Firecracker
Devin McCorty
Devin McCorty
Devin McCorty sat at the kitchen table, face in a spoonful of mini wheats. Voices on the radio cracked and crickled. “Below freezing,” some man said in his best boardroom presentation voice. The first night of the year – it had been a warm one up until today, said the other man. “We’d gotten off lucky if you ask me,” chimed in another. Or maybe it was the same man as the one who first spoke. Hard to tell on account of they mostly all sound the same.
Northeast Ohio had the freeze-your-ass-off kind of cold when it decided it was time to. Sometimes, Devin wondered what folks down in Florida or Georgia or California did with those extra forty-five minutes in the morning spent scraping chips of ice off his windshield, pouring steamed water on the driver’s side door, tearing through the snow in the drive to avoid getting stuck. He knew what he’d do with them, or at least what he’d imagine he’d do with them. Feet kicked up on the porch swing, listening to the birds chirp and squirrels chatter. In reality, they’re probably just sleeping in, he thought. Not even realizing those extra minutes ever existed in the first place. And who was he kidding – he’d end up doing the same once he got used to it more than likely. Same as what always happened whenever he got a new basketball or pair of cleats. Novel becomes normal faster than you can compute it. Least that was his observation.
Most years, news of the first cold night wouldn’t phase Devin. In fact, most years he wouldn’t even have the radio turned on unless the Indians were making a deep playoff run, which was barely ever. This year though, the news made his legs quiver. But to understand why, you’ve first got to understand a timeline of events that all seemed jumbled up in a kind of sadistic plan God had designed for the McCorty’s. You see, Daryl McCorty, or Mr. McCorty, was one of the biggest pill heads Portage County had ever seen in all its two-hundred-something years of existence. You put a pill in front of him, he’d inhale it, snort it, swallow it, chew it, hell, even let it sit on his tongue like a goddamn Gobstopper without asking if it were tylenol or adderall. It was so bad that whenever any pharmacy in a fifty mile radius would get held at gunpoint for oxy, the police would come knocking. They’d search through drawer after drawer, but wouldn’t ever find anything on account of Daryl wasn’t dumb enough to keep them around in the open after the first or second search or raid or whatever you want to call it.
Anyway, that lasted until about three years ago, when Devin was twelve. Because that’s when it all changed. After years of bickering and begging, Mr. McCorty finally got pulled into going to a church retreat by Uncle Todd. Most other folks had given up hope that he’d ever hum along with a hymn or two, let alone convert his whole damn life over to the man above. The retreat wasn’t just any retreat though – it was like the Coachella or Burning Man of church retreats. The kind where the same bands you’d hear blaring in youth groups since you could say your ABCs performed at, and where “small groups” and not-so-small groups and definitely-not-small groups met and mingled. Uncle Todd said the weekend left Daryl hooping and hollering in tongues, raising his hands to the high heavens in bloody repentance, crying until his eyes dried out, hoping to catch God on a good day. Like many who venture into a divine hypnosis (or stumble into one, rather), he ended up snot-nosed on his knees, wondering how the hell he’d ever let it get so bad, wondering how the hell he ever let his son see him like the pill head he was, wondering how life ever got so unforgiving to a simple man like him.
So, whether you’re an atheist, agnostic or evangelical, you might be wondering what’s so bad about a man giving his life to a religion? And if you did wonder that, you’d be right. That, in and of itself, wouldn’t be so bad. The only thing is there was also a Mrs. McCorty in the picture. A woman by the name of Hannah.
Hannah was the shyest kind of sweet you’d find in the Midwest, which was probably the sweetest kind of sweet you’d find anywhere else in the U.S. She had supported Daryl over the years. During that time, she had done the usual things sober lovers of addicts do with all the listening to lies, taking broken promises as a blip rather than the norm, and weaving together wishful fantasies faster than a black widow in a frenzy. She even paid for his rehab once with the FAFSA money she got from the local community college. Daryl had sworn he’d get off them for the sake of their future, he’d sworn he’d get off them for the sake of Devin’s future, and sworn he’d get off them for the sake of their financial future on account of Hannah couldn’t pay the rent on her serving money alone. She’d never so much as touched a pill beyond the occasional benadryl or Aleve when the Ohio pollen came in full force during the springtime.
One night though, after a double shift at the Steak ‘n Shake, after six difficult customers and two cussing matches and one regular that was convinced she could pay for her hashbrowns with counterfeit two-dollar bills, after sputtering home down the backroads and putting the car in park and shedding some tears on the torn-up steering wheel, Hannah stepped inside their apartment. And when she did, she asked Daryl if she could try something. Just a small pill. Nothing too crazy.
As you can imagine, that was pretty much all she wrote. From there, Daryl’s ears got full of newfound pains and aches that Hannah was discovering all throughout her body. And what started out as an honest nightcap soon became a full-blown addiction. All this happened about five months before Daryl went to the big Jesus camp. When he forced himself to think about it, Devin sometimes wondered whether or not his mom finally bit the bullet and hopped on the pill train in order to get closer to his dad, or Daryl, as he referred to him now when in person, and Pig Fucker when in private. As if she felt him slipping away from her grasp. To reignite the love, she eventually said screw it and popped the top. At least that’s what Devin hoped.
It gets worse too. Not only did Daryl find Jesus at the bible fest, he also found Clara O’Teele – a twenty-four year-old redhead who dedicated herself to the ministry after a life spent blowing Juggalos and downing vodka Redbulls like Powerades after a summertime pickup game. The two moved quickly in terms of how affairs and messy divorces typically go. Daryl found a better job through a church friend at the top auto shop in Kent, and before Hannah and Devin knew it, he and Clara were packed up and all moved into a duplex out in Streetsboro.
“You take everything away from me, but you forget this?” Hannah stood at the top of the stairs, looking down at Daryl through watery eyes. Her knees quivered. In her hands was the scrapbook she made him for their fifth wedding anniversary – golden lines of Sharpie and stickers decorated its matte black casing.
Daryl squinted before he made out what she was holding. He slumped his shoulders, leaned against the wall, and almost whispered, “Hannah.”
“Call me babe,” she answered.
“Please. Can we just–”
“Call me babe! I’m babe to you,” Hannah squeaked.
Daryl stared at the torn strands of carpet on the fifth stair from the bottom, biting his lip.
“I’m babe. I’m honey…I’m sweetie…I’m babe! I’m BABE!” She threw the scrapbook down the steps then, and started to weep.
That’s when pills turned into other things for Hannah. Crystal doesn’t seem so out of pocket when you’re up in the clouds from oxy on a daily basis. Crack and black tar doesn’t seem so outlandish once crystal becomes a cornerstone habit. Devin tried his best to shoo away CPS like the fruit flies they were and stay with Hannah, but a drugged out mother and a kid who painted his nails black stood no chance against two sober converts in a God-fearing county like Portage. Devin, along with his faded duffle bag, CD player, and N64 he’d bought off Tommy Voccio for cheap, were moved into the spare room of the duplex in two months flat.
Hannah didn’t last long from there. She tried the shelter in Windham, but had to leave when one of the women tried to cut off her hair while she was sleeping. She tried the shelter out in Hudson, but had to leave after the shift lead kept trying to grope her. After one last shot at a church near Hiram College, Hannah decided it was better to bite the bullet and sleep in a tent. She got the youth pastor to pay for her bus ticket to Akron and that was that. At least she’d be surrounded by buildings and more people out there rather than the woods and nothingness of the countryside.
Since then, Devin had been out to Akron twice to spy on her, both times making the excuse of needing to visit the soccer store there, which was the best in the tri-county area. He didn’t have his license yet, but his friend Luke Hyde got a used Ford Taurus for his sixteenth birthday – and it ran okay once you let it warm up a bit. Devin would then make the excuse of needing to go a few blocks out of the way to Gelmin’s Ice Cream, which had arguably the best waffle cones in the tri-county area. From there, he knew where she’d probably be. Akron was a small city, so most of the homeless folks crowded in the same square. Through Gelmin’s front window, after a couple quick scans past patched up tents and scribbled-on cardboard signs and nearly empty mason jars, he spotted her. She was sitting next to a woman with big frizzy hair that poked through the bright pink visor that she was wearing. Hannah was staring off to the sky. Even from a distance, Devin could see her eyes were glossy. But she was okay. She was alive. And that’s what mattered.
Which brings us back to the McCorty’s kitchen. The first night below freezing, which the men on the radio had mentioned, meant uncertainty around whether or not Hannah was also freezing, and Devin couldn’t get it out of his head. Every time he’d catch wind of a teacher or cashier mentioning how the cold was coming, every time he’d pass through the kitchen and overhear that goddamn weather report, his left eyelid would start twitching. This had been his reality over the past thirteen days since the doppler picked up the bad news.
Now, the day was finally here. And he’d planned for it.
You see, if there’s one thing that Clara O’Teele hoarded (or as much as you can hoard inside a 1,300-foot duplex), it was coats. All kinds of them. Brown, black, white, denim, leather – or pleather, more than likely – windbreakers, hoodies, you name it. This past Halloween, after deciding to go to Florence Burke’s party dressed as Elton John, Devin crept into Daryl’s bedroom and vanished into Clara’s walk-in closet – fueled by Budweiser-induced bravado. Moments later, he emerged with a bright orange coat with a white fur hood. Early the following morning, while Clara washed dishes, Devin sidled past her to place the coat in the exact spot he’d picked it up at, between a corduroy vest and faded jean jacket.
Hence, Phase A of Devin’s plan: steal the fluffiest, warmest, coziest coat in Clara’s room for Hannah to wear. She’d probably need one with down feathers or whatever Uncle Todd used for ice fishing and deer hunting. One that would keep her body temperature up, but not be so boisterous and gaudy that it would cause unwanted attention from the drifters in the square or elsewhere on the street. And last Wednesday night, when Dad was working a double shift and Clara was helping lead weeknight service, he’d found the perfect one. Tucked away in the very back of the closet hung a poofy, white wool jacket that looked like it’d make a blizzard feel like a beach day. He’d also planned on giving Hannah his Cleveland Browns beanie, a pair of ear warmers he’d gotten a few Christmas’s back, and his sledding gloves. They might be a couple sizes too big for her, but they’d work just the same.
Then came Phase B of Devin’s plan: steal his dad’s car for the night to deliver said fluffiest, warmest, coziest coat to Hannah. Or rather Ted, the owner of the gas station across the street from Gelmin’s, would do the delivering part. Devin didn’t think he or his mom would be able to stomach the sight of seeing each other. He’d exchange money or something of value to Ted to take the stuff over to Mom in one piece. Nevertheless, that would likely be the easy part, Devin thought. The toughest would be getting the car out of the driveway without waking up Clara or Pig Fucker. He’d need to wait until the 11:30 reruns of Wheel of Fortune started playing, right when the theme music came on. By then, the two would almost certainly be asleep. They rarely make it past 10. Even if they were asleep though, the blast from the music would be loud enough to cover up the engine revving up. At least he hoped. From there, Devin would be home free. He’d either use his wristwatch alarm to wake up from napping in the car to return it back home before Daryl left for the shop at 5:30am, or he’d get caught but have the goods delivered already. Mission accomplished.
So now you understand why the news on the radio that morning sent Devin for a loop. And now you know his plan to make that news a little better. To make everything a little better. As much as he could.
Devin imagines the giant wheel spinning, spinning, slowing as he latches onto the passenger side headrest, torso contorted, head pressed back toward the gravel drive – invisible in the moon-hidden night. His father’s faded Ram is a bit more sensitive in the pedals than Luke’s Taurus, and the engine gives an audible hiss that Devin takes as a roar. By now he’d already sweat through his Champion windbreaker despite the ground being glazed with frost. His knee twitches, flicking on the radio knob.
“–listening to NINE NINE FOUR, the BAT!” The DJ shouts as Van Halen’s Jump starts blaring on the speaker.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” Devin mutters to himself, slapping the knob off like a snooze button on the last day of summer. “Piece of shit.”
He guns it, and feels his pulse all the way down to his finger tips, which quiver as he rotates the steering wheel to 10-2 as the driveway turns to road. Flicking the headlights on, and shifting the stick to drive, Devin pelts down Route 88.
Every part of him wanted to turn back and look, to search for a curtain being ripped open in his Dad’s room, a light clicking on, or a head poking through the pane. But he only looks straight, and floors it into the mouth of the road as it swallows him whole.
“Two cartons or no deal, man. I ain’t sayin’ it just to say it.”
Devin sighs as he reaches deep into his pockets. He slaps a baggy of weed on the counter.
“The fuck are you doin’?” The man reaches over and covers the baggy with his hands, gaze darting toward the door to make sure the coast was clear from any wandering eyes.
“One carton and some weed. That’s all I got.”
The man rotates his palm up to examine the baggy.
“It’s good shit,” Devin pleads. “My friend gets it from D.C. Not that bunk stuff from Pittsburgh.”
Ted Rithers looks at Devin, lowers his gaze back down and slides the baggy into the front pocket of his oil-stained overalls.
“Alright.”
“We’re square then?” Devin asks.
“Yep.”
“You’re clear on everything?”
“Yep.”
“You sure?”
“Goddamnit. Yes, kid.”
“You’re positive you know which one she is?”
“Of course I know who she fuckin’ is. I know all of ‘em by now, the way they stomp around my lot all day,” the man says.
“She’s the one with–”
“–long brown hair. I know!”
Devin exhales deeply. He closes his eyes and hands over the coat, Browns beanie, sledding gloves, and ear warmers to the man, the stranger, across the counter. “Make sure no one–”
“Son. I swear to God I’ll change my mind if you don’t stop.” His eyes tell Devin he’s being serious, so he takes a step back.
“Alright.”
“Okay.”
“T-thanks. I appreciate it. Just want to make sure she’s okay, sir.”
The man’s face softens, head tilting toward the tile. “Ain’t no big deal…I’ll keep my eye on her.”
“Thanks, Ted.”
“You sure you don’t want to see her?” he asks.
Outside, a semi hums and whirs a few blocks away. “I can’t. She…she wouldn’t be able to take it.”
Ted gives the floor one of those long blinks. “I understand. Alright. Better get back home then.”
Devin turns the FM dial. Hip hop, classic rock, jazz, classical, then he stops. Keys up the volume, and leans back in the driver’s seat as the bridge from My Chemical Romance’s Helena builds. And builds. And explodes. He puts the car into drive and heads home. Emily Beckett and Roderick Lee had long left the sounds of MCR and Blink-182 for lesser known groups like Hawthorne Heights and AFI, but Devin stood firm on his love for the bands – and he had the scratches across his CDs prove it. Seemed kind of pointless, if not downright cruel, to want your favorite bands to continue eating ramen noodles and McDoubles for the rest of their lives, Devin thought, if we took that anti-mainstream logic to its furthest possible end. Although he wouldn’t complain if ticket prices didn’t continue hitting the stratosphere.
“What kinda eyeliner-wearin’ fairy music is this? You hear this shit?” Devin remembered his dad asking him with a toothy smile as he revved the truck, warming it up in the fall chill. The sounds of Blink-182 blared through the speakers as the car started and the player turned on. Devin’s heart could’ve skipped rope, could’ve cleared a basketball hoop the way it jumped. Shaking his head, Daryl said, “That’s the last time I let Rob use my truck. Always knew he was a weirdo, but shit. Didn’t know it was this bad.”
He was beating himself up then, Devin was. Beating himself up because occasionally, no matter how many times he reminded himself to do something, that thing would still slip his mind. Not all things. Not biology assignments or names of his favorite indie documentaries, but other things, important things. Things like this – you see, the Blink-182 CD blasting from Daryl’s speakers was his. He’d left the disc in by mistake after sneaking into the truck the night before. Hannah had gifted the record to him. After learning about his newfound love for emo rock, she convinced one of her coworkers at the diner to burn a whole binder full of CDs of the most popular bands in the genre.
Devin remembered Mom closing his bedroom door behind her when she gave it to him. A finger moved up to her lips, and a bible-sized book poked out from behind her back. She smiled all the time back then. Through everything, she smiled. But that grin in particular is frozen in time for Devin – it couldn’t set up camp in his mind more clearly if it were framed and hung on his bedroom wall.
“Close your eyes, hun,” she almost whispered.
He did.
“Now, hold your hands out.”
He did. Wrapping paper met his palms then – the weight of the gift made his arms droop for a moment.
“Now open them.”
He did. The wrapping paper was lime green. He beamed and started thanking her, but was cut off with the same finger to her lips. This would be their secret by the looks of it, by the feel of it. He tore off the wrapping paper to reveal a large blue CD binder, filled to the gills with blank discs scribbled on with red Sharpie. Sum 41, Blink 182, My Chemical Romance. He turned the page. Panic at the Disco, Good Charlotte, The Killers. Turned it again. Bowling For Soup, Less Than Jake, Dashboard Confessional. That hug was hands stretched toward the campfire, Devin thought back. He held onto her, tight as a sinner repenting at the feet of God.
“At least Nirvana had some grit. Some self-respect. Not this crybaby shit. Bunch of flower boys,” Daryl shook his head as he popped the CD out of the player, reached to the visor above his head to snag his well-worn AC/DC Back in Black record. As the familiar bass line began, he smirked, tapping his thumb against the steering wheel.
Devin stared out of the truck window at the trees passing by, fast as sound. “Yeah,” he muttered to his dad. “No kidding.”
He’s back in the car alone now, Devin is, and narrowly dodges a raccoon that scurries into the middle of the road. Autumn leaves whiz out of sight again as he drives on. He’d held it together well until then. Goddamnit, why’d you have to go and think about the music, Devin? Listening to the music never helps, you know it doesn’t. The heaviness in his throat is there to stay, and he’d been through enough in the past three months to know there was only one cure. He’d have to let the flood out, let it erupt from him like cannon fire.
Devin turns the car around then, and drives back toward Akron. Back toward his mother.
Hannah J. Watkins
The spring always brought Grammy’s blueberry pie. And blueberries too, I guess. Thorn bushes and pricklies everywhere, getting stuck on shoe and sweater. It usually wasn’t deep enough to give a poke, but Mama always said to be careful.
Last year, a few got caught on my turtleneck at school and Mr. Urtz had to take them out, sending butterflies up my spine. I missed watching him at the chalkboard, sleeves rolled up. But I was a grade ahead now. At least I could talk about him to Lola – she had him this year.
She was coming over today. I made sure to clean my room and tidy up the mudroom last night to make sure Mama wouldn’t change her mind last minute again. I had it all planned out since last week – start with the swing set, then the jump rope, chase fireflies until we had to come inside. If Mama was in a good mood, she might let us watch The A-Team. If not, Lola and I would end the night in my room until the sun came up. I wrote it all down just in case I forgot, recited it by memory, and double checked to make sure the jump rope was ready. She’d be here around 4pm.
Lola’s mom drove a green truck with a silver front and sides. Lola said her mom’s old boyfriend gave it to her but I guess never asked for it back when he left for California. From the living room window I could always tell when Lola’s mom made that left turn onto our drive. Thick, heavy rubber scraped on gravel, and the engine gave a sputter or two as it sped up. There were four cars that made their way up our drive on a regular basis. Lola’s mom’s, Rick the mailman, Uncle Jean, and Daddy. The mail truck was silent – the only way you’d hear it is when Rick would park it and lift the hatch in the back.
Uncle Jean’s was a low hum. He had a blue station wagon with wood on the sides. And then, there was Daddy’s. Four years ago, Gramps gave Daddy his old Shelby after he got the news from the doctor. Since then, Monday through Friday at 7pm, you could hear Daddy rip into the drive and stomp on the gas – Mama said it sounded like a firecracker.
“You’ve gotta kick your legs up, Lola. Like this!” I demonstrated, shooting up into the sky like a rocket.
“I know how to swing,” she said.
“Not as good as I can.”
“Can so!”
“Doesn’t look like it,” I joked.
“Well I do. Cameron showed me how last summer.”
“Cameron was in Texas last summer,” I said.
“Only from June through July,” Lola said. “He showed me when he came back.
“Well, he didn’t do a good job by the looks of it,” I said, kicking myself higher into the air. Lola rose to her feet to fix her seat.
“I guess he was busy teaching me other things.”
My face felt warm. “Oh yeah. Like what?”
“Nothing.”
“Lola.”
“None of your business.”
“Lola. Tell me!”
She smirked as she tried flinging her legs to and fro. “Like smooching.”
“No way you smooched with Cameron Martin. He doesn’t even know you. You
don’t even know him!”
“Do too! I had gym class with him last year and this year. Plus, we have the same bus route.”
That’s right, they do have the same bus route. Ever since Cameron moved in with his dad across town he’d switched. I remembered when it was just me, Cameron, and Tiffany Potts in the back of Bus 33. Each day Tiffany would get off one stop before me – they’d have dropped everyone off by then. Once or twice I’d hoped Cam would take Tiffany’s spot in my seat.
Someone has to keep the seat warm, Hannah, he would say. Or…
How do you not have a boyfriend yet? Or…
Has anyone ever told you how beautiful your eyes are, Hannah? Then, he’d lean in a little closer. Knee touching mine. Hand inching up my thigh, warm fingers making their way to my chin. Look at me, he’d say. I would listen to him. For him, I’d listen.
Don’t get off at your stop. Okay, I would say back. He’d take me by the hand and–
“Did you hear me?” Lola said, from far off.
“Huh?”
“I said, did you hear me?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I did.” We swung for a little while longer. Lola was high in the air by the end of it.
“This is boring,” she said.
“What’s boring about swinging?” I asked.
“It’s just boring after a while.”
“Well, what do you want to do then? After this, I was thinking we could jump rope and then chase fireflies like last time.”
Lola sighed. “I hate jumping rope.”
“You play it at recess with Rachel,” I said.
“Yeah, that’s with Rachel though. I say we sneak into Fred’s patch,” she said.
Fred Gibson was our neighbor that lived two doors down, which in the country meant at least two acres away. He had a blueberry patch with berries the size of golf balls. He makes a good living selling them down in the village market, Mama says. Every summer, he knocks at our door and gives us a discount on the season’s yield. He gifts us two big baskets full, but it’s never enough. They’re the juiciest blueberries I’ve ever tasted. “We can’t do that,” I said. “You know what happened with me and Destiny.”
“Destiny?”
“My cousin.”
Lola pondered for a moment. I’ve told her the story with Destiny three times. Four, maybe, if you count the time I got halfway through before Mrs. Hanson said the quiz was starting. “Ah. That’s right. That’s the fun of it though. Isn’t it?”
“You know I can’t get into trouble again, Lola.”
“Who says you will? We’ll be careful, and the trailhead leads right into the patch.”
“I don’t know.”
“What would you rather do, Hannah – swing and jump rope until our legs fall off, or eat blueberries?”
“I can ask my mom if she has any leftovers from my Grammy’s blueberry pie.”
“You know that isn’t the same,” she said.
“It’s the freshest pie you’ll ever eat.”
“If you’re too chicken to go with me, then I’ll just go with myself.” She had stopped swinging by then.
“No you won’t.”
“Will too!”
“Then where will you sleep?” I asked.
“I’ll call my mom when I get back – and you won’t get any of my blueberries.” My swing had come to a stop then as well. I could feel the sides of my temples throbbing, like Mama says hers do, jumping like they had a heartbeat of their own. I could feel Lola’s eyes on me. “Are you gonna come or not?” she asked.
“Okay, that’s enough,” I whispered. Lola, lips already painted purple, only turned to look back before forging ahead. Berries, stacked from palm to fingertip, began seeping out the sides of her hands like a leak unplugged. “Lola… Lola!” I called out. We were getting far too close to the open field now. A treeline and wooden fence dotted the edge of Fred’s patch, separating his property from Mrs. Shaw to the left, and our drive on the right.
“I knew I should’ve just gone alone.”
“I’m here,” I said.
“You aren’t even picking any berries. Come on!” She grabbed me by the wrist.
“I have berries at home.”
“Well, have them here too,” she said. Cackling, she took a scoop of blueberries and tried shoving them in my mouth.
“Lola!”
She couldn’t stop laughing – eyes squinted, face scrunched, teeth red.
“Stop!”
Lola shook her head. “Fine then!”
“You’re being so loud. He’s gonna hear us,” I said, hushed.
“Let him come. I don’t care. What’s he gonna do? Ground me? Spank me?”
“Lola.”
“You know, I wouldn’t mind Fred spanking me.”
“Lola!”
“What? He’s a handsome man. And isn’t his wife gone?”
“I’m not going to talk about Fred like that,” I fired back.
Lola turned to look at me then, taking two steps in. I could reach her if I stuck my arm out. “That’s your problem, Hannah. That’s exactly your problem.”
“Problem? What problem?”
“Your problem. You never have any fun. You’re so stiff.”
“Am not!” I hollered.
“Are too! Everyone notices it. You’re such a…you’re such a goddamn square.”
The playfulness had left her face. She was scowling at me now – mocking, menacing. That’s when I pounced on her. All her blueberries shot into the air like water from a broken hose. I couldn’t really tell if it was Lola or the dirt my knees were digging into. I just kept slapping her stupid, mean, ugly face. That’s all she was – a mean, mean bitch. Yeah, a bitch! Everyone likes her, but deep down they all know she’s nothing but a mean bitch.
“Hey. Hey! Cut that out,” a voice shouted from the house, and I immediately knew it was Fred’s. I prayed it wasn’t, but I knew it was him. Ever since he stopped smoking, his voice sounded less raspy. He was sprinting at us now. At me now. He was almost there…
“Teeth!” a voice calls from far off. “Teeth. Stop using your fuckin’ teeth!” I lift my head up, Ted’s tarred hand still clutching my hair, other hand smoking a cigarette. His jeans smell like gas spots and unfinished laundry. In his driver’s side cup holder sits an empty Coors can and balled up bags of chips and pretzels, some bunched up napkins. There’s a garbage bag taped up in the back corner window, but otherwise it’s warm in here. So warm – enough to make the shivers stop, enough to make the jaw chattering stop.
“Are you hearin’ me?” he mumbles.
“Huh?”
“I said, are you hearin’ me?”
I nod.
“Good,” he says, taking a drag, blowing smoke. “Back down now.” He pushes me back down…
“Help me! She’s tryna kill me, Fred. Hannah’s tryna kill me,” Lola shrieked and flailed her legs. I let her go. She sprinted at him and hugged his leg. They both looked at me with big eyes – shocked, scared, sad. That’s when I heard the firecracker. One pop, two pop, three pop. Daddy pressed on the gas, barreling toward us. Toward the commotion. He must’ve heard us. Of course he heard us.
The car came to a stop. Gravel against rubber. The door opened. I fell to my knees then, squashing blueberries as I did, and wept.
“What the fuck?” Ted growls.
I hear a banging on the car window. Thud thud thud! Thud thud thud! I lift my head up.
“Shit…Shit!” Ted is yelling now.
He scrambles to zip up his pants and belt buckle, but the driver’s side door opens too fast and he falls out, bringing a wall, a wave of the bleeding cold air crashing in as he does. The man, boy actually, who threw the door open straddles Ted and throws down punch after punch. He clears his throat and spits in Ted’s face. His groans echo across the parking lot. I sit up, wrap myself in the coat and ear warmers Ted brought to me.
“Bitch!” the boy shouts. Wait…is that…that can’t be…
I poke my head toward the open door then, lungs filling with frigid air and bellow, “My baby!”
Devin McCorty
Devin McCorty is mounted on Ted Rithers in the back side of the Arco gas station, throwing down blows. One left hook hurdles so fast that it tears his Champion windbreaker. Ted’s eyes are beginning to lose their light. His shouts turn to groans and groans turn to gasps. Any self-proclaimed goth growing up in a country town has been in their fair share of fights – knowing how to throw a proper punch was part of the deal. When Garfield was facing Chapman for the county championship in football, Devin remembered Toby O’Connell flicking him below the belt as he passed by. The nonchalance of it all was what set Devin off, and Toby never really stood a chance. A fight will quickly tell you how many friends you have, and based on the collective reaction, Toby didn’t have any to count. They ended up walking away, and Devin felt so bad that he helped him up and bought him kettle corn and a Dr. Pepper.
“Liar!” Devin shouts, as he gives Ted one, two, three, four final slaps before rising to his feet – back still turned to the truck.
“Baby,” a voice cracks behind him. Devin turns around slowly. He’d read all about it since he finally came to terms with his mom being on the pipe and pills – the effects it had on the mind and body, inside and out. He had flashes, daydreams, and night terrors about what she might look like by now. The scabs, the cataracts, the missing teeth. He’s facing the truck now, eyes still on the asphalt.
Devin peels up slowly. His mother, a little beaten but as beautiful as ever, was wrapped in Clara’s long wool coat. When they make eye contact, she breaks down, grumbling prayers to herself. Devin feels the lump coming again, and pushes it down – deep, deeper.
He looks at Ted, who is churning and wriggling on the ground now. That’s when he walks over to the passenger side door and opens it up. Hannah can’t stop sobbing. She raises her head up and stares at her son, body quivering.
Devin opens his mouth and tries belting out the words twice before they finally escape. “We have to go, Mom.”
Her face is hidden behind veiny hands. She continues sitting, whimpering. Ted begins to stir, struggling to get from his back onto his knees. “Come on, Mom,” Devin says. “We’ve gotta go. Now!”
Devin and Hannah McCorty sit in the Dodge Ram, heat blasting through. Devin watches as she glides her fingertips against the fans of the open vent – reaching out and grabbing the warmth as if to take it away, to keep it tucked inside a safe forever. She still had all her teeth from what he could see. He made sure to check as she spoke to him. She used to open her mouth wide as a choir singer hitting a crescendo when she spoke. Her lips were tighter now, voice like gravel, like shattered shale. The dash read 3:21am, which meant 2:21am – Daryl never reset the truck’s clocks when Daylight Savings came around.
She crunches on cheddar fries and gulps down the Gatorade Devin picked up at a 7-Eleven on the way to where they’re parked now: Grandview Terrace. A road that stretched almost a half-mile long, parallel to the train tracks. Street lights flicker, illuminating the two torn up RVs that neighbored their truck. Hannah ravages through the snacks, one by one.
Noticing his mother’s chapped hands, he reaches over into the glove compartment to pull out Clara’s hand lotion. “Here,” he says, handing it to her.
Waving it off, “I’m okay, hun.”
“Mom, take it. Please.”
She accepts. Applies it gingerly, the crackling of her skin breaking the silence. “Daryl’s still not keeping up with dusting the cupholders, I see.”
“Are people treating you okay out there?”
“Yes, dear.”
“Promise?”
“I wouldn’t lie to you.”
“We need to get you back into the shelter, Mom. You’re gonna freeze to death out here. The church out in Tracy has a better program now. The best around, Tommy was telling me.”
Hannah McCorty finishes the Gatorade with a loud swig. “Devin, can you make sure to tell your father to clean the cupholders? They’re as dirty as ever.”
Devin exhales through his nose, lips locked shut. He places his hands on the steering wheel, gripping it tight, and tries to flex his bruised fingers. Hannah gasps at the sight, reaching over, examining his swollen knuckles. Devin notices that dirt has piled up beneath her fingernails, and catches himself as he’s about to flinch away – holding steady, standing firm as her hands feel warm against his. Every other Thursday evening, Devin remembered Mom would head to Patty Kirk’s house on Hewins to get her manicures and pedicures done. Her nails would come out looking shiny, electric blue or teal or pearl. Once Clara became a fixture in Daryl and hers’ nightly conversations though, Devin noticed her experimenting with new patterns and vibrant palettes – bright reds, stripes, rhinestones, cream and magenta.
“I’m fine, Mom. I’m okay.”
“Are you sure, babe? They’re so beat up. Make sure you ice them as soon as you get back ho–”. She paused. “As soon as you can. Okay?”
“I will, Mom. I’m fine. Truly.”
He puts his hands back on the wheel. Outside, a train passes – rolling rhythms and syncopations.
Hannah takes a deep breath in. Her foot taps, drumming nervously against the floor mat. “And they’re treating you alright, hun? Are they…Daryl and…” She began sobbing again. Devin leaned over and draped his arms around her. Smells of mildew filled his nostrils. He gripped her tighter, patting her back.
“Dad got clean, Mom. You can do it. I can help you,” he whispered in her ear. “I’m gonna have my license soon.” He held her tightly. She gathered herself, and sniffled before falling back into fits of tears. Devin continued, “That’s what we’re gonna do, Mom. I’ll call Uncle Todd and we’ll come and take you out to Tracy together. Alright? How does that sound? …Mom?”
Her cries quieted, tapering off with a couple more coughs. “I-I’ve got something for you, Devin. Something I’ve been wanting to give you. I knew God would bring you to me. I knew it. He told me, God did. He came to me one night.”
“God did?”
“Yes.”
“Like…an angel?”
“An owl. A big, great horned owl sat on the flagpole near me,” Hannah answers. Devin reclines back into the driver’s seat, letting a sigh escape. “He came with a message for me. He told me not to worry, that God would send my son back. I didn’t know when or how long that would be. Seven days? Forty days, maybe? Forty years? Then, he flew off. His eyes were so beautiful, Devin. Like yours. Like your father’s.”
Devin hangs his head. “Mom. Will you please come–”
“That’s why I kept this for you, babe. That’s why I held onto it.” Hannah opens up her muddied shawl and reaches into her pants pocket. Devin looks over at her. Rustling, wrestling, fighting. Her hand emerges. In it, is a half-folded polaroid. Devin’s stomach drops. The lump came knocking again, pressing so forcefully on his throat he was sure he’d burst.
She holds the photo so delicately – gentle as a babe, a lamb. Hannah turns to her son then, and holds it out to him. Devin takes it, glances down.
“This is how I want you to remember me, son. Not like this. Not like now.” Her voice was low but so loud, so clear.
Hannah couldn’t have been older than twenty-five when this photo was taken. Devin, no older than three. On his head he wore Batman underwear, eyes poking through each leg hole like a ski mask. Hannah’s face was bellowing out in laughter. Devin remembered her laugh well – it could wake dogs from their sleep, it could pierce brick walls, rise up like Christmas smoke from the mouths of chimneys. In the photo, she was sitting on their bright brown, argyle couch. Eyes closed, shoulders bent, hands clenching her stomach. That couch had a good run, Devin thought. It wasn’t until Clara convinced Daryl that no throw blankets or accent pillows would make it match their new condo that they gave it to the Hendersons from church.
That’s when it all came crumbling down for Devin. Eyes flooded, nose snotty, lips purple, he sobs. The clock changed from 3:27 to 3:28, then to 3:29, and his face was still in his hands. Buried. His mother’s cold palm rubbed his spine, up, down, then in a circle like she always used to.
From afar, sirens begin to build. Devin raises his head and rubs away the tears, the crust from his eyes. The sirens are getting closer now. They could be for anyone, he thought to himself, an ambulance call. An old person falling down the stairs. Louder still. What if Ted called the cops? What if Dad and Clara called the cops? No. You think they would? Yes. Absolutely they fucking would, you dummy. You dunce. You moron. They would be the first to call the cops! Fuck fuck fuck.
“Mom, we need to go. I think we really need to go,” Devin says, turning the key.
“What, sweetie?”
“That could be for us, we need to leave.”
A half mile up the long run, two troopers skirted around the corner of Grandview Terrace, lights flashing. Red, white, blue. Red, white, blue. Shit shit shit.
“I can gun it, Mom! We can run away together! We can go now, I can outrun them,” Devin cries as he clutches the wheel. He looks at Hannah, eyes scanning, searching, scrambling.
The cops blow past stop sign after stop sign in the distance, specks turn to shapes as they draw closer still. Hannah’s eyes grew glossy then, miles away. Mumbling, almost to herself, “Sounds like a firecracker, don’t it? The cars.”
“Mom! You need to answer me! Let’s go. I can take us away! Please answer me!” Devin’s voice is shrill. He puts the truck into drive, and turns to his mother.
Street lights reflect off Hannah’s pupils. Devin’s chin trembles. She opens her mouth, “Stay with me. Won’t you, son?”
Devin looks down at the photograph on his lap and breaks down. He puts the truck back into park. The lights are flashing on them through the windshield now. Commands bellow out through loudspeakers. Devin McCorty wails, cradled in his mother’s arms. Arms warm with love – unconditional, undying, uncaged.