What This River Keeps: A Novel

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR S omehow Ollie lived through Sunday. Normally he wouldn't have heralded such an accomplishment, but considering how many times he studied his black eye in the mirror and how many minutes he thought about Summer, he felt damned lucky his head hadn't exploded. And he'd done it without calling her once. He planned a speech to deliver over the phone when she called, but she didn't. That surprised him, but ifshe wanted to play hardball, she was messing with the wrong guy. He'd gotten drunk all day and listened to his heavy metal tapes. He practiced conversations with her, delivering his lines to the walls. When he woke the next morning, his neck was bent over against his shoulder, and he was still on the damn couch. It was twenty after six. He stood up, said shit twice, and went into the bedroom to put on his work clothes. As he walked outside the grass was wet with dew and that was one more thing that pissed him off. Ray Jackson said something about his eye right away, now even more swollen and as purple as eggplant. It hurt like a bitch. Ollie let on that he didn't feel like talking and Ray dropped it. He'd bring it up again at lunch, but for now they were content pulling and stacking boards, letting the morning fall slowly around them. It was going to be a long enough day as it was. The dust flew into their eyes and mouths. Ollie felt like he'd eaten an old T-shirt for breakfast. When work ended what seemed like eighteen hours later, he got in his truck and drove out of the little gravel parking lot. Without really deciding to, he took the county roads out toward the old home place. It was exactly the wrong time to do that, but part ofhim wanted to shove his black eye in their faces. Maybe he'd make them feel a little guilt for once. Funny how familiar this road was. He recognized everything, even though he hadn't driven this way in weeks. Fescue clumped up around the stop sign, reaching so high it almost covered the message, and he thought about how it always did that in late summer. Those big orange flowers were blooming in the ditches again. The silver maple tree in front of the house this side of his parents' still bent its branches in the same pattern. Shade fell in the same places. He slowed to turn into the driveway of what had been his home. If he'd been more careless, if he'd been in more of a routine, he might've driven right into the chain. But since he was looking closely at everything again, he saw the barrier before he smashed the bumper into the heavy links. Not that the front of his truck could be screwed up worse. He assumed that the chain was meant for him. "Oh screw you," he said. 175 176 Greg Schwipps He sat there and stared at the chain and posts. Pretty heavy duty-six by six posts set in concrete and a logging chain as thick as his wrists. The old man sure as hell intended to keep him out. Now Ollie really wanted to shove his face into theirs. Sure, it'd been a while, but who put up a chain to keep his only son away? He pulled into the ditch along the road and killed the engine. They could stop him from driving, but a man could still walk. He noticed the old man's truck was gone. Out fishing, probably, running around with Chub. It'd be better for everyone ifhe saw his mom alone. Ifhe wanted pity, that's where he'd find the purest dose. The driveway was soft with putty-colored mud, the gravel smashed under decades oftruck tires. He'd done his share, coming and going. The old house needed a coat ofpaint, and the front porch sagged a little. He'd never noticed that before. Why hadn't his dad kept up on stuff around here? It'd been a good-looking farm, back when he was growing up. Still he walked. Damn, he didn't remember the drive being this long, but then he rarely walked it. The late afternoon sun was strong and hot on his back. He touched his face. He'd had other black...