Theresa Monsour (27 page)

Trip gasped. No honor left for him to cling to, not even the idea that his father had killed to protect him. Nothing clean remaining in his life story. His pa was a pervert. His ma never wanted him. His sister was his first lover. He couldn't breathe. The sound of rushing water filled his head. He was drowning right there in the kitchen. Suffocating in a shitty trailer parked on the edge of a cold city. Over the din in his head and the tinkle of the wind chimes in his ears, Trip could make out his pa's voice floating from the front room.

“Clean up this junk before I fall and kill myself.”

Kill
. The only word Sweet Justice Trip understood. He reached into his right pants pocket and pulled out his straight-edge. Flipped it open and held it behind his back. Walked into the front room, crushing boxes and shirts beneath his bare feet as he went. His old man was standing in front of the TV, squinting to see which western was on the screen.

El Dorado. Sheriff Robert Mitchum is hunkered down in the jail with his deputies.

Frank took a step closer to the set. “Damn,” he muttered. “It's almost over.”

Bullets pound the jail.

Justice Trip crept behind his pa and wrapped his left arm around the old man's chest. Frank dropped his cane and reached up with both hands to pull his son's arm off him. He said in a calm, firm voice, the voice he used when
he was giving orders to his son: “No, Sweet.” Then frightened: “No!”

Injured John Wayne falls through the jailhouse door.

Trip whipped his right arm around, pressed the razor hard against his father's neck and pulled it across his throat in one left-to-right motion. The blood spurted out. Like water from a garden hose when there's a thumb over the nozzle. His pa jerked and made a gurgling noise. Trip backed up and let his old man fall to the floor in front of the television set.

Bad guy Ed Asner is released from his jail cell and steps around John Wayne's writhing figure to walk out the door, a free man.

FOR AN INSTANT, Trip felt as if the straight-edge burned in his hand. He dropped it on the rug. Expected to see it glowing red and setting fire to the rug. He looked down at the knife. Cold metal against the carpet. Nothing more. He checked his right palm. No blisters or burns. He'd imagined it. Stop imagining stuff, he told himself. Trip looked down at the body. “Pa?” Trip said in a low voice. The voice he used when he was trying to wake his old man and get him up off the couch for dinner. “Pa?” He waited. Expected his old man to sit up and tell him to clean up the mess. A third try: “Pa?” He went down on his knees next to the body. Bent his head. Covered his face with his hands. He stayed on his knees until they were numb. He kept his face covered and, behind his fingers, his eyes shut tight. He couldn't look at what he'd done. He was guilty. More than that, he was afraid of being left alone. He'd lived thirty-six years with this one human being. Frank Trip was cruel. Demanding. Abusive. A drunk. A molester and a murderer. He was all Trip ever had, and now he was gone. Slowly, Trip lowered his hands from his face. He
breathed in and out twice and opened his eyes. Looked at his father's chest. It wasn't moving. Why wasn't it moving? Trip fell forward and buried his face in his father's bloody flannel shirt and wept. He looked like a man prostrate in worship. The two-word prayer he uttered into his father's chest: “Pa, p . . . p . . . please.”

 

BY the time he was all cried out, Trip couldn't tell how much of the wetness on his face was from the tears, and how much was from the blood. He raised his head off his father's chest and sat back on his heels. Wiped the moisture from his cheeks with the hem of his tee shirt. Noticed blood on his tee shirt. He yanked it off and used it to wipe his face again. Dropped it in a ball at his father's side. The television was still on. Trip couldn't tell if the gun battle was from
El Dorado
or if he'd been crying so long another movie had started. He rose to his feet. Stepped around his pa and shut off the set. Saw there was blood on the screen and on the wall behind the set. It looked as if someone had taken a bucket of red paint and thrown it. Even tiny spatters on the window blinds to the left of the television. The windows! The slats on the blinds were open. His instincts kicked in; if nothing else, his father had taught him self-preservation came before everything. Trip stepped up to the window. Peeked through the blinds. The street in front of the house was empty. He lifted the blinds away from the wall and checked the window. No blood on the window. He set the blinds back against the window and closed the slats tight. Trip turned and looked down at the still body. Pool of blood collecting under his head and neck. More red paint. His pa had landed on his back with his knees up. The way Keri had fallen in the shower. “What goes around comes around,” Trip muttered tiredly. He knelt down next to the body, this time not in prayer but out of curiosity. Was his old man really gone? He picked up his pa's right wrist with his left hand and felt for a pulse with his right fingertips. Nothing. He dropped the wrist. It made a soft, heavy sound
when it hit the rug. A dead bird hitting the ground. He studied his old man's face. So gray. Was it that gray before, or was death draining his cheeks? The eyes wide open. Surprised. Trip knew he didn't have any change in his own pockets. He carefully slipped his right hand into his old man's right pants pocket. Still warm in the pocket. Trip extracted a handful of coins. Dimes and nickels. He picked out one of each and set them on the rug next to the body and shoved the rest of the change in his own pants pocket. He reached up and pulled down his pa's right lid with his right forefinger. He picked up a dime with his left thumb and forefinger and set the coin on the lid. He pulled down the left lid and set the nickel on it. He stared at the silver for a few seconds. The coins seemed to be holding. He picked up the straight-edge and studied the blade. Not as much blood on it as he thought there'd be. He closed it and stood up. Shoved it back in his right pocket.

He didn't want to mop up the mess yet. Didn't want to touch the body until it had turned cool. All he wanted to do was get clean. He stumbled over the boxes and shirts and went into the bathroom. Peeled off his pants and boxers and kicked them into a corner. He grabbed the Lava from the edge of the sink. He pushed open the shower door, reached into the stall and turned on the water. Didn't bother feeling for the temperature. Stepped in and shut the door. Hot. He started with his head and worked his way down. Didn't care what the pumice did to his hair or his skin. Clean. He needed clean. He started crying again when he got to his knees, but he kept scrubbing his skin with the bar of soap. He stood on his left foot and ran the Lava back and forth over the bottom of his right foot. Then he switched and stood on his right foot while he rubbed his left sole. He dropped the bar on the shower floor and stood up. Bent his head under the spray. His body felt hot and raw. He reached over and turned the shower all the way to cold. Shivered while the water soothed the burn. He'd finally stopped crying, this time for good. He shut off the water. Ran his hands over his scalp to squeeze out the
water. He studied his hands. No black strands this time. He looked down. The shower floor was covered with black hair. His baldness would be his father's legacy to him. He wondered what sort of monster he and Cammie would have produced had he impregnated her. Horrible thought. He shook his head until he was dizzy. Wanted to put it out of his mind. He had to clean up the big fucking mess in the front room. Think about that, he told himself. He stepped out of the shower, pulled a towel off the bar, rubbed his head. The towel smelled of mildew. He remembered he had clean towels and clothes in the garbage bags in his bedroom. He wrapped the towel around his waist and then took it off. Dropped it on the floor. His old man was dead. No one to yell at him for being naked. He went to his bedroom, dug around in the garbage bag. It smelled like dryer sheets. He pulled out some boxers. Stepped into them. Decided not to wear anything else as it might get bloody. Then he pulled off the boxers and tossed them on the bed. Figured he might as well clean the house naked.

He went into his pa's bedroom. Yanked the cowboy spread and bronco top sheet off his pa's bed, bunched them up in his arms and carried them into the front room. He dropped them next to his old man's body. “Clean up this mess you made, Pa,” Trip muttered. He crouched next to the body, held his pa's head up with his left hand. With his right hand, he twined the sheet around his old man's neck. The coins fell off but the eyes stayed closed. Trip set his pa's head down; his old man looked as if he'd fallen asleep on the carpet while wearing a winter scarf. Trip stood up. Laid the spread flat next to the body. Hooked his arms under his old man's armpits and dragged him onto the middle of the spread. His pa's knees were still up. Trip didn't want to try pressing them down; he was afraid of what would happen. Imagined them cracking or snapping back into the same position, and that would scare the shit out of him. Trip picked up one side of the spread and folded it over his old man and did the same with the other side, creating a lumpy ghost covered with cowboys.

He faced forward and towed the spread behind him, kicking boxes and shirts aside as he went. Dragged it down the hallway. He kneed open the door to the back bedroom and pulled the spread up against the freezer. His old man was a lot lighter than Keri. Skinnier. He figured they'd both fit. Trip dropped the spread, put his right hand on the freezer lid. He'd open it without looking inside. He said out loud, “One. Two. Three.” He looked the other way and flipped it open. The lid hit the wall with a bang. Trip could feel the cold air pouring out. He bent down to pick up the cowboy ghost. Decided the spread would take up too much room. He unwrapped his old man. Didn't look at his face. Didn't want to know if the eyes had popped open again. Didn't want to touch his pa's skin or clothes, either. Looking off to the side again, he slipped his arms under the spread and stood up, rolled his pa into the freezer. The body made a strange noise when it landed inside. He'd heard that noise before, when he was throwing fresh meat into the freezer on top of frozen. Something soft hitting something hard. He stepped closer to the freezer, shut his eyes and reached up for the lid. Pulled it down. “No,” he said out loud. “Fuck n . . . no.” Trip opened his eyes a crack. The lid wouldn't close; there was a six-inch gap. He could see the top of his pa's knees poking up. He pressed down on the lid with both hands. It closed a little more, but there was still a gap. He put his back against the freezer and rested his hands on the lid, one on each side of him. He hopped up; his bare butt landed on the lid with a smack. He felt something give when the lid came down; he didn't want to think about what might have broken or cracked inside the chest freezer. He turned and studied the lid. Closed tight. “Sorry, P . . . Pa,” he said to the freezer. He bent down, picked up the spread and carried it out of the bedroom, shutting the door behind him.

He went back to the front room. Dropped the spread on the floor. The thing would have to be burned or washed; there was blood on it. He ran his eyes around the room. Didn't see any more blood besides what he'd already
noted. How would he ever get the stain out of the carpet and off the wall? He still had the boxes and shirts to pick up. The sight exhausted him. Was there anything left in the house that could energize him? All the pills from Keri's purse were downers. Stupid stomach pills wouldn't do him any good. He needed to hang on to those Roofies. Maybe some music. He walked over to his pa's TV tray for the remote. He found it sitting next to the Jim Beam. He picked up the bottle by the neck and raised it to eye level. Still half full. He unscrewed the cap, put the bottle to his lips and tipped it upside down. He put it down, took a breath, brought it to his mouth again and took another gulp. He set it back on the TV tray. Saw his pa's pack of cigs. Picked them up. Reached inside. Pulled out a Lucky Strike. He didn't like smoking, but he needed something in his mouth. He threw the pack on the tray and put the cigarette between his lips. Found the lighter. A keepsake from their souvenir shop.

He ran his thumb over the engraved image of Graceland. He missed Tennessee. Nothing keeping him in Minnesota. No job. No woman. No family. He could leave anytime. Tell the neighbors he and his pa were going back home. Hell, he didn't have to tell them anything. They wouldn't care. They didn't like his old man and they only liked him when he worked on their trucks. He'd mop up the trailer real good. He still had jugs of cleaner around from that janitor supplies job. Some of the stuff promised to neutralize blood. Then he'd pile his frozen pa and frozen Keri into the back of the truck. Pull out of town. Let the trailer park take back the mobile home. He could bury his old man and Keri somewhere between St. Paul and Memphis. No one would know. Keri's work would be looking for the phantom boyfriend. Back in Tennessee, there'd be no one keeping tabs on him or his old man. No family left to speak of; his pa had taken care of that. He'd leave from the reunion Saturday night. He still wanted to make it to that. Take care of Paris Murphy.
What goes around comes around.

He flipped open the lighter, lit up the cigarette. Closed the lighter and tossed it on the tray. Picked up the remote. Held it in his right hand for a moment. He couldn't remember the last time his old man let him touch the thing. The edges were smooth, rounded. It felt comfortable in his hand the way a well-worn wrench or ratchet from his toolbox felt comfortable. Almost as familiar as an old knife handle, but not quite. He turned around, aimed the remote at the set and hit the power button. Another cowboy show. Another shoot-out. He'd never have to watch that crap again. He punched the channel changer until he came to MTV2. Through the blood-spattered screen, he saw Marilyn Manson shrieking and convulsing. His pa would have hated it. He cranked up the volume and dropped the remote on the couch. Decided maybe it wouldn't be so bad without his old man after all.