She frowns hard at me. “Neither of us need to be anywhere fucking close to these assholes, if they’re cooking.”
I nod. “We’re gonna be here just long enough for me to say what I gotta say to Joey and the boys, and then we’re outta here. I don’t know that they cook for sure. If they do, it ain’t gonna be near the main house. They know better than that—that shit is volatile.”
She doesn’t look appeased. “I don’t think I’m gonna feel tempted. I just…I want that shit out of my life, Chance. For good. Completely.”
“Me too, mama. But I gotta do this. If you get bad vibes or anything, you just park your fine ass in the Jeep and let me do my thing. I promise I’ll be quick, and we can get to the good stuff.”
She nods, letting out a breath. “That would be good. I need the good stuff, Chance.”
I point ahead, where the path bends sharply to the right, passing between a towering pair of Banyan trees, to which are nailed matching “Private Property KEEP OUT” signs. “We’re here.”
We bounce between the trees, around another sharp bend and down a steep hill, and then the path opens into a wide circular clearing. At the far end of the clearing is the sprawling, ramshackle structure of the main house—decades of additions by subsequent generations, all hand-built, nothing to code, made from cast-off and repurposed materials, much of it recovered via trawling dumpsters and neighborhood trash days. There’s no cohesion to the structure, no pattern, just various rooms and expansions and additions tacked on willy-nilly, made from plywood boards, sheets of corrugated iron, sections of sheetrock and bare two-by-fours and exposed, un-mudded, mold-dotted drywall, which is obviously not meant as an exterior product. The roof is much the same. Most rooms leak in the corners during heavy rains, which is just about every day. There’s more than one hazardous, not-to-code fireplace.
Next to the main house is a hand-built carport, just four heavy-duty posts concreted into the dirt and a makeshift roof, sloping down to a partial back wall, with open sides. Behind and off to the side, in the woods aways, is a barn, the oldest structure on the property, dating back to the eighteen hundreds, or so goes the family lore. It’s leaning atrociously, and daylight shows through gaps in the walls. Inside is a jumble of shit—old bikes, rusting hulks of cars, massive piles of building material in case the house needs patching, which is all the time, old TVs, fridges, couches…you name it, you can find it in the barn.
Parked in the carport is Joey’s ancient deathtrap, a 1986 GMC Jimmy, more rust than metal, with a suspension kit and off-road tires worth more by triple than the vehicle itself. Eddie’s Bronco is next to that, and Rico’s El Camino.
“The gang’s all here,” I remark, pointing at the lineup of rusting, lifted, battered old vehicles, which are kept running through stubbornness and what Uncle Joey calls “redneck ingenuity.”
“Great,” Annika mutters. “I’m so excited.” She watches me as I park in the middle of the clearing. “You okay?”
I blow out a breath as the door of the house creaks open and Joey appears, tall and gaunt, long black hair streaked with silver and tangled and matted and greasy, wearing cut-off jean shorts and a dirty white tank top, a cigarette smoldering in the corner of his lips and a sawed-off shotgun in his hands. He’s lost a lot of weight since I last saw him—too much.
“Nope,” I admit. “Now that I’m here, this is starting to feel like a bad fuckin’ idea.”
“We can go.” She grabs my hand, squeezes. “Just turn around and go.”
I shake my head. “Nope. No can do. Gotta face the demons, mama.” I jerk my head at Uncle Joey, who’s glaring death at me. “And there’s one of ’em.” I open the door, glance at Annika. “Just stay in the car, I think. Now that I’m here, I don’t think I’m gonna go in.”
She just nods, reaches out and rubs my arm.
I heave myself out of the car, leaving the engine running, and tug my hair away from my face. The air is still, hot, and humid. Joey says nothing. Eddie pushes into the doorframe, and Rico appears behind him.
“Figured you was dead,” Uncle Joey says, after a moment. His voice is ragged, hoarse.
“Nope. And not for lack of tryin’,” I say. “Joey, Eddie, Rico.” That’s about all the greeting I can muster.
“Whaddya want, boy?” Joey grumbles. “Ain’t nothin’ for you here.”
“No shit,” I say. I lean back against the grill of the Jeep, heat blowing out against my backside. “Just here to say a few things to you three.”
The trio spills out almost as one unit, Joey hooking the butt of the shotgun under his armpit, grabbing his cigarette and tapping ash off. Eddie looks like hell—he’s almost as tall as me, and back in the day he was quite a figure, heavy, rough, and muscled; he’s wasted away in the intervening years, scabbed and dotted with sores, unwashed, visibly jittery, skin sallow and sagging and prematurely aged. Rico looks much the same, still with the family height, but lean and fairly healthy looking, bulging beer belly notwithstanding.
Eddie is still on tweak. Rico, probably not. Joey, maybe, more likely, lots of booze and pot.
“Well?” Joey demands. “You came all the way the fuck out here to say somethin’, fuckin’ say it. Ain’t got all day.”
I shake my head. “Don’t know where to start, now that I’m here.” I swallow hard. “You three took me in after I got out of the Marines. I was a mess. You gave me somewhere to be, and…” I shake my head again. “Eddie, you got me hooked on meth.”
Eddie’s eyes narrow. “Looks like you got off it.”
“Yeah, I did, and it nearly fuckin’ killed me. I harbored a lot of anger at you for a long time.”
He spits into the dirt. “All I did was offer it to you. You the one who smoked it.”
“I know.” I nod, drag my hair back again. “I fuckin’ know. But you still put it in front of me, knowing I was fucked up. Knowing you were hooked on it yourself. You still gave it to me. But yeah, Eddie, it was my choice, too.” I swallow. “I want you to know I forgive you. That shit damn near ruined my life, as if it wasn’t fucked up enough to begin with. You’re to blame for that as much as I am. But I need you to know I forgive you, and I hope you find your way. Life is better without it, man. Trust me. Once you’re off of it, life is better. But I can’t make you and I sure as fuck ain’t gonna try. I just can’t hold on to the anger at you any longer.”
Eddie spits again. “What the fuck ever. Fuck you.” He goes back inside, the screen door slamming noisily. I hear a bottle smash, and then another door slam.
