sure as hell not movin’ in!”
Ten years of absence, during which Willie had never written, called, or visited his son, had softened Johnny’s memories of the old fart. He’d actually hoped that his father might be glad to see him.
“I don’t want to move in. I’ve got an apartment in town. I just came out to see how you are.”
“I was a hell of a lot better before you showed up.”
Nothing had changed. Hell, did anything ever change around this town?
“You heard from Buck or Sue Ann lately?”
Willie snorted. “What, do you think this is the goddamned Waltons or somethin’? No, I ain’t heard fromthem. Don’t care to, neither. Just like I don’t care to hear from you.”
That hurt. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
Johnny thought about just getting up, walking out the door, and never coming back. He never had to see the old bastard again.
But he couldn’t let it alone. One thing he’d learned in prison was the value of things, of people. Of relationships. Most people had them without even trying. He wanted some relationships in his life.
“Look, Dad,” he said quietly. “You hate me and I hate you, right? That’s the way it’s always been. But it doesn’t have to be like that anymore. We can change it. There are too many people in this world who don’t have anybody. You want to die alone, have nobody grievin’ at your funeral? Hell, I don’t! We’re family, man. Blood. Can’t you see that?”
His father stared at him for a minute. Then he reached down for his beer and took a long pull. Watching him, Johnny felt hope aching inside him. Maybe, just maybe, they could start anew.
Willie put the bottle down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Hell, sounds like prison turned you into a damned pansy. Must’ve been all those peckers drillin’ you, made you into a damned cryin’ woman. I got no time for you. Get out of my house.”
For a moment Johnny battled the almost irresistible urge to smash his fist into his father’s leering face. Then, controlling himself, he dropped the scrawny arm he held and stood up.
“I hope you rot in hell, old man,” he said unemotionally, then turned on his heel and walked out.
The banging of the screen door behind him was the only answer he got.
He walked around the side of the house past the pickup trucks and up the drive a little way to where the shed hadonce been. It still stood there, listing some to one side just as it always had. From the hen perched in a glassless window and the sounds from inside, he saw it was now used as a chicken coop.
He ducked his head through the low door and went inside.
It was still there. He’d hardly dared to hope, but there it was. It was covered with chicken shit, the tires were rotted to ribbons, and a hole was pecked in the vinyl seat so that the foam rubber showed through. But it leaned against the far wall just where he’d left it: his motorcycle.
God, he’d been proud of that thing! A Yamaha 750, cherry red and silver, bought with his own money earned doing odd jobs around town and cherished like a good-looking girl. When they’d come to arrest him, he’d parked it in the shed, little knowing that it would be almost eleven years before he made it back. Didn’t look as if it had been touched except by chickens in all that time.
As far as actual usage was concerned, it was still practically brand new. New tires, maybe a tuneup, and it should run as well as it ever had. He would no longer have to depend on his feet or Rachel Grant to get him around. He’d have wheels.
There was something empowering about having wheels. He’d felt less a man without them.
A low growl from somewhere behind him made Johnny glance over his shoulder. A dog stood in the doorway, huge, stiff-legged, hackles up, teeth bared. The sound that emanated from its throat was a threat.
Moving slowly, Johnny turned to face it. It was dark outside now, and darker yet in the shed. Faint moonlight silhouetted the animal’s
Ten years of absence, during which Willie had never written, called, or visited his son, had softened Johnny’s memories of the old fart. He’d actually hoped that his father might be glad to see him.
“I don’t want to move in. I’ve got an apartment in town. I just came out to see how you are.”
“I was a hell of a lot better before you showed up.”
Nothing had changed. Hell, did anything ever change around this town?
“You heard from Buck or Sue Ann lately?”
Willie snorted. “What, do you think this is the goddamned Waltons or somethin’? No, I ain’t heard fromthem. Don’t care to, neither. Just like I don’t care to hear from you.”
That hurt. It shouldn’t have, but it did.
Johnny thought about just getting up, walking out the door, and never coming back. He never had to see the old bastard again.
But he couldn’t let it alone. One thing he’d learned in prison was the value of things, of people. Of relationships. Most people had them without even trying. He wanted some relationships in his life.
“Look, Dad,” he said quietly. “You hate me and I hate you, right? That’s the way it’s always been. But it doesn’t have to be like that anymore. We can change it. There are too many people in this world who don’t have anybody. You want to die alone, have nobody grievin’ at your funeral? Hell, I don’t! We’re family, man. Blood. Can’t you see that?”
His father stared at him for a minute. Then he reached down for his beer and took a long pull. Watching him, Johnny felt hope aching inside him. Maybe, just maybe, they could start anew.
Willie put the bottle down and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand.
“Hell, sounds like prison turned you into a damned pansy. Must’ve been all those peckers drillin’ you, made you into a damned cryin’ woman. I got no time for you. Get out of my house.”
For a moment Johnny battled the almost irresistible urge to smash his fist into his father’s leering face. Then, controlling himself, he dropped the scrawny arm he held and stood up.
“I hope you rot in hell, old man,” he said unemotionally, then turned on his heel and walked out.
The banging of the screen door behind him was the only answer he got.
He walked around the side of the house past the pickup trucks and up the drive a little way to where the shed hadonce been. It still stood there, listing some to one side just as it always had. From the hen perched in a glassless window and the sounds from inside, he saw it was now used as a chicken coop.
He ducked his head through the low door and went inside.
It was still there. He’d hardly dared to hope, but there it was. It was covered with chicken shit, the tires were rotted to ribbons, and a hole was pecked in the vinyl seat so that the foam rubber showed through. But it leaned against the far wall just where he’d left it: his motorcycle.
God, he’d been proud of that thing! A Yamaha 750, cherry red and silver, bought with his own money earned doing odd jobs around town and cherished like a good-looking girl. When they’d come to arrest him, he’d parked it in the shed, little knowing that it would be almost eleven years before he made it back. Didn’t look as if it had been touched except by chickens in all that time.
As far as actual usage was concerned, it was still practically brand new. New tires, maybe a tuneup, and it should run as well as it ever had. He would no longer have to depend on his feet or Rachel Grant to get him around. He’d have wheels.
There was something empowering about having wheels. He’d felt less a man without them.
A low growl from somewhere behind him made Johnny glance over his shoulder. A dog stood in the doorway, huge, stiff-legged, hackles up, teeth bared. The sound that emanated from its throat was a threat.
Moving slowly, Johnny turned to face it. It was dark outside now, and darker yet in the shed. Faint moonlight silhouetted the animal’s
Similar Books
