Deep Wood - Margot Scott Page 0,3
I hitchhiked with a lady who did nothing but talk about original sin for twenty miles. After that, I walked, and I have been walking for the past three hours. My feet are ground-fucking-beef.”
Something in the way her brow crimps when she’s pissed hits me like a tidal wave of déjà vu. Caught in her gaze, I feel like I’m drowning, and for some reason, I can’t help picturing Jack. He always took injustice so personally, especially when we were kids. He just couldn’t accept the fact that sometimes, people are dicks.
“Sorry,” I tell the girl. “I can’t help you anymore.”
“Can’t or won’t?” She scowls. “You know what? That’s fine. You’re obviously not the kind of guy I thought you were.”
She marches back to the store with her bag of groceries and takes a seat on the steps of the small front porch. I start my truck, keeping the window down to let in some fresh air. Already, I feel the effects of the energy shot kicking in. The twitchy fingers. The racing thoughts.
Don’t look at her, I tell myself. There’s no fucking point. It’s time to get back on the road.
But as I shift into reverse, my gaze snaps back to the girl on the steps, sitting cross-legged with her shoes off. Even from a distance, it’s obvious her feet are killing her as she rubs them.
I’m struck by the memory of a different girl, playing barefoot in the grass. After my falling out with Jack, I moved out of Tennessee and got a job with a real estate company. In Wisconsin, of all fucking places. I put on a suit and traded my work boots for oxfords. My own dad hardly recognized me when I came back for Christmas.
That was the last time we saw each other before a heart attack took him out.
Jack had the nerve to show up at my dad’s funeral, with his wife and kid in tow. He tried talking to me after the service, but I wasn’t interested in making amends with guy who’d sold my dad’s last gift to me to buy coke. I went outside to avoid making a scene, and that’s when I noticed Jack’s little girl playing by herself on the lawn, not ten feet away from the road. She must’ve been five or six, small for her age, with big feet and unruly hair the color of almond skin. I watched as she peeled off her shoes and socks and thought, someone should be looking after this girl. But she wasn’t my kid, so she wasn’t my problem. And instead of going to sit with her in the grass, I got in my Lexus and drove off.
Which is exactly what I need to be doing now.
Shaking off the memory, I put the truck in drive and peel out of the parking lot.
My pulse gallops as I lean on the gas. Trees fly past in a blur. I crack my neck and settle in for the last leg of the drive. A moment later, a thought surfaces like words whispered in my ear. What if you hadn’t driven off?
What if I had sat down in the grass across from Jack’s little girl and introduced myself? What if I’d helped her with her shoes, taken her hand, walked her back inside, and listened to what her dad had to tell me? Maybe we could’ve patched things up.
Or, maybe I could’ve been there for him when he needed me.
When I asked Jack Benson’s lawyer how my old friend had died, the lawyer said he’d been killed in a bank holdup. Apparently, the killer was still at large, as were his accomplices.
There’s no guarantee that things would’ve gone down differently had I been there. Maybe we’d both be dead right now. But growing up, nobody ever tried to fuck with Jack, because they knew if they did, they’d have to fuck with me. It wasn’t just that I was taller and stronger. I’d come from a rougher part of town, where I’d learned early on how to throw a punch, and more importantly, how to take one.
Jack, ever the conscientious objector, had no talent for, or interest in, learning to fight. The day a robin broke its neck crashing into the cabin’s screen door, it was Jack who’d insisted we give it a proper burial. When my dad first introduced us to catch-and-release fishing, Jack took one look at the blood on the fish’s mouth and refused to touch the rod.
It’s amazing