Futile Efforts (16 page)

"I don't know much about cars, Floyd," Parks said.
 
Christ, this could get out of hand very soon.

"You don't need to in order to help somebody out."

"That's true enough.
 
Give me a minute here, okay?
 
I'll be right back."

"
Seein
' the man about a mule, eh?"

Something like that.
 
Parks headed down the hall and past the bathroom to the gun rack on the wall.
 
Père
Hull watched him but said nothing, the needles little more than a blur.
 
Parks drew the bolts from the two rifles and stuck them in his back pocket.

He did a quick search of the house, checking all the usual spots.
 
A loaded double-barrel shotgun rested upright in back of the hall closet.
 
Parks broke it open and emptied it, scrounged around on the shelf until he found a box with only six shells it.
 
He pocketed them all.
 
He didn't think Floyd would have any handguns around, but it would be best to check.

Père
began to laugh quietly, the sound coming from deep in his chest, and whispered, "Figured you came home for somethin' that'd drive your brother out of his skull."

"Quiet,
Gramp
."

"He could still pick up a butcher knife.
 
Whatever you tell him, make sure you're on the far side of the room."

Parks eased into the master bedroom and riffled the dressers, closet, and night stands.
 
He was wrong.
 
Floyd still owned their father's old Colt revolver, hidden off to the side of the bottom drawer, behind the family bible.
 
The pistol hadn't been cleaned in years and had no bullets.

The eleven year old Broom came over and stared at him with sorrowful eyes.
 
"Ma and Pa thought you was sick.
 
Maybe 'cause you ate so much.
 
I'm supposed to look in on you."

Even after hearing the voice, he couldn't tell if the kid was a boy or a girl.
 
"No, I'm fine."

"You're my uncle?"

"Yes."

"You used to live here?" Broom asked.

"In this very house.
 
In the far bedroom upstairs at the end of the hall."

"That's mine now."
 
Gauging Parks' expression, Broom seemed to struggle for something else to say, and decided to take a chance.
 
"I don't like that room."

"Why?"

"'
Cause'a
the trees outside the window."

Parks sucked air through his teeth and fought back a groan.
 
"So what?"

"The crows.
 
They always in the tree.
 
They talk to me."

A couple of the bad childhood memories slid through and prodded him in the soft places.
 
Man, he really had given up all his cool, everything about this place was beginning to unsettle him all over again.

Broom was waiting expectantly, all wide eyes and pink cheeks and pouting lips.
 
The tremendous weight of daily anxiety and foreboding had already begun to take its toll.
 
He could see it now in the folds of the kid's face.

So, nothing really had changed after he'd left.
 
Sometimes the insanity you leave behind just settles in and waits for a new ear to crawl into.
 
He looked down and said, "They used to talk to me too."

"Really, that so?"
 
Startled, but kind of happy to hear it.

"Yeah."

"They tell me to do things.
 
Wrong things."

"With scissors?"

Broom's features twisted into an expression of adorable surprise.
 
"They
did
talk to you.
 
You heard them."

"Yes," Parks said, and realized his scalp was crawling with sweat.
 
His hackles were up.
 
That hadn't happened since the test screening of his second movie, when people were yelling back at the picture and walking out.

"Pa don't believe us."

"Your father never believed me either, when I told him about it back when we were children.
 
I couldn't sleep most nights and could hardly do my chores.
 
He always thought I was lying and used to whip the hell out of me because it meant he had more work some days.
 
Père
Hull knows the truth though."

"He don't like to listen.
 
Says he's too old.
 
Says if you cut him open at the wrist, his blood is dried up into powder.
 
He won't hear nothing we say."

"It reminds him of bad things that happened a long time ago."

"To his baby sis?"

"Yes," Parks admitted, surprised the kid knew about that.
 
"And others."

"They want me to take the scissors out of the drawer and–"

He took Broom by the shoulders, gave a little shake.
 
"Don't listen to them.
 
You don't do anything they tell you.
 
You're stronger than they are."

"Sometimes it don't feel that way.
 
They don't shut up.
 
All day long, and every night too.
 
Right outside the window."

"It used to help me when I turned the TV up really loud.
 
Or the radio."

"Mama won't let us do that," Broom said with an edge of anguish.
 
"She gets the migraines and has to go lie down in the dark.
 
Almost every day."

He took out his wallet and drew two twenties from it, handed them to the kid.
 
"Get yourself a Walkman with headphones.
 
Pass it around to your brothers and sisters.
 
Turn up the music when the crows get inside your head."

"Do they ever stop making noise?"

"When you get a little older they won't be so bad, and then they eventually stop."

"That so?"
 
A touch of hopefulness, then the hard glint of reality.
 
"When's that gonna be?"

There wasn't any answer.
 
"I don't know.
 
A couple more years, probably."

"That's too long," Broom said in a pained hush, and followed him back to the kitchen, where Myrtle was serving homemade blueberry pie.
 
Two of the other Brooms were helping, scooping out fresh whipped cream, reaching up for the cupboard.
 
One dropped a dish on the floor and said, "Broom!"

Parks sat again in the seat of his childhood, waited for a full count of sixty, glanced at his brother and told him, "I'm going to sell my parcel of the farm."

Floyd had a forkful of pie halfway to his mouth. It stuck in the air as if it had hit a brick wall.
 
"What's this?
 
Eh?
 
How's that?"

Jesus Christ, Parks had still sprung it too fast.
 
Floyd really hadn't heard him, hadn't entirely caught it.
 
A man like Floyd could close himself off to a lot of whatever he didn't want to hear.
 
It was a gift, really, when you got down to it.
 
One that Parks didn't have.

He had to repeat himself.
 
"I'm selling my half of the farm."

Now came the death-glare, the red overwhelming rage flooding into Floyd's face until the veins stood out thickly in his forehead and neck, exactly the way it used to happen to their father.
 
"You can't do that.
 
There's no way you can do that.
 
This ain't your land."

"Yes, it is.
 
Half of it is.
 
I'm selling it."

The fork was still frozen three inches from Floyd's lips, his arm like rusted iron.
 
"You said, before you left for Hollywood, you told me the farm was mine.
 
You said I could have the dust and the groundhogs and the field mice, you said.
 
The bats in the barn.
 
The
skeeters
and the droughts and the winters with six feet of snow.
 
You were laughing.
 
You were goddamn dancing, as I recall."

"I'd just sold my first script then," Parks said.
 
It was an admission as much as an explanation.
 
That day, in all likelihood, had been the happiest of his life.
 
He'd caught the first plane to LAX and hadn't even called back home until last week.
 
It hurt like hell facing up to his own failures, but there was nothing else to do now.
 
"But we never made it legal.
 
I never signed anything over to you.
 
The land is still mine."

"The hell you need it for out there in Los Angeles?
 
In Hollywood?"

Here it came, when you could wrap up your biggest mistakes in only a few words.
 
"I botched my career.
 
The studios won't work with me anymore."
 
For a long time he thought it would take a lot longer to explain, but no, there it was.

Floyd pushed his seat back, got up and left the kitchen.
 
The Brooms finished their pie as if nothing was occurring, as though nothing had ever happened in this place before.

"The hell did you do to my rifles, you son of a bitch!" Floyd screamed from the other room.

Parks tried to address Myrtle, whose passive facade still hadn't altered.
 
"I need enough cash to give me a small stake.
 
It won't be a lot but it'll be enough for me to start shooting an indie project.
 
I have to start over."

Myrtle blinked and asked, "You
goin
' to Indiana?"

"Independent," Parks said.
 
"If I put in enough money up front, I'll find financing along the way to finish and get a distributor.
 
I can make a second chance work."

"This is our home," Myrtle said.
 
Her voice was utterly without tone or emotion.

"It's mine too.
 
As long as I've been away from here, it's still my home."

Parks couldn't believe he was stooping to this kind of low, saying these lies.
 
He was definitely Hollywood material.
 
They'd be buying him rounds at the Viper Room for this kind of shit.
 
They never should've given him the boot, he was the kind of belly-crawler they should've embraced forever.

She'd taken on just a hint of animation, a curious but aimless expression pressing the corners of her face like somebody's thumbs working cookie dough.
 
It tugged the angles of her face into a perplexed frown, and she gazed around, perhaps a bit surprised by her surroundings.
 
"No, it's not. It takes a heap o'
livin
'.
 
Didn't you never hear that before?"

"No."

"A heap o'
livin
' to make a house a home.
 
A heap o' sun an'
shadder
.
 
You ain't got no light nor shadows neither around here no more."

Parks felt his blood suddenly alive in his wrists and throat, his pulse kicking up hard.
 
He glared at Myrtle and said, "More than you'd think."

 
"Where's my cartridges, you snake?" Floyd shouted, flinging stuff into walls.
 
"How the hell you gonna go
stealin
' a man's shotgun shells?"

The Brooms had finished with their meal and sat quietly staring, waiting.

Floyd stood in the kitchen doorway, sneering and fuming, but underneath it all Parks thought he saw a little relief in his brother's face.
 
How he must hate the land for its arrogant dust and weeds and erosion, the constant fretting over rain and heat and the price of crops.
 
The bats, the snow, the tractor sticking in the mud.
 
In one swoop, Parks had just unloaded half his brother's burden.