“I done told ye once, boy!” Gideon growled at his son. “He’s not goin’ to no hospital. He’s made that plain! Now, look! You done gone and upset ‘em again!”
“Well, what about one of those sawbones that works off the grid?” Junior pleaded his case. “Maybe one of ‘em that works the street level downtown.”
Gideon waved a hand of irritated dismissal. “Those quacks are good for stitchin’ up a knife cut or setting a broken arm … if’n you catch ‘em on a sober day.” With an aggravated sigh, he bent down beside his brother and placed a forearm under the man’s neck. He raised the man’s head just enough for his lips to meet the water bottle Gideon held in his other hand, but Josie wanted none of it. Weakly, he brushed it aside and pointed at the jug of moonshine on the coffee table.
Gideon looked at him and pursed his lips. “Sure ya don’t wanna stock up on this H2O, big brother? It’s gonna be mighty scarce where yore goin’.” At that, both brothers laughed … or at least Josie made a valiant attempt at laughing before it ended in a bloody coughing fit.
“There now,” Gideon patted his brother on his sweat-drenched cheek. It was about as loving a gesture as he was capable of. “Junior!” he called out, his voice quickly turning back short and gruff. “Make yourself useful. Gimme that jug of hooch!”
But Junior was done. He’d had enough. As he stood there looking at the man he was ashamed to call his father, something happened. It wasn’t anything dramatic. There was no dam burst of emotions held back all these long, resentful years. No symbolic parting of the clouds, shedding light upon the situation, no grand epiphany. It was more like someone merely flipping a switch, turning on the lights in a darkened room. The sad thing was, he always knew what was there. He could finally see it for what it was.
“Get it your damned self!” Junior wore disgust on his face like a Mardi Gras mask. In the last week, he’d watched as the old bastard had callously caused harm to family, friend and innocent alike, all without any regret or remorse. His selfishness and intent on revenge at all costs had cost Gideon his only brother. And for what? Because Rayford got his dick shot off for trying to rape a critter? Truth be known, Rayford, probably wouldn’t piss on the Old Man if he were on fire. Yet, the old bastard would sacrifice everyone else for the neutered fuck.
Well, Junior was through being cannon fodder in his dad’s quest for retribution. He pushed past Ollie, storming out the front door, nearly knocking the screen door off its hinges.
“Where you goin’, boy?” Gideon yelled after him. “Don’t you walk out on me!”
“I’m outta here!” Junior shouted back, already racing down the rickety wooden steps.
“Yore uncle’s dyin’! You get back here and show some respect!” Gideon’s face was the color of raw meat.
“Well, you kilt him! You can bury him!”
By now, Gideon was livid. He sprang to his feet and started after his son. Junior had never stood up to him before. The thought of it enraged him. He would rip him apart with his own hands.
But Ollie was there, blocking the door. “Easy, Gideon!” He tried to reason with the older man. “He’s just upset and blowing off steam.”
“I’ll kill the little bastard!” Gideon’s face was contorted in a murderous rage. Ollie had no doubt the old pimp meant to do precisely that. He was now physically blocking the door, his hands on Gideon’s shoulders, keeping him at arm’s length.
“Lemme go talk to him,” Ollie entreated. “Your place is here with your brother!” Regardless of what the man thought, Ollie couldn’t help but like the younger Tuttle. After all, the kid had saved his ass. He’d be damned if he was going to stand by and let Gideon kill him now.
Tuttle didn’t seem convinced, but Ollie was younger and stronger. And right now, Gideon, pilled and liquored up, just didn’t have the strength to get by him. Grudgingly, he conceded.
“Awright!” he grumbled. “You get his ass back in here ... and with a different attitude!”
Ollie spun and disappeared out the door. Gideon watched him disappear down the steps, suddenly feeling very old and deflated. He needed a drink, a real drink. Not this rotgut shit … something with some actual quality and taste, something with a label. Unfortunately, he had none.
Dejected, he walked over to the coffee table and picked up the jug of shine. Turning it up, he let the raw, tasteless liquid burn his esophagus as he chugged it down. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pain pill, his last one. It was supposed to have been a week’s prescription, but he’d gone through it in less than three days. He popped it in his mouth and took another healthy swig. When he lowered the jug, he shook his head and uncrossed his eyes.
“Damn, if this ain’t but a step above turpentine!” He wiped the sweat beads from his forehead with his forearm. “You still wantin’ some of this here firewater, brother?”
There was no answer. Gideon took another swig. Damn!
Somewhere in all the commotion, big brother had slipped away quietly. He now lay still, staring straight up at the ceiling.
Gideon sighed, his shoulders slumping, “I reckon we won’t be having that drink, after all.”
Outside, he found Ollie sitting on the bottom step, watching the sun going down on the western horizon. The man heard his footfalls but didn’t even bother looking back.
“Josie dead?” he asked, though his tone indicated it could be as much a statement as a question.
“He awaits the Judgment,” Gideon answered in his resounding minister’s voice. Looking around, he asked, “Where’s that worthless son o’mine?”
Ollie
