“We didn’t want to go to the bank about this check, Mr. Vaughn,” Jared said, his eyes hidden by the cap. “We figured we ought to come to you first.”
“I’ve got a feeling your father wouldn’t be too proud of you right now,” Marshall said.
The other blond-haired man spoke.
“This doesn’t concern his father. It’s about getting what’s owed us.”
Marshall paid them, and though it was only four-thirty he put the Closed sign on the front door. As he drove down Main Street he passed Blue Ridge Texaco. Larry Crawford cleaned the windshield of a car parked in front of the full-service island. Unlike Marshall, Larry hadn’t had the chance to buy out a sibling and own a family business. “Must be nice to have something like that handed to you,” Larry had said to him once. “All my old man gave me was some good whippings and a final hospital bill to pay off.” Marshall had been surprised at the bitterness in Larry’s voice. Marshall wondered if it was possible some part of Larry might be pleased that a Vaughn owed a Crawford money, even if that money was for drugs.
There were eight stoplights in Boone now. Traffic moved in congested lurches from one light to the next. Ten minutes passed before Marshall got to the turnoff that took him toward Deep Gap, toward the trailer he’d rented for Brad three months ago. The trailer sat on land three miles from Marshall’s house, the house Brad had grown up in. Close to home but far enough away, as the counselor had suggested, that Brad felt some independence. Which was also the reason for the checking account, another of the counselor’s suggestions.
ONCE HE WAS clear of the Boone city limit sign, Marshall turned on the radio. An archaeologist discussed recent evidence that the Americas had been inhabited by humans much earlier than previously thought, and not only by people of Asian origin but also by Africans and Europeans. These earlier cultures had their own distinct ways of making tools, their own burial customs and languages. Then they had simply disappeared. No one knew if they’d died out because of famine or disease or had been annihilated or assimilated by other tribes.
The Camry Marshall had given Brad so he could drive to work and to counseling was parked by the trailer. Marshall didn’t knock before he entered. Brad lay sprawled out on the couch, watching cartoon characters flash across the TV screen. The flesh around his eyes was puffy. Brad wore only a pair of ragged boxer shorts, though the window air-conditioning unit cooled the room enough that condensation formed on the windows. The trailer reeked of drugs. It was like formaldehyde to Marshall, an odor not forgotten once smelled.
“Why aren’t you at work?” he asked.
Brad did not look away from the cartoon.
“Didn’t feel up to it.”
“Jarvis Greene did me a personal favor hiring you,” Marshall said. “The least you can do is show up for work.”
Marshall took the check from his pocket and held it out to his son.
“I paid it, but I swear to God I won’t the next time.”
“So,” Brad said. “I never asked you to pay it. I never asked for that job either.”
Marshall had never struck his son, never even spanked him, but a part of him wanted to strike him now, this moment, and not stop until he drew blood, maybe not stop even then. Like six months earlier in Charlotte, it was as though a door stood before him that, once opened, he’d never be able to close. Marshall made himself speak, afraid to let the silence intensify what he felt.
“I’m the only person on this earth that gives a damn about you. Your drug dealers don’t. You sure don’t.”
Marshall did not mention Brad’s mother. That was understood, had been for a decade. Still, a part of Marshall wanted to mention her, wanted to say, whether it was true or not, that much of what had gone wrong in Brad’s life could be traced back to her desertion.
“That counselor is right about one thing, Son. If you don’t think your life’s worth something, then sooner or later no one else will.”
Marshall paused at the door.
“Don’t miss work again. Jarvis Greene’s not going to put up with that kind of sorry behavior, and I wouldn’t expect him to.”
As he drove back to the store, Marshall wondered if he’d made Brad go to college at Appalachian instead of UNC, Charlotte, or if Linda had left a few years later, his son’s life might have been different. Once Linda was gone, should he have closed the hardware store at four instead of six. When Brad had grown more remote, should he have tried harder to talk to him, kept better tabs on him during high school.
Marshall wanted to believe that there was no single moment in Brad’s life when it all began to go wrong — a moment that might have been avoided. He wished he could believe that whatever had so flawed his son was inevitable, no different than a child born with cerebral palsy or a malfunctioning heart.
WHEN HE GOT back to Boone, Marshall thought about phoning Keith at the highway patrol office, then decided to walk down to Blue Ridge Texaco instead. Larry Crawford was in the garage changing the oil on a Mercedes with Florida plates, his hands and forearms and brow blackened by oil and grease. Larry tightened the drain plug and stepped out from under the car.
“What you need, Marshall?” he asked as he wiped his hands on a rag.
“If you got a minute I’d like to talk to you about our boys.”
“I got a minute,” Larry said.
Marshall told him about the visit that morning in the hardware store, about the check and what that check was for.
Larry stuffed the rag in his back pocket.
“Jared’s twenty-five years old,” Larry said. “Like your son he’s a man and way past the time for me to tell him what he can and can’t do.”
“So this doesn’t bother you?” Marshall asked.
“I didn’t say that,” Larry said.
“You’re telling me it’s something you’d have considered doing when we were his age?” Marshall asked. “I know you better than that.”
“You know me, do you?” Larry said. He wiped sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand, lengthening the black smudge on his brow. “Well, I’ll tell you something. I don’t blame Jared. I’m fifty-eight years old, and I spend my day changing oil and pumping gas for college students and tourists so my boss can afford a second home at Myrtle Beach. And what have I got? I’m near deaf and my back and knees hurt all the time. I wouldn’t want Jared to live as sorry a life as this.”
“Even if it means going to jail if he gets caught?” Marshall asked.
“There’s all different kinds of jails.”
“I can tell Keith about what Jared is doing,” Marshall said, “and you can bet he’ll put an end to it. I almost did but came to see you instead.”
A Jeep pulled up to the full-service island.
“You’ll do what you’re going to do,” Larry said. “Just make sure you ain’t blaming the wrong person for your boy’s problem.”
Larry took out the rag and wiped his hands again.
“I got work to do,” he said and walked toward the Jeep.
THAT NIGHT MARSHALL had trouble sleeping. He woke at first light and could not fall back asleep. He dressed and made coffee, then went out to sit on the front porch. He owned twelve acres but each year his land seemed less a homestead than a shrinking island. Developers had bought up most of the surrounding farms and turned them into subdivisions and gated communities. There had been a time he knew every man, woman, and child in Deep Gap on a first-name basis. A time he could see only one other house from his front porch. Now he could see two dozen, their yards and driveways replacing what were once pastures and fields.