Cordell 6

There was this high school boy two houses down, Oliver Dean, who had a rugged, hardluck, sexy look. The type who smoked Camels in the sunshine, shirt off, while his mates shot hoops next door. A boy who had a trail of dark hair from his button belly down past his belt to a place that you blush tangerine. The type who looked right past a skinny twelve-year-old as if he was just cotoneaster rooted in the lawn.  

About month, Jeremy Gates has eyes for Oliver. Not serious eyes, just checking the crabgrass on the lawn eyes hoping Oliver would cruised by. Jeremy strips the baggy, white and green Bobcats singlet off his tween-summer tan, Oliver’s cast-off roach bitter on his lip, shoot hoops at that self-same basket, eyes on the mysteries of the Dean’s front windows. Maybe Jeremy yearns for a sexy, hardluck word tossed his way. Jeremy rides his bike past the Dean’s, does all that stuff. Leaves his shirt off all the time, wants the treasure trail.

Grayson Gates would not think his son would like Oliver Dean. He thinks his sparkling-tangerine Remy-Gray 2.0 update knows better. Remy is wiser. She has seen Jeremy Gates pet Rottweilers from his stroller. Watch heart-in-throat as her Jem climbs break-your-neck heights in the park. Remi knows her boy. Knows the fear-nothing, boy’s gotta walk on the wild side of Jeremy.

But Jeremy is a sensible boy (most days). Shane-sensible in his friendships. Greyson Gates’ best friend at work confides his envy. He has two daughters. “You have a son, you only have to worry about one prick. You have daughters, you have to worry about every prick in town.” Crudely put, but Remy would agree. About a month, Jeremy Gates has eyes for Oliver.

He is good looking in his way. Fourteen can see this. Brunette bangs brush dark eyebrows, tickle the lashes of his dark eyes with silky threads. The eyes are open-watchful, never quite focussed on Fourteen. The new teenager seems focussed on some inner space, some extra depth that makes Fourteen feel young and inexperienced under his gaze. Fourteen decides it is a gentle gaze, a listening gaze. Liquid-fire eyes, Fourteen concludes.

Something comes from the father. The proud straight nose, strong chin, clean line of jaw. Samuel Faulkner always strikes Fourteen like the cliffs he climbs with Keon; worn down like a hard-used rock and roll legend, one of the legendary Rolling Stones perhaps. Serious mileage like Levi Fisher and Malcolm King, run up on a younger carriage. Cordell is seventeen (says Inez) going on John-hard twenty-seven. Very like Samuel, Fourteen concludes, cock-hard like his father but young-sexy.

Fourteen is not Keon-twelve, but the shirts are off on the clay court Malcolm King stamped out for the Montreal boys. It is two on one. Vondell picks Fourteen to make himself look good. Keon plays street-hard, which suits Fourteen just fine. Keon is winning Twenty-One, so Fourteen fouls him with a scoop about his waist. Bear-hugs his prize while Vondell strips the ball away. Three tries, then Vondell sinks the winning point.

Fourteen is not shy-twelve now. He steps up to the new teenager to grab his shirt, smiles an invitation to the sexy boy.

“So, you're the newcomer?” Cordell begins.

“Hardly,” Fourteen answers. “I'm the visitor.”

“Cool,” Cordell echoes Fourteen’s cautious tone. “I'm a visitor too.” It is like he dropped the missing cigarette and ground it in the dirt.

The younger teenager is it bafflement to Cordell. All his father will say is that the boy is a damn nuisance. “Some runaway Old Man King got saddled with,” is all Inez will say. Beyond sleeping with the brothers, the boy seems more a visitor at the Montreal's house. When Cordell comes by to visit Inez, he finds the boy cooking chicken and rice with Angela, chattering at each other in Español Mexicano.

“Fourteen?”

“Fifteen,” Fourteen answers.

“No, I mean the name. Your name is Fourteen?”

“It suits me.” No further explanations given. Cordell is oddly taken with that answer. The kid, and he is such a kid, seems less immature, less soft.

“Where are you off to?”

“Just off for a walk.” Fourteen has his own curiosities about this older boy. He has heard the name dropped often, wears his clothes, yet Cordell and Inez’ oldest brother Marco are rather Tuan-like-ghosts in his mind. Empty places at the dinner table, as Levi is at every turn, as Fourteen imagines he is in Chillicothe.

Fourteen finds his shirt. Sweat chills, but he holds the tangerine hoodie in one hand as Keon cages an illicit game of Halo 2 on Asher’s internet-orphan xbox. Don’t ask, don’t tell the video game crave in the King home. Three years in the Pueblo has not crushed the boy’s addiction. Fourteen understands. He turns on Makayla’s iPod just to watch the screen glow. Keon would take it on their next weekend out, sync my inbox. It is a new thought.

“Mind if I come along?”

Mind not at all, Fourteen shrugs shyly, pleased with this young man's interest. They walk in silence toward the mystery of Samuel Faulkner’s van-stash of drug-bricks. The weather has been dry, so Fourteen walks light in his Albuquerque running shoes. Today, Fourteen has no destination.  

“I know this box canyon like the back of my hand,” Cordell offers. At ten, with Inez and Asher tagging along, this was his kingdom. Cordell points to the fissure in the wall of rock. “Just up there, past the trees, there is a rift that cuts right through this canyon wall. It’s kinda cool. Snow blows in, but we are getting past that now.”

“What’s it like on the other side?” Fourteen turns his head so he can read Cordell’s response.

“More of this.” Cordell answers-bitter.

“It is beautiful.” Fourteen cannot read Cordell. Does he know about the drugs? He has to know. “Summer must be beautiful.”

“You melt in the summer heat.” Cordell laughed. “Frickin blast furnace in the sun and the shade is an oven. Anyway, everywhere is like this.”

“Not Ohio.”

“I mean Arizona and New Mexico.” They are close to the fissure, but Cordell has another memory-destination on his mind.

The boy beside him is Arizona spring. Fourteen is Prickly pear yellow-red hoodie swinging by his side. He trips light-foot, an early meadow carpet of poppies, lupine, and owl clover. Spring is spectacular in the box canyon. Beauty is brief. Then it fades to the ugly sameness of pop’s Pueblo. The Three Amigos, the Hole in the Wall Gang. Pop’s joke through the first winter, “I’m Butch Cassidy, you’re the Sundance Kid.” Raindrops kept falling on their head that first Pueblo winter.

♪♫♬ But that doesn’t mean my eyes will soon be

Turning red ♪♫♬

‘Cause I’m never gonna stop the rain by

Complaining

Because I’m … ♪♫♬

Nothing’s worrying me. Cordell finishes. Sundance Kid till Dakota left them. Then Cordell was the hole in the wall and he stopped calling Dakota Faulkner momma. “Because I’m free.” It breaks a companionable silence between the boys.

“What?”

Cordell finds a laugh and a grin. He likes the matching smirk from the only new thing at the Pueblo. “I’m just thinking of San Diego. It is a do your own thing, cool there. Reach out and get anything. San Diego is a trip.” Which is, as it turns out, the problem. Cordell sets the thought aside. Pretty Boy is the new thought on Cordell’s mind. ♪♫♬ Nothing's worrying me … ♪♫♬

Cordell has turned them so they are walking towards the spot where Inez took his virginity. Just a private spot from their childhood. Special, not-special for Cordell, a Pueblo first time fuck like killing his first deer with pop’s. They took it back to the Barn where Inez made a bed in the loft. That was where she fucked him sweat-greasy, salt-stinging like the ocean.

They planned their escape-adventure in that loft. Seventeen and fifteen, still using the loft because Cordell slept in the round house and Inez slept beside Asher. By then, Cordell could make Inez string obscenities like a rapper. Fuck cunt and work it out together. Marco  and Inez could stay in Phenix. She liked that idea. Cordell was pop’s son. They would have to run much farther. Next time, run free, nothing worrying me. Cordell promises himself.

“Years of running around this place. Is there anything you're looking for in particular?”

“The fastest way out of here. I found some trails. They are mostly animal tracks, I suppose. You have lived here all your life.” Inez was born here, Fourteen knows. The thought of Remy home-birthing with Grayson’s help is unthinkable, literally unimaginable for Fourteen’s young urban mind.  

“Sometimes it seems like that,” Cordell interrupts. “Mom and Pop's brought me here when I was ten. We lived in Las Cruces, then El Paso.” Shitty ass trailer, solar oven sweat box, Cordell remembers.

“Long enough, I guess.” Fourteen continuous, “So you must know the closest town, the closest road?”

“Old Man King started this place. Made arrangements with the locals, that’s what pop’s says. On the QT.”

“On the QT?”

“On the quiet. Pop’s says this squatting is not strictly legal. That means it is not at all. Someone’s looking the other way. That’s what pop’s says. Poppa likes it that way.”

Fourteen considers this. It helps explain why Malcolm King has him pinned down. He is going to have to walk out bobcat brave if he is ever going to jackrabbit.

“I don't think the Three Amigos were looking for neighbor's. There is the canyon road out. If you walk far enough, you can see some stuff. If you hit the right moment, you can catch some off-road traffic. They like to hide themselves out here. Not me, I'm done with this place.” This last part comes with a bitter intensity that matches Fourteen’s heart. “You want to get out to don't you?”

Fourteen is letting Cordell lead them. He just follows the older boy’s turns, feels a touch on his elbow signalling the next direction. They are moving toward the center of the canyon floor, climbing away from the water. They are past Fourteen’s jogging track.

“Where did you go?” Fourteen wants to ask why he came back. No one talks about that. Probably, he guesses, The older boy came back to see his family. That would be Fourteen’s reasons.  

“I went to San Diego.”

“Not Los Angeles, not San Francisco?” San Francisco still captures Fourteen’s imagination. After listening to Levi, he knows he will complete the pilgrimage someday. Stonewall Inn, I’m going to Greenwich Village too. Maybe when I’m ready, Da Nang. El Hajji Gates … Fourteen smirks with satisfaction.  

Cordell catches the twitch of Pretty Boy’s mouth, a flash of humour that will not blink away when their eyes meet. Papa told Cordell this kid is a runaway. My age when Inez and I left. Maybe like Cordell, this Kale was born to run. Fifteen, but he carries himself like he is a twenty-something Twink. He is eye-catching, Cordell decides objectively.

“Los Angeles is traffic, pollution, masses of angry people. My friends told  me San Diego is manageable. Tijuana makes it double the fun. Have you been to Mexico?” Fourteen shakes his head. “Roberto’s Taco Shop, carne asada burrito. Fish taco’s?”

“I miss fish.” Fourteen confesses.

Ruby-Leigh checked the breadbox and frowned. It stuck in her craw to admit she had come to rely on the Morman to bake bread with Angela Montreal. Since Angela had taken to making 100% rye sourdough, the King family had been delighting in the Morman’s preference for bleached flour. He dropped his many contributions off regularly without prompting. The two adults left it to Keon or Vondell to offer praise or solicited some tasty preference. There was enough for lunch. She would have to visit Angela this afternoon. Hell freeze over before she went to the Morman and asked him to bake.

Malcolm King’s familiar tread broke into Ruby-Leigh’s thoughts. She closed the breadbox. “Boys say he is sulking in their room.”

“They say what?”

“Being all broody. Well, he and Asher were up in each other’s faces this morning. I heard that well enough myself. I don’t know what that pubie thought would come of that Inez giving up some booty. Don’t know what that woman sees in some shiftless fifteen-year old runaway freeloader.” Rubly-Leigh muttered-malice under her breath.

Honor de la familia hispana, Malcolm muses, only monogamy has not been part of the Montreal tradition, as Malcolm well knows. The boy’s Tom-cat hissing and scratching must be caused by something else. His daughter-in-law ruffled by a four-year spread between Fourteen and Inez, that was rich. Ruby-Leigh was seventeen when Keon came, Franklin in his thirties. Ruby-Leigh seems to have forgotten that. “I’ll talk to Fourteen.”

The boy is on the bunk bed staring at the repurposed lumber holding up the repurposed corrugated tin and its ethical load of Arizona dirt. The tangerine hood is shrouding his face. “How are you doing Fourteen?” The answer is a baleful look.

Malcolm tries to explain once more how much Jeremy could hurt his family. The police will think Malcolm and Ruby-Leigh are kidnappers. They will go to jail. Keon and Vondell will go into the system. A rotten system where the brothers will be separated, face abuse, turn to gangs like Franklin did. Malcolm asks Jeremy if that is what he wants for Keon and Vondell. “This might have been done differently, but sometimes we have to live with other people’s choices, even when we might make better ones ourselves.”

Fourteen is exhausted, too tired to argue he will keep the Pueblo’s secrets. This just goes round and round. Fourteen glares at the old man.

Malcolm sighs. I have had such a very long life, but these youngsters are different. They do not know how very unlucky they are in their existence. The dreams die. “You're angry I know, Why don't you come along with us?”

Fourteen just lies there on the lower bunk staring at the slats supporting the upper bunk mattress. His face burns as he thinks about the way Malcolm King expects him to simply fit into the Pueblo's routine. He is just expected to comply with this man's needs, but Keon is standing beside his grandfather now. Keon with that hopeful look on his face. Fourteen does not have the heart to disappoint him.

The three walk towards the shooting range. “You know,” Malcolm begins, “There are times when I'm so pissed off with life that I need to do something to get the anger out. I go out to the range and fire off some rounds. Maybe put the thing you hate down there on the target against the wall and get some satisfaction blasting away. Sometimes the sound of the gun shouts my anger. Maybe that's why men like guns so much.”

Fourteen has been to the range. It was one of the things you could do here at the Pueblo. Mostly he had tried rifles. The men at the Pueblo liked their guns, red-blooded Americans. Malcolm King even took a turn at shooting. Oh, but you could see his reluctance. Today there were no rifles. Malcolm had a bag slung over his shoulder. When they reach the range he pulls out a pair hand guns. He places them on the table along with headphones and a box of shells.

“They are not loaded,” he began. “Pick one up, feel the weight. Move it around a little bit, feel the drag on your wrist.”

Fourteen found the gun heavy. It did not have the featherweight of the Beretta Nano He had brandished in the Luxor Winnebago. It was too large to fit comfortably in his waistband as he had done in North Platte just to tease Levi. The memory makes him happy-sad. He holds an automatic.

When Malcolm orders, he slipped the clip free from it's chamber. Empty like Malcolm said. Fourteen slowly fills the clip letting the gun oil tickle his senses, feels the pressure of each round slide in. He thinks about standing by the stream touching Levi's Beretta Nano, thinking about pulling it out and threatening the old man. Just raise it now and pointed at Malcolm tell him that nothing matters except getting home. Fourteen cannot do that.

Kion is loading an old revolver. When he is done, he spins the weapon’s chamber as if he is an old gun fighter. Maybe he is the Buffalo Soldier. Keon holds it up, bends his wrist like he has seen his father do and holds it gangster style. Fourteen posed that way in the Luxor Winnebago while he waited for Levi. Keon gets playful. It is an exaggerated stone hard killer look on his face. “Step away!” he growls, letting the gun play left and right as if he wants to shoot one eye or the other.

“Yeah, you look bad Keon, but that's not the way to hold a gun if you mean to hit your target. You may scoff at the idea that how you stand has anything to do with how you shoot. But think of it as the foundation of everything. If you have a wobbly base, chances are, it doesn't take much to mess up whatever is on top.” Malcolm pauses to see if the boys are listening. He takes a breath. “And loud explosions and recoil have a way of messing stuff up. The main thing is to have a comfortable stance.” Malcolm demonstrates awkwardly on his prosthetic limb. “It takes you a little forward to manage the recoil.”

“Grip the gun as hard as you can.” Fourteen tries even though he thinks Malcolm is talking to Keon. He feels the tremble. “Not that tight Fourteen.” He eases up so the heavy weapon doesn't shake. “Pretty soon, you'll know just how much to squeeze. Now, you want the web between your trigger finger and thumb to be as high as possible on the grip to contain the recoil as the slide moves back and forth.”

“Keon you don't have that problem.” Malcolm adds. He is so serious as he gives this advice to the teenager. He pauses to think and then continues. “And because there's this piece of metal moving back and forth, you want your forearm in line with the gun to absorb more recoil.” Malcolm is patient with the angry boy. He is satisfied that the guns are a successful distraction. Malcolm stepped back to assess the teenager’s pose. “Now that you got your shooting hand grip correct, let's take a look at the empty space for your other hand.”

 Malcolm takes the gun from Fourteen and shows him what he means. “You want to fill it up with the other hand so that you maximize grip. It's sort of a 45 degree angle between your left hand and the gun slide.” Of course, in ‘Nam who gave a shit about the details. Police practice this to reflex. Fourteen is looking very determined. Young bucks like heat like they like stroking their meat. Guns give them a hardon.

Malcolm takes a moment to check on Keon. Good boy, he has the revolver on the table and his hands are behind his back. Keon meets his eyes and gives his grandfather a curt nod. Keon is the steady one. Malcolm turns back to Fourteen for a few last words. “Experiment, see what you like. Just go with what feels more natural as you try the gun.”

Fourteen takes the gun back, holds grip the way Malcolm has suggested, looks at Malcolm to see if he has it right. Malcolm gives a nod. When he holds it up, he finds himself bending his wrists just a little bit. he finds it keeps him steady. Kion is watching and listening as his grandfather coaches Fourteen with the automatic.

“Last thing, keep both eyes open. It might seem hard at first but it's better. Focus on the front sight. Put the gun down.”

Fourteen looks at the gun as Malcolm has a few words with his grandson about the revolver. He thinks it strips down the way Levi’s little Nano does. Then they put the ear protection on. The first round is not impressive. The rock backstop takes a punishment. Malcolm suggests they all need to step closer to the targets. Second round is better. Despite himself, Fourteen has to agree that Malcolm was right. Feeling the gun go off in his hand, seeing the black holes appear in the target, that is satisfying.

“Ammunition isn't cheap, but if you don't practice, then having a gun is not much use. I don't hold much with guns.” Malcolm looks at Keon, who knows very well why that is true. Guns are a sad fact about Keon’s America.

“So in the movies, they just blaze away.” Fourteen observes.

 “Blaze away and miss.”  Malcolm scoffs. “One careful shot is better than blind panic.”

“What about when you were a soldier Grandpa?”

“They taught me this. I never drew sidearm in combat. Hell I wasn't there long enough to do that. They made us practice, learn to do it right, learn to stay in control. Time comes when your body's hurt and your mind’s on fire with fear, you need to be able to hold yourself together. You need to be able to do what you need to do. God bless you. I hope you boys never have to come to that.”

“You live in America.” Malcolm says this to Keon. He can't believe that the privileged Jeremy Gates will ever bring him to a moment like his son Franklin faced. Malcolm stares silent messages at his grandson. When a bullet comes to take you down, most likely you'll never know where it came from.  I never saw this the man who took my leg. Franklin never saw it coming either. Malcolm just knows that.

The sound of gunfire has brought an audience. The first is Vondell who wants to take a turn. Following behind is Cordell. Fourteen senses him there, watching. This makes Fourteen more nervous. When they start to shoot the targets from the table, Malcolm's advice slips from his mind. he does badly.

“Change your stance,” Cordell suggests quietly. They exchange a glance and Fourteen brings the gun up. Cordell moves up behind him. So close. He wraps his arms around Fourteen’s shoulders, bringing his hands to the gun. Wrapping his fingers lightly around Fourteen’s grip. They spoon against each other slightly, legs brushing. Cordell’s breath washes across Fourteen’s cheek.

“Like this,” Cordell whispers in Fourteen’s ear. Keon fires first. Seven careful rounds. The two youths stand twined together as Fourteen fires off two rounds. They miss the mark, sending puffs of dust swirling off the rock cliff. Cordell steps back and somehow, his fingers seem to flutter up Fourteen’s arms to where they meet the flutter in his chest. Fourteen takes a deep breath. Then sends another round to the target.

“Another miss.” Malcolm notices. still, the boys are shooting just for fun. God willing, they will never go into combat like he did. Malcolm looks at his grandson wistfully hoping this time in Arizona will turn his grandsons in the right direction. Malcolm is desperate to keep Keon or Vondell from ending as their father did, dead on the streets of the Bronx.

They have a box of shells and nothing more to do today. Malcolm enjoys the chatter of the gathered boys as they laugh and encourage each other. Cordell takes a turn  with Keon's revolver. Samuel Faulkner has taught him well, each shot finds its way to the center of the target.

Fourteen lets memory of this tall-drink-of-water cowboy riding his back linger. Dark, maybe brooding, but Cordell has a smile that flutters a heart. Fourteen needs a heart flutter.

Men and women have the right to sexual pleasure without social or legal restraints. Free love, children. Today, divorce, bonus families, and couples choosing to live together rather than marrying in church or going to court. You need to understand. We need to consciously manage jealousy. Asher shares his toys with you Cordell. You need to control your anger when Asher plays with yours. It is like that here in our community. Your momma and I reject sexual and relational exclusivity. People are not property. Jealousy has no place in a deep, committed, long-term loving relationship.

Big words, confusing explanations for two boys somewhere around twelve. They were Roman’s words of course. The alcalde santuario Malcolm King would swallow his silent disapproval. “Live and let live” did not mean the old cripple condoned the goings on between the Montreal’s and Samuel Faulkner. Pops could care less about what Malcolm King thought. If anyone knew pops fucked his little boy’s face before Angela’s eyes turned his way, pops would tell them to mind their fucking business.. Pops did what he did. He would not bother explaining it to his own son, let alone Asher. This was Roman trying to break up a fight between the boys.

He might have really believed all that, Cordell allows. Roman might have believed all that about sexual jealousy, or he simply tried to convince himself, limp-dick pussy that he was. Angela and his pops were fucking by the time Cordell was twelve. There was not much secret about that. Roman and Marco had arrangements with Samuel, apple carts to not upset. Roman, Angela and Marco liked the drug deals, so it was free love at the Pueblo. Cordell figured his pops had the right of it. “Fuck it.” One of his favorite phrases. It had various utilities, Cordell had discovered.

The openness to free love did not stop Inez and Cordell from beginning their affair in secret. They hardly had to hide it. Cordell was just pubescent-shy. He was thirteen-horny, cock-oozing for it, but shy of the fanfare-audience. Maybe a little cautious free love did not extend Inez. It took San Diego to loosen Cordell’s corset, so to speak. After San Diego, Cordell would fuck on the public beach. Like Angela and pops, nobody said anything when Inez left him at the Barn, he left her wherever. Nobody said anything about the noises either. Montreal’s and Faulkner’s were married at the bank. Cordell and Inez just never knew how much that meant.

Angela and Roman certainly said nothing as they passed Fourteen sneaking out of Inez’ new addition. The boy left bare chested, old jeans hanging off his ass, T-shirt in his hand. Cordell heard their noises through door. He listened to Inez for a while, then decided not to go in. The wild child interests Cordell. There is something there in the back of his mind waiting to crystallize. It will come when it comes.

Samuel Faulkner’s shit is not the best. Pops does not science it enough. Strong only if you take enough, no interesting additives. The teenage boy seems to moonwalk slow mo in the chill darkness. The boy is sexualized. Cordell could lick Inez off with a slow strop of his dexterous tongue. Start along Fourteen’s wannabe abs. Pretty Boy vanishes into the King’s domain.

Inez is by the door she cut into the Montreal beehive. Plans to sluice fresh boyhood off her body. She freezes when he enters, contemptuous frown on her face. He is not who she expected.

“It’s just me.”

Inez turns toward Cordell. She sees the new weathering on his face. Stoned, cold, face sober, he is so like his father. Cordell is looking, not-looking at her naked body. She thinks about the funny boy, Kay. How he fills a space with his naked-proud body before he comes to her. She experiments with expanding her presence. Let the room become a stage. Kay would walk right by him, toss a look his way, stop at the jug of water, Don’t turn back until you’ve had a drink. She feels Cordell approaching.

“I missed you. All the time.” Cordell remembers that she loves his fingers at her thighs, trailing up to the waist, finger tipping on the swell of her breasts. Inez is the measure of women for Cordell. She made a man of him and showed him how to enjoy himself. “Ocean Beach Street Fair, chilli, I wanted you to share it with me.” The crush of people hustling beneath the palm-spires, Hodad’s, shoplifting Artists’ Alley, maybe Cordell missed her.

He drums down her belly to her sex, slides a finger in probing for the boy’s leavings. Inez chuckles, leans back so her lips are near his raspy cheek. “He uses a condom.”

Exclusivity, jealousy, Inez with others, it simply adds a necessary tension-heat between them. She chokes him he chokes her. Cordell lifts his Inez-anointed fingers to her throat, Pretty Boy was there too, tangled in the familiar scent. Cordell knows it is. Not the earnest spill. That lay somewhere latex-aromatic in a corner of her rounded room. Cordell can sense the boy’s rank musk wrapping around them in the eternal maraña orgia of the Pueblo. Cordell pulls her back to the bed. They are faithless companions and that has always been so hot, so utterly consequential to them both.

Afterward, Cordell goes back to petting her voluptuous curves as she lies comfortably against a giant panda Marco won for her when she was twelve. He had stepped out to piss against Inez wall. A nasty thing to do. Cordell is pissing on the three Amigos, the stifling Pueblo, or maybe Tom-cat marking his territory once again. Coming back, he stoops to pull Fourteen’s used condom from the shameful non-recyclables. He brings it like a trophy back to bed. They are faithless companions, there is no condemnation in fingering the still-motile tablespoon spill lubricating the latex.

“He thought he was gay.” Inez takes the balloon and three-points it back into the basket. “I suppose he was.” She tosses her head and accepts a hungry kiss from Cordell.

“Is he any good?”

Inez shrugs her shoulders. The question is unexpected. Since forever, the pair do not talk of other partners. When she straddled young Cordell the first time, he knew she was experienced, never wanted to know the five W’s. Being asked is a new thing for her. Fourteen is a new thing to her. Coupling with the fresh face amuses Inez, but there is nothing new about Kay’s young cocksmanship.

Once when Kay was deep inside her, he must have just cum, pausing to gather his scattered wits, she let a secret thought giggle free. “Minefield.”

“Minecraft? What?” The boy was puzzled, began to unconsciously move his slim boy-hips between her thighs, keeping the dream alive. She reached around to dig a nail into Kay’s virgin anus to reward-dominate him.

“Minefield,” Inez emphasizes. “A game on the computer. You have to capture mines by surrounding them.” The game is old, like the Montreal’s computer old.

“Like Go.” Fourteen responded quickly. His straight (curved) cock nuzzles in, wanting to be surrounded. “Levi showed me that game. Capture stones by surrounding them. Like that?”

Like that. Inez nods her head. Fourteen is a new thing for her. Cordell, all her partners since she was twelve, treat her like they conquer territory with their long spears. Take what is theirs. There’s that, Inez concedes, being taken. 

She begins reminding Cordell of why he came to her door. Her hand rough handles him, he has to give her something more. Capture mines, consume them, Inez smiles at Cordell. Cocks don’t take, they give. Kay, who frowns when she calls him Kay, Fourteen seems to understand that. Inez takes what cocks give.

“He thinks he is gay. Is he any good?”

Fourteen is good, but he is far too gentle. Sometimes you need to be taken. Inez smiles at Cordell’s fresh dripping need. “Just a boy still, thin, you know?” She leaves Cordell’s erection and tries to circle his wrist with her fingers. “No meat on him.” Her fingers spread Cordell’s hand. “His hands are big.” She seems to measure her own hand against Cordell’s. “He is long.” She adds suggestively. “His legs,” She adds. Cordell is heating up. Perhaps they should have talked about their partners more. Her hand returns to his angry purple cock. A man’s body now, almost; Marco’s body, Samuel Faulkner’s body. A body ready to take her roughly, press her down.

“No meat on him.” Inez compresses the hard shaft for emphasis. “Just a boy still, thin, you know?”

The sound of the ancient quad sputtering toward them makes Fourteen’s heart jump. It is a hard crash when he recognizes Samuel Faulkner on the seat. The poisonous lawnmower fumes reach the boys where they sit talking in the sunshine.

“You got it working again!” Keon calls out.

“Just a new part.” Samuel explains. The ATV is a surprise to Fourteen. He decides it should not be. The Pueblo is littered with the decades’ this or that, nothing thrown away. Malcolm had a Hemi, why not this? Second thought is obvious, I could ride that sucker right out of this box (canyon). If Fourteen can stick an ancient Jeep, he can ride this baby home to Chillicothe (or a Makayla-friendly truck stop with an Orange Julius).

Samuel has a small trailer attached. “I’m hauling wood. I need a hand this afternoon.”

“Sure!” Keon chirps.

“Not this time, Keon.” Samuel smiles as warmly as he can imagine. “Your buddy will do.”

Keon deflates at this. The unexpected is near extinct at the Pueblo. “So can we try it later?”

“Maybe,” Samuel concedes. “We’ll see.” The ATV is not popular. “Roman thinks we need a burro.” It is so stupid, Samuel knows. Roman and Malcolm stress the carbon burned to run the quad. The quad is mostly run to haul the inaccessible wood to burn their fires. There is no sense in this. “Next time, Keon. Haul ass kid.” Samuel adds to Fourteen.

The kid will come. Fourteen is boy scout like that. Earns his keep when he is not running circles, cub-packing with the King boys, playing Chef Ramsey, or fucking Inez. Fourteen stands watchful beside Keon, hands in Cordell’s castoffs, fingers framing his Inez-fucking junk. Samuel thinks of Roman’s daughter. He thinks of this skinny-ass weed mounting Roman’s daughter, this perpetual problem to them all. That Montreal bitch likes to be fucked good, needs to be fucked hard. That’s the complication for Samuel. He still needs Marco Montreal in Phenix. He needs Roman and Angela to mule for him. The Arizona desert gets to Samuel. It takes time to sell it off. It takes years. Never enough money till it is all gone.

The cocky jizz factory will come. Samuel can see the lust in the boy’s eyes. Fourteen wants the ATV badly. “Just climb on behind me.”

“No helmets?” The Boy Scout asks.

“Don’t be a pussy.” Samuel replies, and the quad jolts off so quickly that the boy has to grab the back of Samuel’s belt.

Fourteen has seen Samuel Faulkner’s grow operation. Funny how he has been kidnapped, boned by Patrick and John (still shuts down at the word raped), partnered-hot with Levi Fisher, all that, and what really worries him is stuff like his parents learning he is all-in-Fourteen gay. Then there is this next thing in his shame closet now. Mom finding out the Pueblo grows pot and he tries it with the Montreal’s.

Oh honey! We were so worried for you! Jeremy takes a long drag on Roman’s authentic Navajo pipe, blinks red eyes at his mom, slurs out, Quieres fumar de esta mierda? Esta es una bueno mierda, mama. It would go like that, Fourteen dreads. Angela is working on Fourteen’s junior high Spanish. Golpea el pan en el costado del horno firmemente, pequeno gallo. Little Rooster, Angela’s new nickname for Fourteen.

“Mostly for ourselves, but Marco sells it to help ends meet.” Roman admits. It is not the Ortman Family Greenhouse. Just one more thing tucked away in the desert hoping never to be found. Fourteen knows about Samuel Faulkner’s van-bricks, thinks there is more on the market than Arizona weed.

There is no wood to chop or haul at the plot under dull plastic. It is winter anyway, not much to see. Faulkner has a point to make. They barely coast to a stop before the next belt-clutching jerk sets the quad in motion towards the north-west corner of the Pueblo’s small world.

“Where are we going?”

Samuel understands the rest of the question. The boy has lumberjacked his frustrations on fresh wood, measuring muscles with Asher Montreal as if the crosscut saw was Inez tugging between them. “That is fresh cut. We burn seasoned wood. It comes from all over the place.” Forestry and Fire management would see the signals. A bed of lignite coal would be so handy, more solar panels would do the trick. Samuel will not buy those for the Montreal’s.

Deadfall is best, and clearing the understory never hurts. Samuel ends at a prime stack of ponderosa bookended by two trunks. Cordell cut this before he lit out, Samuel knows. The dwindling pile is a reminder every week. Samuel feels the boy slip away from his back. Having him close reminds Samuel of riding with Cordell. Another monkey on my back. Both teenage boys, in-your-face reminders of his horny lost youth. Stiff-leg eager to man-up to life, Samuel was that way too in his before. The boy waiting by the cord of wood is sort of uncertain too. Not enough after-punches have landed on his body. He does not know where they will come from yet, no life experience to harden him. It all takes time, Samuel knows, time and experience.

“Let’s fill her up.”

The trailer bed is small. Fourteen checks with his first load when he notices Samuel’s rifle in the way. It must have rattled over each bump along the way, but Fourteen was dazzled by the John Cannon moment of riding the hard man’s back. Maybe the flex of muscles beneath Samuel’s shirt recalled Cordell’s scent wrapping around Fourteen as the teenager showed him how to hold the automatic.

“I’ll take that.” Samuel Faulkner’s voice is gravel-soft. His fingers dig into Fourteen’s shoulder for an instant as he leans forward to retrieve the Model 70 from the bed of the little trailer.

Fourteen pauses a moment longer, logs clutched to his chest. Samuel Faulkner rests the long gun in the crook of his arm, eyes a thousand-yard stare off into somewhere, thinking something. Fourteen drops his first load carefully onto the bed. Goes back for more. The man just stands there with his rifle watching. Perhaps some grizzly will come crashing through the pinions, but Fourteen feels like a one-man chain gang. Samuel waits-patient for him to jackrabbit.

“Good enough,” Samuel decides when the trailer is neatly stacked with logs. Best Pueblo practice, the load will last a long time. It is getting warmer and fires are not recreational at the hidden hideout. Samuel uses propane and damn your complaints Roman. Angela swears by wood. Malcolm cooks electric like they all should. The boy is sitting on the pile, long adolescent spider legs dangling down. “Let’s take a walk.”

Fourteen is not liking the grimness of this situation. One thing to snuggle up to Keon, touch yourself with foolish-fevers of Samuel Faulkner cuffing away your cat-nips on a smooth rock. Grey pubes flashing as his Cordell-cock saws-dripping across a tight scrotum before plunging-hard-hard-hard back into your softness (pleasant dreams, Fourteen). Another thing when your in the now with this dangerous (drug dealing) man.

“Just up through those trees, between those rocks. I have something to show you.” I’ve dreamed your something-something, Fourteen replies silently. This is not friendly shoulder-bumping walk with Keon. Fourteen feels like he is on the Green Mile with this dangerous problem-solver. Fourteen is the Pueblo problem, Samuel will solve it with a Saturday-night-special solution. Fourteen will be Lovely Bones just short of Havana Canyon, on or off the Havasupai Indian Reservation.

Will he fuck me first? Then finish what Patrick and John started in Ohio? He knows I found his van. Fourteen stops and turns to face Samuel Faulkner. There is no prod from the rifle, no gruff threat, no old letcher checking out his ass. Samuel glances at him, then takes the lead. Fourteen follows.

It is stark beautiful. Fourteen has to admit this vista tops the view from beside the abandoned, not-abandoned van. A respectable cliff falls sheer to skree, slopes gravel rock strewn down to a second fall he cannot see. Past the second drop, Fourteen sees treetops sucking moisture from the runoff. Past that, the progression of thin, ground hugging Arizona forest stretches across a valley to fresh green-topped cliffs. Everything is russet, in winter-mode. Samuel walks to the edge and looks out over everything. Fourteen keeps his jackrabbit distance from the mangy coyote.

Samuel turns back to the wary boy. Samuel thinks about Fourteen’s sexual attractiveness. How pretty he is in early adolescence. Samuel has no interest in boys. Beside convenient faggots giving blowjobs, male sex is pointless and demeaning. But Fourteen is pretty. Pretty is pointless. Pretty is dropping a hundred thousand on an EV Bollinger when a 1993 Ford F-Series will do the job. Skinny-ass toothpick stares resentful toward him, shifting bright eyes to the view beyond. Fuck his face, only Samuel does not have the urge, no reason to. Seven years ago, I’d just do it. It is nice to know you can just reach out and take it though.

“About halfway, there is a fire road.” Samuel turns back to the view. “Last year, there was a big fire. It took out all that bush. Crews worked it, air drops.” Samuel motions for the boy to come closer. Waves a hand at the memory. “We came out here to watch at night. Unbelievable, for a while we worried it would come our way. Some day it will find us, the fire.” He adds. “The world is burning. Shit, the southwest always burns. Nothing new in that. We packed the trucks, ready to run.”

Fourteen realizes he can see the blackened trees off in the distance. He comes closer to the edge. A dusty cloud catches his eye. Someone moving down a road. The Pueblo must be bracketed by roads. A tiny pocket between the web that ties America together. How far is that? He wonders.

“Look over to the left.” Samuel points the direction with his free hand. “At night you can see the light. There is an old Forest Service watchtower. Still active, I would say. A boy might walk to that.”

Fourteen tries to see what Samuel Faulkner is pointing at. The now empty road is real, but what about the friendly tower? Fourteen cannot decide.

“You are a pain in the ass kid. You truly are. Malcolm does not understand the situation. Malcolm worries about his family.” There is a dry threat in Samuel’s voice. “I have a business to run, plans for the future. You are not going to risk the business. Roman and Angela like you, and be honest kid, you’re on the run from something you don’t like. I think you need to settle in like the rest of them. Take it easy, lay back and chill with Inez, cook your burritos.”

“And if that doesn’t suit me?” Fourteen asks.

Samuel hefts his rifle suggestively. “I suggest you try and walk out of here.” Samuel waves a hand. “Come closer to the cliff, I want you to see something.” This does not sound like a good idea to Fourteen. “Suit yourself. The only way down is here, I think. Pretty slick, spring ice here and there, maybe crumbly rock. A person could have an accident trying to climb down. So sad for all the people looking for him.” The rifle shifts into the other hand, finger along the trigger guard.

Fourteen is jackrabbit-ready to run. The Beretta Nano would be handy. The Pueblo is so open-carry casual, Fourteen should just pack it everywhere. His piece of the action. His reminder to all these men that young bobcats have claws. Would he do it if he could? Kill like John? Fourteen is not convinced. “I will take your word for it.”

Samuel smiles cold, smiles confidently. “Think things through. You seem clever. The Pueblo needs clever. Too much stupid in the world. We don’t need more stupid.”

Fourteen sidles to the right to let Samuel Faulkner pass. He keeps a good jackrabbit distance, eyes on the man’s movements with the rifle. Samuel stops to look at him again. “Still hours of daylight left, you like to run, go off by yourself. Take a run, why don’t you. I will just head back with the wood.”

Fourteen is left along the ridge, waiting. A rifle crack he will barely register before his heart is ripped out by Faulkner. His head explodes. His body dragged to the cliff edge and rolled down into whatever it was that Samuel wanted him to see. A cliff Samuel Faulkner does not think he can climb down. A walk towards another damn lie these men keep telling him. A chance to get out of here.

The long agony is finally broken by the sound of the ATV warming up. Finally, Fourteen walks to the cliff edge. The quad’s noise recedes toward the Pueblo and Fourteen is left to his choices.

Keon adds a couple of thick sticks into the fireplace, pokes the embers till they glow, then carefully closes the door. The adobe shed is warm enough but the older boys are not yet ready to snuggle under the covers. The added heat lets them sit skin-comfortable in the indeterminant hour. Fourteen sits watching, waiting. Keon bites his lower lip and scrambles on the bed. Vondell is snuggled in his upper bunk, the soft snores are real, Keon is wise to his brother’s ways. Keon watches him sleep, the time stretching out. The slightly parted lips are still. One hand lies along Vondell’s face, fingers brushing the cheek bone, small palm open.

Fourteen is somewhere at his feet, folded comfortably into Lotus. Keon’s bare toes would stub themselves on his friend’s shin. He is close enough for Fourteen to reach a hand under his fleece to tickle a bare side. Satisfied his little brother will not interrupt, Keon folds lightly on the bed beside his friend. Bend the head forward so the whispers can be passed between them. No waking Vondell, of course, but also this conspiratorial hush-excitement of the Hardy-Boy mystery they are sharing.

“So what happened next?”

“He’s standing there, watching me load logs on the trailer. I mean, the gun is right there on his arm like Daniel Fucking Boone. He has this mean look, like he’s set to fuck me up.”

“I know.”

“Exactly! Right?”

“So what happened next?” The excitement sparks between them. Young hearts kindling a hot-glow somewhere right between Keon’s fleece and the shabby hoodie Fourteen wears.

“So I’m like, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.” Keon giggles-giddy. White teeth flash in the campfire-cozy boy-shed. Fourteen’s hands hold the logs as he tells his story. “I’m like, just take a few at a time, stretch it out.” His voice stretches out the words. “So yeah, I’m thinking I lay down that last log and Faulkner is going to hand me a shovel next.”

“Holy!”

Fourteen starts digging white his hands, no words. “Faulkner is going to drop me in that hole, carve Killed a Boy, S Faulkner on a fucking tree trunk.” Fourteen’s eyes are wide with the horror of the thought. Keon matches him. Fourteen draws the moment out.

“Okay, he didn’t. What happens next?” Keon has to push against Fourteen’s chest. He has to wait while Fourteen pulls the heavy hoodie over his head. Story heat, the sensible wood stove, and something else is making it warm.

“Faulkner says I want to show you something.”

“He showed you his something-something?” Keon grins.

It is Fourteen’s turn to push against Keon. He grabs his head in a friendly scoop, pulls Keon closer and play-punches his soft-hard belly. “I’ll show you something-something.” They settle back. Fourteen’s bare torso white in the darkness. His underwear is now as shabby as the hoodie dragged across America. His fingers feel the thinness. There is Levi-money in his black bag, but he is not going to ask Angela Montreal to pick up a six-pack of tighty-whities. Keon’s fingers accidentally brush the new-dust of hair about his ankles. Sends an added shiver up Fourteen’s package.

“So now he has me walking up the hill to show me something. I’m not going to lie, I’m ready to piss my pants. I’m so sure he plans to smoke me from behind.” Fourteen ends with a deep breath. “There is this cliff. Faulkner has that Winchester resting on his hip. Shows me the big burn.”

“Oh!” Keon interrupts too loud. They both glance up at Vondell. “Grandpa showed me that. I know the place.”

“You look at the cliff?”

“No.”

“Faulkner is all, come stand by me boy. And I’m all, no thanks Dude, I’m fine right here. I figure I don’t want to bungee off that cliff without a cord. There’s me at the bottom, dead eyes looking up and Faulkner telling Malcolm the fool boy tried an icy cliff he could not handle.”

“So he did not shoot you, he did not push you off the cliff … did he try?”

“No,” Fourteen frowns thoughtful. “There was a road. I saw a truck, dust anyway.” Fourteen looks solemn-anxious at Keon. “He said there was a government tower close.”

Keon looks away, feels the stomach cramp he gets when Fourteen talks this way. Talks of leaving the Pueblo. Vondell is Vondell, he will always be there if his lazy-ass way and Franklin-temper-pride does not screw things up. That is grownup worries. Vondell is a kid still, and Fourteen fills the empty space the Pueblo gnaws in everyone who comes this way. Fourteen goes and the cliffs are going to be damn lonely places.

“I don’t know Jem. Probably, maybe, who knows? Grandpa said there was. The cliff looks high. You look at the cliff?”

“Yeah, so Faulkner tells me to get over myself, settle in like Cordell wouldn’t.” Fourteen has to think about the seventeen-year old, arms wrapped around his shoulders. The moment of heat between them. “Tells me I’m free to take a hike, points his rifle my way. It’s like he is saying, Go ahead, make my day.” Damn scope on the Winchester, Fourteen knows if he made it off the cliff, he could still be smoked as he jackrabbited around the open ground below. Oooh! There’s the road. Them something hammers him between the shoulder blades. “I’m in some post apocalyptic nightmare: Wasteland.” Fourteen nods significantly at Keon.

“He came back without you.”

“Made me walk.”

“Scary.”

“I guess not.” Fourteen decides. “There on the cliff, I figured Faulkner just wanted me worried.”

Keon starts slow-reluctant. The back of his fingers are touching Fourteen’s shin, like he wants to hold the teenager back from something. “You gotta be careful, Jem. I told you at the van, this is some dangerous shit we stepped into. Samuel Faulkner, I don’t know.” Keon looks earnestly at Fourteen. He is thinking about the darkness in the men who chilled with Franklin King. “You don’t know, Jem. You don’t know.”

Fourteen knows. He has looked jackrabbit frightened into John Cannon’s eyes, tasted the gun oil threat of a revolver wanting to orgasm in his mouth. He has spilled the bile of perfect understanding. Jeremy Gates knows.

“Samuel Faulkner is a bad man. Faulkners are cold, Jem. They are all cold.” Keon needs his friend to understand. Keon knows the streets are not just on the streets. The streets are in too many of the people you meet. “You’ll tell me if you go.” He lets his fear come out.

“Who knows?” Fourteen whispers, wondering.

“Who knows what?” Keon replies.

“The van, the whatever …”

It is Keon’s turn to pull his loose fleece off his heated body. The adobe walls trap in the slow heat from the tiny wood stove. Keon feels it build. He shifts against the wall, one leg bent so he can rest his chin on it. “Cocaine, it has to be Blow. Too much of it to be Chalk or Smack. A shit-load of money, and who knows how much has. Already gone out.”

“Out here in the way back?”

“Someone has to sit on it.” Keon shrugs, head cocked toward Fourteen.

“Who knows?”

Keon considers. “Not grandpa Malcolm, that is for damn sure.”

“How could he not know?” Fourteen wonders. Keon is only twelve(ish) but he has some hair on his shins too. Very fine, not so much, near invisible unless Fourteen sees it with his fingertips. “Malcolm homesteaded this place.”

“His leg is bad. Grandpa does not like to walk.” Keon has no doubts. “Grandpa is dead against using, dead against dealing. No way would he be moving snowflakes.”

“Who knows?”

“Faulkner knows. The man is never far from that rusty old van, so Roman knows. I figure Angela might know. Angela knows everything, pequeno gallo. Keon grins at Fourteen. The fifteen-year old is everything he should be, to Keon’s young mind. The grin fades away to a sadness. “Mamma might know.”

Fourteen moves so he can be beside Keon. Let their shoulders meld together, heat to heat. Long Fourteen-legs stretch out away from him, crossed at the ankles. Ebony and Ivory, as the song goes.

“Mama worries the money.” Keon explains. “Dad paid the bills, made life smooth in the Bronx. She is looking to the future. Wants to stay in Phenix, make the coast maybe. Have life smooth again. I don’t know, but maybe momma knows.” Vondell could easily get swept up in all this Franklin business. Idealizes his half remembered father. Respects him like Ruby-Leigh wants him to. You so like your daddy, she will tell the stubborn-sassy boy. Keon wants shut of all that.

“I figure Marco is the other end. Asher, he would know.” Keon adds.

“Inez?”

“Don’t know.”

“Cordell?” Fourteen does not want Cordell to know.

“Roman for sure. He carries it out.” Keon stops, not wanting to hurt Fourteen’s feelings. “Maybe just him. Maybe nobody else.” Keon fidgets with his hands. “Jem?” It comes out as a whisper.

“Yeah, Keon?”

“What you did before?” Keon’s voice is small. “Could you do that again? Take me past feels real good?”

“Yeah, I could do it again.” Fourteen replies quiet-compassionate. This is sort of a Shane-fantasy moment. Fourteen sternly reminds himself of that. Keon is not Cameron. Cordell is not Cameron, Fourteen tells himself that now. Got to stay grounded. “Just pull your gotch off little man.”