The Best Part: Short Story (2 page)

Truck shakes his head. “Not a good idea.”

“Why not? It’s a great idea. Do it now and Chet won’t be around to screw it up.”

“I’m afraid it’s too late for that.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Chet’s actually coming over today.”

“That’s not what we agreed on.”

He shrugs. “It’ll be fine. We talked last night. Changed the plans. It’s better this way, cause when he gets here, we can go ahead and do it right. Have the van and everything. Besides, he’s just dropping it off. He’ll probably hang out here, drink a few beers, whack off, whatever while we do the job. Then we’ll all get out of here and divide up the loot.”

“Divide up the loot?”

“Chet wants a share. For letting us use the van.”

Danny groans. “This is stupid, Truck. Remember when I told you selling drugs at work was stupid? What happened that time? We went to prison. Chet’s a timebomb, waiting to detonate.”

Truck shakes his head, trying to stay calm, but Danny can tell it’s getting to him. Truck has always hated to be wrong. Must be a miserable life, Danny thinks, because Truck is wrong more than anybody he knows. Which says exactly what about you, Danny?

There’s a sharp retort from outside and Truck nearly falls out of his chair in surprise. “What the fuck—”

Danny’s heart sinks. He feels a sudden, anxious surge run through him, like fight or flight, and he’s leaning hard toward the flight part.

Outside the window, pulling into the driveway is Chet’s van. The engine is loud enough to wake sleeping neighbours—had there been any—and the backfire that nearly knocked Truck out of his seat is the first of many more. Danny counts seven before Chet kills the engine and throws open the driver’s side door.

“Scared the living hell out of me.”

“This is a mistake.”

Danny watches as Chet unfolds his muscular frame from the driver’s seat. His feet hit the ground and he pauses to take a look at the house before rolling his neck thoroughly as if working out any residual traces of sanity from his head.

“It’s a mistake,” Truck says, his voice pitched high and whiny, mocking Danny. “Don’t be such a baby, Danny Boy.”

“The van is louder than a fireworks show.”

“But there’s nobody to hear it. See, that’s the beauty. These fuckers made a mistake by moving into an empty neighbourhood.”

Chet scares Danny. Always has. Something about his eyes, the bruises all over his body, the way he doesn’t care about the future or the past, just living, just fucking staying alive in whatever shape that might be.

Close to the bone, that’s the phrase he thinks of when he sees Chet. His whole persona is like a raw nerve that twitches wildly in the light of day.

He has the kind of face that says a thousand unspoken things and none of them make sense. I could draw him, Danny thinks. The knowledge thrums through him, giving him a kind of pure pleasure that is something akin to the afterglow of sex. I could draw him.

There’s a knock on the front door and a loud, high pitched voice. “Little pig, little pig, let me come in.”

Truck smiles and goes over to open the door.

Chet’s wearing a tank top and shorts that hang down low enough to expose his ass crack. His head is shaved and nicked with every kind of scratch, like a bowling ball that has been dropped on concrete too many times. His face is pitted with scars and acne and beneath those are deep purple and blue and sometimes green bruises. He’s missing teeth, but that’s just part of his look. This guy isn’t meant to have teeth. Or shoes apparently. He’s barefoot, exposing grotesquely thickened and yellowed toenails.

“Nice,” he says, looking the place over. “How’s the shitter?”

He seems to address the question to Danny, but Danny is so totally unprepared for such a question that he only shakes his head in frustration while Truck answers.

“Clean as the inside of a virgin’s cunt,” Truck says, still smiling like an idiot. Danny has to resist the sudden urge to hit him right in the face. Why does he want to bring this asshole along?

“Time to deflower that bitch,” Chet says, letting a cheek-rattling fart ring out.

Truck giggles like a second grader, slapping five with him as he walks out of the den and into the hallway looking for the virgin bathroom.

The reason Chet scares Danny is because he’s not afraid of anything. Jumping off the bridge at Moss Rock has been done before, but not with the same reckless abandon as when Chet does it. There is only a sliver of safe water wedged between some of the most jagged rocks Danny has ever seen. The others foolish enough to jump take their time, measuring out each leap, their bodies tensing on the way down, tightening into a straight line, an arrow aiming for the bullseye because any slight deviation can mean a lot of pain. Chet lives for the pain, the deviation. He never worries about hitting the mark. He takes off at a dead sprint, thrusting his body off the bridge in such spectacular fashion that Danny can barely breathe as he watches. Occasionally, he cracks a knee open on one of the rocks, but mostly, he falls into the slip of water, a burning bundle of kinetic energy. Danny can only stand, amazed, as the water snuffs out Chet’s fire. He thinks, no, never. He will not come back up. But then he does, rising from the river like the phoenix reborn, water hanging off his raw skin, gleaming white in the late afternoon sun, laughing about it. Laughing.

Goddamn.

“Does it hurt?” somebody called out once.

“Oh, fuck, it hurts,” Chet said.

“Do it again.”

And without a word, Chet’s climbing the grass embankment, trotting on what should be broken legs back up to the bridge, back up to the guardrail, which he stands on top of like a crazed, wingless hawk perched on a precipice, and he jumps without even hesitating. That’s the part that scares Danny. He doesn’t hesitate. Sometimes, Danny dreams about himself standing on that bridge, arms raised up, readying to jump. He hesitates, not because he’s afraid of dying, but because he’s afraid of living with the pain.

Chet, though, he’s not afraid of anything.

“Fuuuuuuck!”

“What’s up?” Truck says to the bathroom door.

“No fucking toilet paper.”

Truck laughs. “I had a blowout earlier. Forgot to restock. Hold on, there’s some paper towels in the kitchen.” He looks at Danny as if he expects him to retrieve them.

“Get them yourself.”

Truck smirks. “What’s up your ass?”

Danny grabs his arm as he walks by. “Chet, that’s what. Sometimes, I think you want to go to prison again.”

Truck shrugs him off and keeps walking. When he comes back with the paper towels, he pauses, speaking right in Danny’s ear. “Sometimes, I think you wish you’d never left.”

In prison, you wake up in the morning and know the day. It’s not even a day, really, because day implies that there is possibility inherent in the hours that wait. In prison, there are no possibilities. You sit up, clearing your dreams from the night before, which is fine because with the dreams come the occasional nightmare of standing atop a bridge, hesitating to jump. There’s breakfast and yard time and lunch and back to the cell for a few hours of sitting on your ass and thinking about how you’ll change your life if you ever get out of those walls, even though there is a part of you that absolutely knows that change—real, fucking change in life—is about as likely as winning the lottery. Sure it happens to some people, but mostly it’s a pipe dream people buy into for a few hours, maybe days, before being disappointed.

No disappointment in prison. You wake up in the morning. You know the day. Until you’ve done your time and you wake up, and you don’t know what to expect any more and you realize, sitting on the edge of your narrow bed that your knees are shaking.

So maybe Truck’s right. After all, Danny doesn’t trust Chet, and yet he’s here in the same house with him, about to go through with the next step, robbing some rich people and doing god knows what else next. It’s not like prison, that’s for sure. It’s wilder, scarier even, a long drop from a bridge, with so many opportunities to land in the wrong place.

Before Danny can contemplate his situation any more, he notices a small green car pulling into the driveway right behind Chet’s van. It looks like a Civic or Corolla or some similar compact Japanese car. The car stops, and he watches—feeling slightly mesmerized by the whole thing—as a woman steps out. She’s attractive—not in the bling bling, fake tit way that the woman across the street is—but really pretty. She’s got short brown hair, and big brown eyes, and nice legs, well toned legs. She looks straight at the house and then back to Chet’s van.

By this point, Truck sees her too. He’s standing next to Danny, shoulder to shoulder, looking out the window. The woman runs a hand down her skirt, straightening it, and starts toward the house.

“What the fuck is she doing?” Truck says.

Danny shrugs. “Maybe she’s selling something.” He’s not exactly afraid yet, but he feels a sense of unease begin to twitch in his stomach.

She passes the window and disappears as she reaches the front steps. Her heels click on each step. There are six in all. Danny waits, tensed, for the doorbell. Instead, he hears the rattling of keys, and a bolt turning, and it dawns on him—too late, of course—that this woman is a realtor and this is one of her properties.

The door swings open part way and she says, “Hello? Is there someone here? If you’re here to finish the kitchen, it’s about time.”

He and Truck make a break for the hallway, passing the bathroom where Chet is probably figuring out that paper towels don’t flush.

They bump into each other and curse and round the corner into the dining area, where there is some table and furniture, and—yes—a realtor’s card with the lady’s pretty face staring back at them. Truck throws it down in disgust. “Not good,” he hisses.

Here it is, Danny thought. They had been so stupid. How many times had he walked through here in the last few days and looked at that card? Yet it had never crossed his mind that the lady would actually show up.

There are no doors to the outside in this room, only a bank of shuttered windows. Danny goes over and flings open one of the shutters just as he hears the woman’s voice from the front room: “Is there someone in the house? Is someone in the house right now?”

Danny’s lifting the window when he hears the falsetto reply: “Why yes, dear, I’m home. Just taking a shit. Be right out.”

It’s Chet. The toilet flushes. Truck spits out a torrent of profanities and pushes past Danny for the window. Danny lets him go.

The bathroom door swings open. Chet inhales loudly. “I love the smell of shit in the afternoon.”

The woman says, “I have a can of mace and a cell phone. Don’t come any closer.”

Chet laughs. “Hear that boys? She’s got mace.”

Truck doesn’t hear it because he’s out the window, tumbling in the backyard, grimacing from a longer than expected drop, but he looks okay. He’s up on his feet waving at Danny. “Come on!”

Danny shakes his head and turns away from the window.

Before going to prison, Danny always heard people say that prison teaches a man. He’d heard his father say it when he was talking about Danny’s uncle who went inside an alcoholic and came out four years later, stone sober and full of what he called the Holy Spirit. Another uncle, this one on Danny’s mother’s side, learned how to be violent inside. He’d always been as meek as a lamb until prison taught him that he could settle most anything with a pair of clenched fists.

Danny likes to think that prison taught him as well. He learned that there are limits to what he can—in good conscience—live with. He learned that living with a bad conscience is a way he can’t live at all. He also learned that there is an area—a certain kind of grayness when a man’s fears override his better judgment, and he finds himself doing the very thing he didn’t think he would ever do. Then there’s nothing for it except living out his days in misery.

This is what he fears. More than prison, more than anything. The gray area where things overlap.

In the other room, the lady screams.

Once it comes into focus—what Danny is looking at—he feels a little better, a little more like himself. He could draw this moment, frozen forever on a page, and get to the truth of something, Chet maybe, the lady too. If he is lucky, even himself. He’d use pencils and plenty of overlapping lines because that’s how he sees them, all elbows and teeth, hands and hunched shoulders, fingernails and pinched lips. He doesn’t know which one draws the eye more, Chet or the lady. No, take that back. It’s Chet. Definitely Chet.

He’s got a rusty box cutter to the lady’s throat, his other big hand resting on the nape of her neck, almost gently, like a lover, or a parent holding a child. His face, though, is a comic book parody of violence, jagged sneering lips, bulging maniac eyes.

The woman’s face is a slate rock, pale white, devoid of any emotion except what’s found in her tiny brown eyes, which are wet and quick and full of regret. She is murmuring something so low Danny doesn’t realize it’s her at first.

“You think I’m going to hurt you?” Chet says, his voice still strangely soft, high-pitched, loving.

The woman doesn’t speak, but the answer is in her eyes.

He pops the back of her head with his hand. “Why do you assume I will hurt you?”

She whimpers. “You’ve got a razor.”

Chet’s eyes dart around, lively and full of manic energy, and for a second he reminds Danny of a bird, a tiny bird, pecking the ground for some food, its dark, sudden eyes wary and wild.

“Oh, how about that? I’ve got a razor. Good ol’ box cutter.” He swings those terrible eyes over to Danny. “Did you know I had a box cutter, Danny Boy?”

Danny is silent, but he nods slowly.

“I’ve already called the police,” the woman says.

Chet doesn’t appear to hear her. He leans in close to the woman, speaking low into her ear. “If I wanted to hurt you, I’d cut out your cunt and feed it to you. You ever eaten cunt?”

The woman—the card had said June, right?—looks like she’s about to faint.

“It’s a delicacy. When a woman’s real wet, you know the cum, it tastes really good. First time I tried it, I wasn’t sure, but you know it’s one of them acquired tastes.”