Unpossible (25 page)

Pax didn’t believe him for a minute. "I’m not leaving you to her."

Harlan tilted his head. "Why not?"

He didn’t have an answer for that yet.

There were only two checkout lanes open at Bigler’s, but he picked hers. "That should make quite a few meals," Jo said. The cart was piled high.

"I’m stocking up," Pax said.

"Good. You look like you could use it." It was true, he’d dropped weight, and he hadn’t started with much to spare. She said, "How is your father doing?"

"Good. I mean, okay."

She nodded, and Pax couldn’t bring himself to say what he came to say. She worked quickly, scanning and bagging the items with practiced speed.

"You’re staring at me," she said.

He felt heat in his cheeks. "I’m sorry," he said. "It’s just—" He glanced behind him. There was no one else in line. "Were we in love, Jo? Or was it all just teenage hormones? Just chemicals?"

She tucked the last item, a box of cereal, into the bag. "I loved you," she said.

"But we were just kids."

"Old enough."

Old enough to make a baby. Old enough to lose one.

Her parents hadn’t wanted him at the hospital—hadn’t wanted him anywhere near their daughter ever again. His father washed his hands of him. Within two weeks of that night Pax was gone to Arizona to live with his mom’s sister.

Jo finished ringing him up, and didn’t object when he signed Harlan’s name to one of his father’s checks. She said, "I held a service, you know." Her voice was light, matter-of-fact. "They didn’t want a public one, so I held my own. Out by the church. I only carried it for six weeks, but to me it was already our baby. I could feel it."

Maybe that was the difference. Jo had chemicals running through her system telling her the child existed, that there was someone there to love. He had nothing to hold on to but a concept. An abstract idea.

He touched her arm. "Jo, if we could start over—"

"Start over?" She drew back. Her smile was some mix of disbelief and pity. "Paxton, I’m married. I’m happy now. I have two beautiful children."

"That’s ... good. I’m glad you got over me."

"Of course I did. It’s been twelve years. What did you think I would do?"

He pushed his groceries out to the parking lot. As he finished loading, Jo came out of the store holding a plate covered by a clear plastic lid.

"For your dad," she said. "He always liked coconut cream pie."

"Uh, okay," he said, and took it from her.

"Tell him I’m sorry for his loss." He stared at her blankly and she said, "His uncle. Lem?"

"What are you talking about?"

"I thought that’s why you were buying all that food. We got the news this morning when Travis came in. What’s the matter?"

"When did he die?"

"Last night, I think. Travis said it was going to be a quick funeral."

"I have to get home." He set the pie on the passenger seat, then climbed in. He looked up at her through the open side window. "Jo, I’m sorry. For everything. I was a coward."

She didn’t contradict him.

He’d braced himself for the sight of Vonda’s Ford, but the driveway was empty except for his father’s Crown Vic. Pax left the groceries in the car and went inside. His father sat on the couch, a folded towel on his lap, watching the television.

"Uncle Lem is dead," Paxton said.

Harlan nodded. "I figured. The phone’s been ringing off the hook."

"You didn’t pick up?"

"They’ll say their condolences, but I know what they really want. Where’s the food? I’m starving."

Pax ferried the groceries into the house, checking half a dozen times for cars coming down the lane. He quickly made his father a sandwich and a tall glass of sweet tea, then stood where he could keep watch out the picture window.

"You’re making me nervous," his father said.

"We have to leave, Harlan. I’m taking you back to Chicago."

His father looked at him. "In what?"

Good point. His Tempo was too small by half, and the Crown Vic probably didn’t even run. "I’ll borrow a truck."

"I’m not going anywhere," Harlan said. "This is my damn house. You’re the one who needs to leave."

"You really want me out of here?"

"Of course I do. I never wanted you here in the first place."

"Liar." His body had been telling a different story since Paxton had arrived.

"You’re throwing me off balance, son. Before you came, they couldn’t get anything out of me but dribs and drabs once a week."

"You told me it was two or three times a week."

"They see me like this, they find out how much I’m producing, they’ll get ideas. And now that Lem’s gone—"

"I’m not going to let them take you," Pax said. He’d never told Harlan that Vonda and the boys had come to the house, or that he’d let slip how often the vintage was flowing. "I’ll call the police. I don’t care who finds out, I’m not going to let them kidnap you."

"No! No police," his father said. "When Vonda comes, let me handle it. Do you hear me?"

"Handle it how?"

"Never mind how." He handed him the empty glass. "Just fill this up."

For hours Paxton paced the little room, and then made random paths through the front yard. The phone rang a dozen times an hour. He’d decided to adopt Harlan’s policy, and let it ring.

Near 8:00 the sun began to drop behind the trees. Pax didn’t want to turn on the living room lights because the glare would make it impossible to see the driveway. His father refused to turn off the TV, though. Pax began to think that Vonda wouldn’t show up tonight. And what if she didn’t, what then? Stand watch every day?

Pax was at the window again when his father said, "Ah." Pax turned. Harlan’s eyes had drooped. His face had begun to glisten.

Shit. The last thing he needed was the vintage coming in with Vonda here. And then he realized that that was exactly what she was counting on. Roll in on the high tide like a pirate and take what she wanted with Harlan too disoriented to fight her.

"Hold on, Dad. Stay awake."

"‘New wine in old bottles,’" he said.

"Matthew, uh, nine?"

His father grunted. "Good boy. Nine-seventeen: ‘The bottles break, and the wine runneth out.’"

Behind him, a pair of headlights swung down through the trees.

"I’ll do it," his father said. "I’ll break it wide open. Stop it all." His hand fumbled for the towel that lay over his lap.

Paxton pulled it out of his grasp and opened the towel. Inside was a black revolver. A .38? .32? "Jesus Christ, Dad, where the hell did you get a pistol?"

Outside, the lights of the big SUV were aimed at the front window.

Pax took the gun, then went into the kitchen. He opened the freezer and pulled out the white kitchen bag he’d put there. He looked at the five remaining capsules and thought about popping one open. But no, he couldn’t afford to be in two places at once.

He walked out the front door, the pistol in his right hand, the bag in his left.

Vonda and the boys were waiting for him, the headlights making them into silhouettes. Vonda wore some kind of dark, sack-like dress.

"I really thought you were lying about the gun," she said.

Clete reached behind him to his waistband. "Look, we’ve got ’em, too." Both boys drew out silver automatics. Rap video weapons.

Pax felt his knees go loose. He’d never pointed a gun at another person, or had one pointed at him.

"Here," he said. He tossed the bag toward them. The frozen plastic containers clattered inside as it hit the ground. "There are twenty capsules, a few ounces each," he said, struggling to keep his voice level. "That’s from one week."

Travis palmed his gun and picked up the bag. He tugged open the mouth and tilted it to catch the glare of the headlights. "Shee-it," he said.

"Harlan only does that when I’m around," Pax said. "Even if you took him, you couldn’t get him to produce like that. I’m betting that’s a lot more than Lem ever put out."

"And I’m betting there’s more of that in your freezer," Vonda said.

"A little bit," he admitted.

"Or I could just take the cow."

"Or, Harlan shoots himself," Pax said.

"The preacher? I don’t think so."

"Vonda, where do you think I got the gun? I pulled it out of his fucking hand." Pax stepped forward. "That’s Harlan Martin in there, Vonda, not some ninety-year-old man too terrified to cross you. You should know the difference between Lem and my father. He’ll find a way."

She eyed the bag. "Every week you’ll do this?" Vonda said. "Week in, week out."

"I told him I wouldn’t leave him."

"You’re fooling yourself," she said. She was silent for half a minute, then finally she shook her head. "All right," she said, and nodded at the boys. Travis took the bag back to the SUV. "You too, Clete." He followed his brother back to the vehicle.

Vonda nodded toward the house. "You want Harlan to think you’re doing this because you love him, Paxton? That you’re just being a good son? Fine. But you and I both know that this is because you’ve gotten a taste of the vintage." She laughed. "That’s not love, Paxton. That’s addiction."

"Explain the difference."

Harlan was waiting for him, still holding onto consciousness. Pax went to the kitchen and came back with the cloth towel that had held the gun. He sat next to him and gently patted the sweat from his face.

"You’re still here," his father said.

"Still here, Dad."

"I couldn’t do it," Harlan said. "I could have stopped all of this. But I couldn’t—"

"Shh." Pax said. He pushed his father’s hair from his eyes. "Go to sleep now. We’ll talk in the morning."

Petit Mal #2: Digital

S
ometime after the accident, Franklin woke up to realize that his consciousness had relocated to his left hand—specifically, the index finger of his left hand.

Before the accident, which is to say, his entire life until then, his conscious self seemed to reside just behind his eyes, a tiny man gazing out at the world through a pair of wide windows. He’d never considered how odd this was, and how arbitrary that location. Was it because humans were predominantly visual? He supposed so, but that didn’t explain why his self had been lodged there. Why not behind the nose? His sense of smell was quite keen, especially when it came to beer: he could tell a Belgian Abbey ale from an American microbrew knockoff with a single sniff. His taste buds were highly trained. If he had become a professional taste-tester, he wondered, would his consciousness have migrated down to his tongue?