part0007

They began to lift the cooler when a black pick-up truck with oversized wheels and gold-plated wheel covers sped through the marina gate. The parking lot became a haze of dust. Loud music blared out of the windows as the truck did a donut and then pulled up to the marina office. The driver shut the engine off and climbed out.

With greasy black hair and a gut already forming from weekends of beer that weren’t supposed to happen until college, Kevin Shelby hopped out of his truck and spotted Robin and Trist.

“Yo, Trist!” Kevin shouted.

They set the cooler down.

“Hey, Mr. N,” Kevin said to Robin.

Robin stared at him for a moment and then gave a short wave.

“Trist, man. You comin’ out to Johnny’s tonight? It’s gonna be legend.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Trist saw Robin glaring at him. “Not sure. Might be busy. Let you know later.”

Kevin gave a nod then raised his right hand to his ear gesturing Trist to call him.

Robin wondered if Trist was seeing Rachel again.

The door to the marina office opened, and marina owner Ralph Shelby walked out.

“Get the fuck in here, useless,” he said to Kevin.

The Norrises turned away. Ralph Shelby latched on to Kevin’s arm, opened the door to the office, and pulled Kevin inside. Muffled shouting could be heard for a few moments, then a door slamming, then silence.

“I don’t want you hanging out with that kid,” Robin said.

“His old man’s a jerk,” Trist said, “and a drunk. The inside of that office smelled like a brewery when I was making the call to mom.”

“That may be true, but I still feel the same.”

Trist picked up a stone and then watched it sink into the water after he let it go next to the dock. “Kevin never really had a chance.”

Robin thought for a moment. “Not much of one. Maybe he’ll figure it out one day.”

“What?” Robin asked.

“You know that’s not going to happen, Dad. He’s already gotten a DUI. His old man thinks that he just drinks.” Trist paused. “But he’s already moved on to harder stuff.”

“Like what? Pot?” Robin said.

“Mostly. He sells it by the tennis courts in the park. ”

“So that’s why I see his Camaro parked there.”

“You seeing Rachel again?”

“Wha—What? Where did that come from?”

Robin looked down at the cooler and duffel bags still on the dock. “Let’s get these up to the parking lot. Mom should be here any minute.”

After they moved the gear, Robin locked the boat and joined Trist in the parking lot.

“Trist,” he looked at Kevin’s truck and then back at Trist, “you don’t do any of that stuff do you?”

A forest green suburban drove through the gate.

“There’s mom,” Trist said, and he grabbed a bag and started walking toward the SUV.

Darwinger's Gas Station was the Norris’s routine stop traveling north on US-23 out of Hampstead en route to their house. Two pumps and you paid inside the general store. Propane gas refills were half-off. The general store had four booths where locals congregated every morning for coffee and gossip under the auspices of Lloyd Darwinger Jr. and his wife, Jessie. ‘Little Lloyd’ had inherited the business when Lloyd Sr. had packed it in twenty years ago. Little Lloyd was fifty-two now and Lloyd Darwinger III—‘Baby Lloyd’—was slated to take over in ten years.

The Suburban followed the road around a bend, and the woods opened up on the right to show the water. The wind had died, leaving the water a calm flat sheet of blue. On the left-hand side of the road the familiar ugly rectangular sign painted in bright orange with green letters spelling Darwinger’s —which the locals complained about but would be even more upset if the coloring ever changed—came into sight. Twenty yards up the highway from the sign were two thirty-foot Native American Totem Poles side-by-side. Various faces and shapes were carved into them, and the poles were freshly painted in red, blue, purple, gold, and white. A North American Indian artifacts store had once stood next to Darwinger’s but had been leveled by a tornado five years ago. When the owner decided not to rebuild, he left the Totem Poles and told Little Lloyd that he could do with them as he wished. The poles remained, and select members from the battalion of Darwinger nephews painted them each May before the summer season.

Across the road from the gas station was a boat launch and a rickety dock also owned by the Darwingers. Little Lloyd had offered Robin the opportunity to keep his boat there, but Robin had declined, as he couldn’t be sure from day to day if the dock would still be there.

Levana slowed the Suburban and turned in. Despite being almost 40, Robin thought—half proud and half jealous—she refused to age. When asked to describe her looks, Robin answered, “Just imagine someone reaching into the movie screen and pulling the gorgeous woman ‘George’ out of the arms of Clint Eastwood in The Eiger Sanction and placing her into mine.”

The Darwingers had never paved, and gravel popped under the tires as she swung the vehicle next to a pump.

Trist stretched in the back. “Mom, can you get me a Vernors when you go in to pay?”

“Dad’s going in, Tristian,” Levana said.

“Oh,” Trist said.

“You want a Vernors or not, Trist?” Robin said opening his door.

Robin turned to Levana. “You want anything, baby?”

“No, thank you.”

“Be right back,” Robin said.

As he walked around the side of the Suburban, he could hear a fan blowing through the open door of the gas station and the murmur of voices. He inserted the nozzle and began filling up. There was no one else outside the station. US-23 was dead. A pick-up parked by the Totem Poles was empty but still running. Quiet day, quiet town. He never regretted living in Hampstead. No worries about people stealing your truck while you dashed in to get a six-pack.

Robin removed his Detroit Tigers baseball cap and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the sleeve of his T-shirt. A cold glass of lemonade would hit the spot. He put his cap back on and watched an old man and a boy make their way out to the end of the Darwinger’s dock. The man was carrying a fishing rod and a five-gallon bucket; the boy was wearing a yellow life jacket and had a Fisher-Price rod in one hand and a bright red lunch box in the other. A memory of going fishing with Trist began to emerge, but he grabbed it and shoved it far enough back to where he could not see it.

The pump clicked off. After glancing at the damage on the screen, he put the nozzle back and screwed on the gas cap. The sound of abruptly raised voices pulled his attention to the open doorway. The townies that were piled into the booths drinking coffee were all putting their heads down on the table. Robin saw a man, whose head was almost level with the doorway, holding a burlap sack and pointing a gun at Little Lloyd Darwinger—backing him toward the cash register. Robin sprinted toward the building.