Preppy: The Life & Death of Samuel Clearwater, Part Two
Page 52
“You’re alright, kid. You know that?” Trish called out just as we were about to leave. “I knew you weren’t going to let that one over there kill me.” She flashed me a rotten toothed smile.
“You’re right,” I turned back around and glared daggers at the reason behind poor Bo’s pain. I stared at her with all the hatred I could muster. “Because if you didn’t sign the papers and do the right thing by Bo, then I would have killed you myself.”
Trish had the audacity to laugh. “So much for understanding a fellow addict,” she grumbled. “For a minute I thought you were like me. But you lied. You’re just another stiff making threats to get what you want.”
I grabbed Preppy’s hand and turned back to Trish. “You’re confusing understanding for sympathy. I understand what you’re going through, but I hated myself when I was going through it and because of what you’ve put Bo through...I hate you even more.”
Preppy helped me down the crumbling steps where Billy was waiting for us, leaning against the van.
“Hang on a sec,” Preppy said, heading back up to the door, he opened it and disappeared inside, re-emerging just a few seconds later?
“What did you do?” I asked, although I was pretty sure he didn’t kill her considering I hadn’t heard any gunfire.
“She wanted payment for Bo,” Preppy said, with a shrug. He opened the van door and I slid inside next to a sleeping Bo who was sprawled out across the bench seat. His chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. “So I gave it to her.”
“You gave her money?” I mouthed, not wanting to wake up Bo.
Preppy smiled wickedly and with his hands on the roof he leaned into the van and whispered in my ear. “Nope. I gave her something she wanted more, and enough of it to almost guarantee she won’t ever be a problem for us.” Preppy kissed me on the cheek and slid the door shut, rounding the van.
Heroin. He’d given her heroin.
Preppy was right. As far gone as Trish was she wouldn’t be able to resist. The chances of her surviving until the morning were slim to...she’d be dead by morning.
I waited for the familiar guilt that used to come all the time, even when it had no reason to. At any second I expected that inner voice of mine to tell me I shouldn’t allow Trish to die.
Nothing.
By the time Preppy popped into the passenger seat and Billy started the van I couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto my face.
As we pulled out of the trailer park Bo stirred so I pulled him onto my lap and softly stroked his newly cut hair. I took one last look at the dilapidated trailer as we pulled out onto the road, grateful that Bo would never have to spend another second there, never mind another night. The thing wasn’t fit for human habitation. Not for Bo. Not even for Trish.
Bo snored lightly. Preppy leaned back and brushed Bo’s hair out of his eyes and with a loving look in his eyes he gazed down at his son.
Our son.
“I could’ve easily ended up just like her,” I whispered, feeling the tears prickling behind my eyes. Relief and happiness filled me with each rotation of the tires that brought us further and further away from that trailer park.
“No, you could never have ended up like her,” Preppy argued.
“You can’t say that; you don’t know that.”
“You would never have ended up like her,” he said again. “Not fucking EVER.”
“How can you be so sure?” I flattened my hand over Bo’s little cheek feeling the warmth of his skin against my palm. Preppy covered my hand with his much larger one, intertwining our fingers. I looked up to find his eyes glistening as they stared directly into mine. I felt his determination when he said, “Because I wouldn’t have let you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PREPPY “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit,” I said as I stood above Grace’s grave, feeling my heart smack against my rib cage like it was angry with me for taking it along for the ride it never asked to go on, pounding against my insides to let him the fuck out.
Too fucking late, motherfucker.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, but this isn’t the way it ever went down in my mind,” I stuttered a sigh, my throat tightened painfully— I was barely able to swallow. I shoved my hands into my pockets and pulled them right back out. I kicked at the neatly trimmed grass with my boot then dropped down to my knees. I leaned forward, resting my hands against the low tombstone that was more like a plaque than an actual stone. I needed to be close to her, or what was left of her. I cringed, willing away the image of Grace as a decaying corpse that kept flashing through my mind.
The sun began to set, casting a shadow over the small cemetery. A grounds keeper in coveralls rolled over a small green shade tent. He stopped a few plots down at a spot with no marking and tossed a shovel into the grass. With the toe of his heavy yellow work boot he clicked a latch at the bottom of each of the four metal posts, locking the wheels in place. When he paused to wipe his sweaty forehead with a rag hanging from his back pocket, he looked over and his eyes met mine.
“How you doing today, son?” he asked with a heavy Spanish accent. He shoved the rag back into his pocket and picked up the shovel, stabbing it into the ground. He started scraping off the top layer of grass, dumping it into an awaiting bucket.
I glanced down to Grace’s plaque back then back up to the grounds keeper. “Not gonna lie, man. I could totally be a whole lot fucking better,” I said, my voice shaking with my grief.
“Was that your mama?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to the plaque as he turned over another shovel full of grass into the bucket.
I nodded. “As close to one as I ever had.”
He nodded and continued working. “Sorry for your loss. I know it may not help, but death is just a part of life. We all die. Some before others. After working here for thirty some odd years I can tell you that death is not something to be sad about. It is something to be celebrated.” He put a hand to his chest. “In my culture, when a loved one passes, we throw a huge fiesta and we drink until we can’t feel our faces and then we dance and we make love under the stars and then we drink some more until we can’t feel the rest of our bodies. It’s about joy. It’s about celebrating life, not cursing death.”
“You’re right,” I turned back around and glared daggers at the reason behind poor Bo’s pain. I stared at her with all the hatred I could muster. “Because if you didn’t sign the papers and do the right thing by Bo, then I would have killed you myself.”
Trish had the audacity to laugh. “So much for understanding a fellow addict,” she grumbled. “For a minute I thought you were like me. But you lied. You’re just another stiff making threats to get what you want.”
I grabbed Preppy’s hand and turned back to Trish. “You’re confusing understanding for sympathy. I understand what you’re going through, but I hated myself when I was going through it and because of what you’ve put Bo through...I hate you even more.”
Preppy helped me down the crumbling steps where Billy was waiting for us, leaning against the van.
“Hang on a sec,” Preppy said, heading back up to the door, he opened it and disappeared inside, re-emerging just a few seconds later?
“What did you do?” I asked, although I was pretty sure he didn’t kill her considering I hadn’t heard any gunfire.
“She wanted payment for Bo,” Preppy said, with a shrug. He opened the van door and I slid inside next to a sleeping Bo who was sprawled out across the bench seat. His chest rising and falling in slow rhythm. “So I gave it to her.”
“You gave her money?” I mouthed, not wanting to wake up Bo.
Preppy smiled wickedly and with his hands on the roof he leaned into the van and whispered in my ear. “Nope. I gave her something she wanted more, and enough of it to almost guarantee she won’t ever be a problem for us.” Preppy kissed me on the cheek and slid the door shut, rounding the van.
Heroin. He’d given her heroin.
Preppy was right. As far gone as Trish was she wouldn’t be able to resist. The chances of her surviving until the morning were slim to...she’d be dead by morning.
I waited for the familiar guilt that used to come all the time, even when it had no reason to. At any second I expected that inner voice of mine to tell me I shouldn’t allow Trish to die.
Nothing.
By the time Preppy popped into the passenger seat and Billy started the van I couldn’t stop the smile from creeping onto my face.
As we pulled out of the trailer park Bo stirred so I pulled him onto my lap and softly stroked his newly cut hair. I took one last look at the dilapidated trailer as we pulled out onto the road, grateful that Bo would never have to spend another second there, never mind another night. The thing wasn’t fit for human habitation. Not for Bo. Not even for Trish.
Bo snored lightly. Preppy leaned back and brushed Bo’s hair out of his eyes and with a loving look in his eyes he gazed down at his son.
Our son.
“I could’ve easily ended up just like her,” I whispered, feeling the tears prickling behind my eyes. Relief and happiness filled me with each rotation of the tires that brought us further and further away from that trailer park.
“No, you could never have ended up like her,” Preppy argued.
“You can’t say that; you don’t know that.”
“You would never have ended up like her,” he said again. “Not fucking EVER.”
“How can you be so sure?” I flattened my hand over Bo’s little cheek feeling the warmth of his skin against my palm. Preppy covered my hand with his much larger one, intertwining our fingers. I looked up to find his eyes glistening as they stared directly into mine. I felt his determination when he said, “Because I wouldn’t have let you.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
PREPPY “I’m sorry it took me so long to visit,” I said as I stood above Grace’s grave, feeling my heart smack against my rib cage like it was angry with me for taking it along for the ride it never asked to go on, pounding against my insides to let him the fuck out.
Too fucking late, motherfucker.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, but this isn’t the way it ever went down in my mind,” I stuttered a sigh, my throat tightened painfully— I was barely able to swallow. I shoved my hands into my pockets and pulled them right back out. I kicked at the neatly trimmed grass with my boot then dropped down to my knees. I leaned forward, resting my hands against the low tombstone that was more like a plaque than an actual stone. I needed to be close to her, or what was left of her. I cringed, willing away the image of Grace as a decaying corpse that kept flashing through my mind.
The sun began to set, casting a shadow over the small cemetery. A grounds keeper in coveralls rolled over a small green shade tent. He stopped a few plots down at a spot with no marking and tossed a shovel into the grass. With the toe of his heavy yellow work boot he clicked a latch at the bottom of each of the four metal posts, locking the wheels in place. When he paused to wipe his sweaty forehead with a rag hanging from his back pocket, he looked over and his eyes met mine.
“How you doing today, son?” he asked with a heavy Spanish accent. He shoved the rag back into his pocket and picked up the shovel, stabbing it into the ground. He started scraping off the top layer of grass, dumping it into an awaiting bucket.
I glanced down to Grace’s plaque back then back up to the grounds keeper. “Not gonna lie, man. I could totally be a whole lot fucking better,” I said, my voice shaking with my grief.
“Was that your mama?” he asked, gesturing with his chin to the plaque as he turned over another shovel full of grass into the bucket.
I nodded. “As close to one as I ever had.”
He nodded and continued working. “Sorry for your loss. I know it may not help, but death is just a part of life. We all die. Some before others. After working here for thirty some odd years I can tell you that death is not something to be sad about. It is something to be celebrated.” He put a hand to his chest. “In my culture, when a loved one passes, we throw a huge fiesta and we drink until we can’t feel our faces and then we dance and we make love under the stars and then we drink some more until we can’t feel the rest of our bodies. It’s about joy. It’s about celebrating life, not cursing death.”
