A Prompting - 7. Max Cauler

Why did he come? He didn't owe the old man anything nor his mother . . . what did she ever do to stop him? Nothing, but to patch him up when the old man was done. He was his own man now, he had no need of false affection, and he owed him nothing. Not that the old man would ever ask for anything.

The crack-crunch of frosted grass under his feet—silvered blades crushed and snapped—were his company on the walk up the slope. Nearer to the top of the rise, a bright red cardinal sang from winter's oak tree nearby—bare of all but a few leaves, wizened and curled around their edges: grasping little fingers. The crisp dry air carried the song clear and sweet; the color reminded him of blood. The phantom taste of iron bloomed on his tongue with the association—he spat on the cold ground, watched until crystals began to form in the spittle—the old man had made sure of that; the taste wasn't something to forget.

Making the rise afforded a fine view of the town, his home town, where he grew up—and then fled from. The morning's clarity of air provided a view well beyond to the outlying hills, and the deep green of pines nestled into their sides, where he played—and ran to when he tried to escape from the old man. Only to come home some time later with sticky, tacky hands, and hoping the old man's temper had left him. Sometimes, he got lucky. But it was a toss-up as to which was worse: the pine sap, or the turpentine that was the only way to get the sap off. The smell was awful, and he sneezed the whole time, but it didn't match the sharp sting in cuts and abrasions.

A slight, stinging breeze blowing uphill brought him the scent of diesel: a school bus making its early morning rounds. The dry air carried the smell easily, as if overnight all of the impurities had been freeze-dried out of it—nothing left to do but fill it up again, and make every scent sharp.

The old man drove a truck, diesel— long haul— and it was the only time he was truly free of him. Free to make mistakes . . . and not to suffer for them. The rest of the time he'd had to toe the line, be careful, or the old man was on him. It wasn't always like that, he'd been told, but it was the only way he remembered it. He took after his mother, slight and fair-haired, and he didn't like sports—didn't like them because he wasn't any good at them, though he tried . . . tried damn hard, for him. Maybe— maybe, the old man thought that naming his son after himself would create something like him. It didn't turn out that way. The old man was often disappointed.

Being forced onto the ice in skates too big for his feet, one of his old man's pairs—'I was skating when I was six'—had earned him a broken ankle at thirteen. They were loose, and he could hardly stand up in them, no matter that he pulled the laces tight enough to put grooves into his fingers that took long to disappear, his fingertips turn blue and throbbing. The plaster cast made his skin itch-like-hell, and made it white and scaly underneath. It earned him no sympathy from the old man. He took what pleasure he could when his friends signed his cast 'Get well soon' and with other little notes—especially, Tommy's. He put the tiniest little star, and a heart, right on the top curve where only he would see them. That made his heart sing.

Standing there on the hill, the morning frosty, he could feel something like it swell up in his chest, again, just by remembering it. His breath came short, he coughed a dry cough, and he pulled out the inhaler, and took two puffs from it feeling the powdery taste at the back of his throat. Damn diesel.

Tommy.

The last time he saw him, he was sixteen. They hadn't heard the truck, weren't paying attention, except to each other. The old man wasn't expected. His mom was out to the grocery and he and Tommy were making out in his bed, kissing, and his hand was wrapped around Tommy. Who was bigger than him, every way, and was hard and thick and the skin slid like silk up and down the length of him and he was leaking—and tasted so sweet. They didn't hear the old man, but he heard them, and he came crashing through the door, splintered wood and hasp flying, when his lips were wrapped around— tongue was slathering up— Tommy.

He spent a week in the hospital—'He fell down the stairs'—and Tommy ran away after a beating from his own father. Nobody talked about nothing. When he got out of the hospital, he ran away, too. As luck does his first ride dropped him off at a truck stop, and for a place to sleep and a ride, he learned to pay. Each time. He took lots of rides. When they asked him his name, he told them: 'Max Cauler, named after my old man.' Young, too young, and stupid. He figured it would get back to the old man, maybe, a lot—pay him back. Truckers talked, told tales, he knew.

So, here he was, back, back in his home town, where nobody knew nothing—but that he had run away. Back in the place he thought he would never return to. Freezing his ass off, fingers tucked under arms, breath frosting the air, on a damn hill where his mother had flung the old man's ashes to drift in the wind . . . Fuck.

Short note to add: This prompt story has the distinction of being the only one of mine to be edited. Irritable1 has most kindly provided the edit. There remain questions to be answered . . .