screamed loud and long: "Fuck." She heard herself echo down the hallway.
"Darby?"
"Samson, is that you?" She stretched her neck to see him in the doorway. "Samson, you're here. Holy shit, Samson. Help get this motherfucker off me."
Samson walked over to them, took in the bloody mess.
"You killed him. You really did it."
"fuckin help me, Samson. I'm stuck."
He rolled the Mayor on his side enough for Darby to wiggle free. She got up and hugged him. She was soaked in blood, and now he was, too. He felt faint.
"I thought they'd find me under him like that. Oh, God. Thank you, Samson."
"I got to get out of here. I'm gonna pass out."
"What did you touch?"
"What did I touch?"
"What in this house did you touch?"
"Nothing. Him just now."
"You touched the door handle."
"Yeah, I guess so."
"What else? Think, Samson."
"Nothing."
"You're sure?"
"I'm sure. I came in and walked back here, found y'all like this. That's it."
She grabbed the straight razor and wine glasses. They ran down the hallway. She told him to wipe the door handle and the doorbell behind him. Outside, it was quiet.
She went to the pool gate, opened it using her bloodied blouse as a glove, and dropped the razor and glasses into the water.
They ran into the woods. She scooped up her bookbag, and they ran the two streets over to the park. They huddled beside the four-wheeler and worked on catching their breath.
"I don't think anybody saw us," he said. "Do you?"
"Better hope fuckin not."
"You look like a horror movie." Except for parts of her legs, every bit of her was splattered. If he didn't know better, he'd have thought her oily burgundy face belonged to somebody else. "You should change into your other clothes."
"It'll just make them bloody, too," she said. "It spreads like a virus. You don't have anything to change into."
He looked at his own t-shirt and saw the remnants of her hug.
"Should I take it off?" he asked.
She didn't answer. She was considering something behind them.
"Darby?"
"They probably have our shoeprints. I wonder if there's a blood trail right to us. Which way did his wife go? Did she take that road right there?"
"I think so."
"You think so or know so?"
"Know so. She made a right turn out of the drive."
"If we see her coming home, then we take off. Otherwise, we wait until dark."
She couldn't sit in those clothes. She made him turn around, and she stripped. She used dry spots on her soiled skirt and blouse to wipe her face and arms. There were so few dry spots, she had to take off her bra and use it to finish wiping her face. She pulled her jeans and t-shirt from the bookbag, and they were bloodied with her handprints. Blood kept appearing everywhere, and there was nothing she could do about it. She put on the clothes, and it was better, bearable. She stuck the skirt, blouse, and bra in her bookbag.
"I wish I knew where a nearby pond was," she said.
"Me, too."
"We got to burn these clothes tonight—and our shoes. We got to shower and then bleach the fuck out of the bathroom. We got to bleach the fuck out of the four-wheeler."
"Okay," he said.
"Samson."
"Yeah."
"Thank you."
He thought of the perfect thing to say: "Fuck off, Darby."
He smiled. She smiled.
"How come you did it? How come you came for me?"
"I was out there waiting on a sign, something to tell me what to do."
"What was the sign?"
"One never came. I got tired of waiting to fight my own battles."
At dusk, they began the journey home. They passed cabins and farmhouses, homes with fire pits and pools, some above-ground, some in-ground.
They turned onto the red clay road with timberline on one side and Ledford's onion fields on the other. She slowed the four-wheeler to a crawl and shouted over her shoulder for Samson to get his nuts ready. He stood with bent knees and tapped her arms to let her know they were good to go.
She opened the throttle, and they bounced along the rows. They smelled the onions' sweet bitterness and then the petrichor. She heard the irrigation sprinkler's low hammering tik tik tik tik, spotted it on their left, and aimed for it.
She cut the engine, they dismounted, and they took a makeshift shower in their clothes among the onions under the stars and crescent moonlight.
"Can you see blood?" she asked.
"It's a lot better. What about me?"
"It's better. It'll be cold as fuck now."
"I know," he said.
They got back on the four-wheeler, crossed the onion fields, and turned right on Owens. They passed the railroad tracks and the only four-lane in town, passed the acres of pine and the junkyard and the minute mart and the road to the county dump. A car came up fast behind them. Samson waved it by, and it passed with a toot of the horn.
They got to the Boatright Road intersection. Samson flipped off the general direction of the high school. Seeing him, Darby did the same. They turned and headed home.
She stopped at the trailer park's entrance. Blue lights flickered in the night; a deputy's car was parked in front of Samson's trailer.
"That was fast," he said.
"I fuckin underestimated them," Darby said. "I thought they were dumb as bricks."
"You think we missed a camera? Somebody saw us?"
She shivered from the wet and the wind, from the adrenaline that carried her for hours and left her an hour before, leaving her emptier than she'd ever felt. She had no fight left.
"Tell them it was me," she said. "You don't even have to lie. It was me. Don't say anything else. Ask for a lawyer."
"Darby—" His voice trailed off.
"Yeah, what?"
"We can't give up now."
He was also exhausted, but he'd been tired his entire life. For the first time, all he wanted to do was fight. All he had to do was learn how to.
"What the fuck else can we do? Run? I can't beat them if they've already figured it out. I'm sorry, Samson."
He wanted to say something more but couldn't figure out what.
"Tell them it was me," she said. "Tell them you didn't know what I was up to until it was too late."
She pushed the throttle, and they reached his trailer as the deputy came off the stoop and shined his flashlight at their faces.
"Samson Jointer?" he asked.
"Yessir."
"I'm Deputy Mitch Miller. Can we talk a minute?"
Deputy Miller was reared in the same county he now patrolled. Recently 30, his only regret was he'd not yet made detective. It was his mission to understand things well enough to announce precisely what had happened or what was bound to. His wife called him a know-it-all, a moniker he only pretended to mind. He prided himself on being appreciably more right than wrong.
He'd wanted to be a cop since he could pee standing up. More specifically, he wanted to solve murders like the detectives on TV. But the sheriff's office rarely handled such cases, and he wasn't about to uproot his family for a city job. He found enough excitement as a deputy and counted himself genuinely happy.
"Yessir."
"Do you mind if we go inside and sit a spell?"
"Okay."
Samson and Darby dismounted, and Deputy Miller followed them into the trailer. The deputy's politeness told them they weren't caught, but they were both too tired to expend much energy speculating on whatever had brought him their way. Darby thought maybe the Boatright's four-wheeler, but that wouldn't account for the politeness, either.
Inside, Samson flipped the light switch. "This is Darby. She's my best friend."
Deputy Miller removed his hat, and then he saw them in the light.
"Jesus," he said. "Did y'all hit a deer?"
Samson and Darby eyeballed one another. Each was covered in dust and had more blood smeared across their faces, arms, and clothes than they'd realized in Ledford's onion fields.
"Yeah, you did. I bet he was a big sucker, too. It bang up that four-wheeler any? Say, are y'all wet?"
"After we hit the deer," Darby said, slowly, trying to put a story together as she spoke, "we tried to clean up in a pond, and fuckin Samson pushed me in, so I fuckin pushed him in."
She punched Samson's shoulder for good measure.
"Ow. Why'd you hit me?"
"Y'all were playing in the Boatrights' woods, weren't you?"
"That really hurt."
"Yeah, we were in the woods," Darby said, trying to sound guilty.
"You know Mr. Lester don't like y'all out there."
"Abigail said it was okay. She even let us borrow the four-wheeler."
"Abigail, his littlest grandbaby?"
"That's right," Darby said, though she had no clue who was who's littlest.
"Y'all friends, huh?"
"Yes, we are. You can go ask her yourself."
Deputy Miller held his hat and finally remembered why he was there.
"Listen, I have something to tell you. Will you sit?" He pointed at the couch. They did as he asked, and he pulled a chair from the kitchenette table to face them. "I have sad news for you, Samson. We, uh, found your daddy."
Samson's head tilted, and his eyes glazed over. His daddy was never there, but he'd never considered he may never be there again.
"What do you mean you found him?" Darby asked.
"Well, we found him, and he'd already passed. He's gone, Samson. I'm sorry. We found his truck over in Waycross, over by the swamp."
"He's dead?" Samson asked. It wasn't a question as much as something he needed to say aloud.
"I'm afraid so."
"How?"
"Uh, well, it seems he hung himself. All indications are he committed suicide. I'm truly sorry for your loss, son."
A staticky voice from the radio on Deputy Miller's shoulder interrupted: All units, please be advised, we have a possible 187 at 18 Maple. The deputy's face gave away his recognition of the code and the address. Another voice: That the Mayor's house? Then the first voice: Affirmative. 18 Maple.
He silenced his radio.
"Listen, I have to get going," he said. "There's serious business afoot. Samson, do you have any family I could call, maybe somebody to come by so you're not alone tonight?"
"He can stay with us," Darby said. "I live right up the way. My momma won't mind."
"Okay," Deputy Miller said and pressed his lips and nodded. "I don't think you should be alone. Child services will probably be by tomorrow or the next day. It's my understanding it was just the two of you." He looked around the living room and the kitchenette and, for the first time, became aware of how barren it was. "Stay with Darby tonight, Samson. We all need our best friend on nights like this."
With that, Deputy Miller gave Samson his business card, said to call if he needed anything, shook hands with them both, and left.
Samson and Darby sat quietly on the couch for some time and stared into nothing. Time went on around them but not in them.
Finally, Darby began to dread the long night they still had ahead. They had to shower, burn their clothes and shoes and her bookbag, find a fuck load of bleach, bleach the fuck out of the bathroom, and bleach the fuck out of the four-wheeler.
Finally, Samson began to think of his daddy. He remembered watching wrestling together every Monday night back when they still had a TV, how his daddy rooted for the bad guys and the good women, how he tried convincing Samson it was all real, that it made perfect sense these colossal, chiseled gods could hate each other's guts one week and partner up the next. As with everything else, Samson wanted to believe him, to believe it was real, but it seemed so absurd, even for a little boy.
Darby inched her hand into his.
"I'm sorry," she said.
"Fuck off, Darby," he said. He meant it to be funny, like before, but it wasn't. "Sorry," he said.
They waited a little longer to get moving. Each pictured what was ahead of them. Not the years ahead. They had no idea if they'd get to finish high school or get sent to prison. Not the cleaning and burning they still had to see about. Instead, they pictured being under some blankets, their heads on feathery pillows, the sleep they had coming, the sharing of the same roof for at least one night with someone who'd do anything to save the other.
They each thought on that some and didn't move.
Finally, they got up and got to it.
