IN THE gas station he stood at the pay counter beside a stand of menthol cigarettes and kept his busted hand to a pocket. His lip welled. He felt his heartbeat in it and then at his neck. The old man cashier kept at his newspaper and drank coffee from a short white paper cup. Terry heard a bell. The old man hunched forward and pressed a yellow button to start a pump.
He got a bottle of aspirin and two green and white packets of headache powder near the end of one aisle, soda from the cooler in the back, and he put them in his jacket. He saw a rich man named Nola Walker up front, standing, leaned elbows at the front counter and talking to the old man. He owned the junked car field and the dirt bike track, the textile mill where his father worked. He was the one that sold him the blue hatchback. Terry conjured the Bengal tiger pouncing and then eating Nola Walker. He conjured the howler monkey dancing on Nola Walker’s chest and banging a small tambourine.
Terry went back to the front of the store. He fingered a felt bag of polished rocks at a display shelf. Some of them came from mines, some were sifted from river dirt. He untied the string on top of the sack and held the rocks out and studied them. Some were green, some pink, some white and swirled. He moved them around in his palm, closed his fingers over.
Nola Walker pushed the door and went outside. The newspaper creaked a fold, again the gas bell. He checked at the cashier, stuffed two bags to his jacket with his good hand, and then he opened the door and hopped the curb.
His breath fogged. Nola Walker was near the pumps, leaned beside a tire. Terry walked fast, rocks clicking, jostled in his pockets on the aspirin and the soda. He put hands to quiet them, turned again on the rich man. Nola Walker raised up from the tire and glared hard at Terry, pinched his eyes a slit. Terry put his face down at the lot and went faster. He stopped and turned at him when Nola Walker yelled.
What? he said.
Nola Walker kicked the rubber hard, made steps at him and bore his eyes. Terry felt the air a high cold in his ears and at his head. Nola Walker looked at the holes worn white string at Terry’s knees.
Your momma can’t buy you any good pants? he said.
My mom hasn’t bought me pants in a long damn time.
You took something in there, he said.
Terry shook his head and didn’t say anything. He took hands from his pockets and held them up.
See? he said. I got nothing.
You think I’m dumb?
No.
He felt the bags in his jacket against his ribs.
Take it back, Nola Walker said.
I didn’t take anything.
You did.
You don’t even know me.
I know what you look like boy.
Not your boy
Terry put his eyes on the ground, and then back up.
You’ve got mange I bet, Nola Walker said.
Terry scratched one side of his head.
Whatever that means, he said.
He hated Nola Walker, his ridiculous and shined new truck, raised high on show tires, spitting gray from the pipes. He hated his glossed brown shoes with tassels on them. He hated his white pressed shirt. He hated his cursive initials on the cuffs. He hated his pretty fucking hands.
You don’t know a goddamn thing, Terry said.
Nola Walker pointed at him and took a step toward.
You like the police, he said.
I don’t even want these rocks.
Nola Walker turned from him and took a few steps toward the filling station; Terry’s head went hot, and light, and he could feel all his ribs, forearms beating, he didn’t know what else. He reached behind, at his belt, and pulled the empty gun. He held it low at one side, where Nola Walker could see, and spoke loud.
Right there goddammit.
Nola Walker held and turned around.
What?
I’m going to shoot you in the head.
Nola Walker looked at the gun stuck out and then he stayed at Terry’s face. He put up his hands. Terry took a big step, poked the barrel at him high and shoulder level. Nola Walker’s head dropped some, face scrunched in what looked a cry
Don’t fucking move, Terry said. I mean it. Turn around.
He kept his hands up and turned his back slow to Terry.
Keep that way.
The back of his head went a nod and Terry kept the nose on him.
Come on now. I won’t say anything. I won’t.
Start counting goddammit.
He nodded again and whimpered the first number.
Terry put the nose at the back of his head, the dip where neck met skull, and he pressed it hard. His back raised and bent with his fast breath. On his stuttered number five Terry pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked dull plastic. He felt Nola Walker clench and then stop counting. He kept the gun.
Keep going, Terry said.
Nola Walker started crying faster, and more.
I guess you better pray if you do that sort of thing.
He got slow to twelve; again, Terry pressed the trigger.
Terry ran from Nola Walker and the parking lot and didn’t stop until his ribs screamed a cramp. He stopped at a small bridge over a creek. He took the gun from his pocket and bobbled it, and it fell at the ground, and he bent and gathered it up, swept dirt from the rough handgrip. He held it an arm over the water, and then he pulled it back. He took the jacket off, used one sleeve as an oven mitt and wiped it down. He held it over the rail and let it fall on the black water.
He woke flatback near a small table and no light in the room. Head stilted, he wore his jacket still. The rotary phone shook at a ring and feet stomped the wood near his head. His eyes dumb at the quick dark, he blinked hard. The phone slammed, the plastic base cracked. He blinked again. His father paced the room to the front door and went out to the backyard.
Terry slapped his cheeks one at a time, wagged his head and got to his elbows. He went over to the window and looked out to the yard, night wet, a yellow tint. His father lifted a shovel and swung it high through a floodlight and down. The square head cut the dirt. He was not digging, but wanted only to hit something hard. He did it once more, then left the wooden handle and walked rings around it and panted steam. Sweating in the cold dark Benjamin Webber looked the leftovers of a dogfight. Terry slouched below the window, back to the wall. His head went a waking dream; a bear sat nearby in the room and turned at him, and the two locked eyes. Outside the engine turned, wheels backed fast on the drive.