DELL JUNIOR STREAKED AND hambone-hamboned, and Rick and Pam and Anna were all together, all in one place, one-two-three. Here—where they’d had the picnics. The old, dilapidated house with the porch roof coming loose, where Mom said what color she’d paint the rooms, what drapes she’d hang in the windows. The place was here on the highway all along. Passing as many times as he had, Rick had never known it. But now, looking at the house head-on, he did. He’d be damned.
The chrome of the cop car in front of him lit with sparks from the pickup’s headlights, and the world was all banners and gleams better than any fireworks show. Rick took a moment. To soak it all in. Revel in it. Because it was the little things. You had to take time once in a while to revel in the little things.
That said, Paul was here, hunkered down high above the earth. Paul was here, and they needed to have a word.
The pickup door opened with a scream that burst in Rick’s ears. He left it open so it wouldn’t scream again and grabbed the gun so it wouldn’t be in the cab with Anna and Pam. They’d be safe from it. He jumped down, clutching it, then thought of the cop. Rick didn’t want the cop to misinterpret the gun. Cops did that. He called up to Paul. “Where’s the cop?”
“Thanks for bringing my truck, asshole.”
“Is he with you? If he’s with you, can you tell him—” Rick thought about what all he needed to tell the cop. “Tell him Anna’s fine. Anna’s right here. Tell him—say I’ll pay back Bowman for the gas. And I brought your pickup. The drugs are gone, though.” Rick had pitched the last of the pills on the embankment. One less thing to worry about, and he didn’t need them anymore anyway. “Tell him the drugs are gone.”
“Yeah, I bet.”
Rick blinked. “I took your drugs.”
“Yeah. Gathered. Put the gun back, you idiot.”
“Anna’s in there,” Rick said. He couldn’t put it back with Anna in there. If Paul had kids, he’d know that. Paul needed some kids. Paul needed some perspective. Some ducks in a row. “You and me need to settle this. You can’t—it was the same thing with Dell Junior’s bike.”
“Whatever you’re talking about, now’s not the best time.”
Hambone-hambone-hambone.
“Stop it.” Rick swatted with the barrel.
A voice called out behind him. It was Pam. “Harley, he’s got a gun,” she said.
“You need to go home,” Paul said. “Take the pickup. Turn around and go home.”
Rick’s voice broke. “My own fucking wife?”
“What?” Paul said.
What did he mean, what? “On my sheets. You stank up my own sheets.” His voice caught on the last word. Light sparked off the skin around his eyes. The light made it hard to see. “Brut stink on my own goddamn pillow.”
“Harley,” Pam said, this time like a warning, teeth clenched. Rick wondered if the word should’ve meant something to him. It didn’t.
Someone said Rick’s name. The voice was too deep to be Paul or Pam or Anna, not deep enough to be Dell Junior’s hambone. Rick couldn’t see where it came from. Not with all the sparks and streaks.
Paul was talking again, but he’d sat up bent-kneed and leaned forward. “I took a nap there, you dumbshit. After I got out of jail. I took a fucking nap.”
Rick had to think. Why was Paul telling him this? The stink. A nap? A nap didn’t explain how nothing was something. “What about the blond number and my leftovers and me not seeing like a gift? You didn’t fuck my wife, what about all that?”
“Boy, you need to pass the fuck out.”
That was probably right. Rick probably did need to pass the fuck out.
“You need to go home, right now, and pass the fuck out.”
A warble. Not a honk. A warble. A trilling warble.
That was why Paul was here. Paul found Mom. She was here. The picnics. Because this was where they’d had the picnics.
“Mom?” Rick called out.
“Rick,” Paul said. He sounded tired now. He looked it, too. He was rubbing his eyes. It was late. Rick bet everybody was tired. He sure was.
“Harley.” Pam punched the air with her voice.
“What’s Harley?” Rick shouted back over his shoulder. “Who you talking to, Pam?”
Nobody said anything. Nobody besides Dell Junior’s hambone.
“Rick,” the deeper voice said again, and Rick saw where it came from. Past all the sparks and streaks. In the cruiser window was the top of a head. The cop. The cop could see him, and Rick was holding the gun. Rick thrust his arms high, held the gun well above his head. Good to let the cop know he wasn’t planning to use the gun. He was just keeping it from Anna. From Pam. Keeping them safe. Rick always said: you did whatever you had to, where family was concerned.
Harley.
Rick remembered now. The cop had said his name was Harley. He’d said it when he’d yelled for Pam to open the door.