faint memories they might rekindle.
Lester scanned his garden of precious junk, crushed his empty beer can and hurled it at an old truck. He lifted Sammy’s board from the bed of his new truck and walked to the garden, where he drove the nose violently into a bed of lettuce. The stairs presented a coordination problem and he failed to make it up and through the screen door on his first try. “Maggie! I’ve decided where to plant Sam. Get your ass out here. I want you to see where.”
Inside the trailer a similar chaos prevailed. A tidy kitchen afforded Maggie safe haven, because food somehow remained a domain Lester respected or had learned to accommodate. When he lurched through the door, she stood over the sink starring through the window at her garden, awaiting the familiar storm she heard approaching. She wore jeans and running shoes. She had tucked her jet-black braid into her sweatshirt.
“I’m talking to you Maggie.”
Her voice remained calm. “Lester, not today.”
“What not today? What day do I decide to bury my only son?”
“Don’t start this Lester. I can’t do this today. I can’t take any more today.”
Lester pushed her against the stove and opened the refrigerator. He took out a can and slammed the door, which bounced back open. He slammed it shut. “Yes. Yes you can, because that’s all you do - is take. You think you’re so patient and generous, but all the time you’re just taking. Taking my time, taking my money, taking my son.
He popped the top off the beer and dropped it. “Your devil spirit communion with the sea crap. Being a sea creature crap. Well now my son’s a dead fish boy. All because of all the crap you taught him.”
“Our son Lester.”
“What? What did you say?”
Maggie turned to face him and looked directly into his eyes. “Our son Lester. I taught Sammy - our son - to respect the sea. He loved the sea and it wasn’t the sea that killed him.”
Lester’s eyes narrowed and his face redden as he squared off, trapping her between the sink and the refrigerator. “I know what killed my son – Sam – your doper fisherman friends and your junkie surfer hippie attitude and your devil spirit crap. That’s what killed my son.”
As he began his tirade, Maggie turned back to the window and slid her right hand onto the stovetop, hunched her shoulders and waited.
Lester stood behind her yelling at the back of her head. “Admit it! If he was up in the woods with me, he’d be fine. He’d be fine. ADMIT IT! He’d be a man instead of a dead fish boy.”
She knew that sooner or later the explosion was inevitable, so she took control and lit the fuse. “Better dead than a drunken log trucker.”
Lester grabbed her shoulder and spun her around as he cocked his arm for the blow, but as she turned, she brought with her the iron frying pan from the stove and his fist landed in metal. The round house that would have broken her jaw broke Lester’s hand instead, but the force of the blow smashed the skillet into her shoulder and she went down. Lester screamed in pain and momentarily doubled over with his fist in his left hand. Maggie knew this battle had only two possible outcomes. She had warned him and she came up swinging. She aimed the skillet at his head and missed, but it caught his shoulder hard enough to knock him aside, allowing her to push for the door, but his left hand got a grip on her sweatshirt and he slammed her to the floor on her back. Standing over her he tried to bring his boot down on her chest, but his drunken balance allowed her to roll aside and spring up. He threw a wide backhand that sent her sprawling down the trailer past the front door and crashing into the television stand, which came down in an explosion of lamps and figurines. He walked toward her, head lowered, determined by hate and pain to change the score of one dead, two surviving.
The door opened between them. Billy stepped into the living room providing Maggie a path to the doorway behind him. He calmly surveyed the damage. Maggie had not allowed tears since the news had arrived, but this bizarre interlude into the moment in which she had prepared herself to kill or die diverted her resolve and the flood released. Without a sound she proudly walked past Billy and ignoring Lester’s glare stepped out onto the porch.
Screaming, as if he could force his voice through Billy, he yelled after her. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?” Instantly, his homicidal anger refocused on Billy and in low vicious tones spat out his greeting. “And what the hell are you doing in my house?”
Billy spoke like a concerned friend arriving to comfort his neighbor. “I came to say I was sorry about how things happened and that I talked to Murphy about some stuff that I think you should know about.”
Lester started for the door, but Billy stepped in front of him. “Let her go Lester. It won’t help anyone to hurt her.”
Lester squared off with him. “You don’t know dick about helping people. Do you? But if you don’t move your own skinny ass, you’re going to help yourself to a hell of a lot of trouble.”
Billy didn’t move. Lester swung a left hook. Billy caught his wrist as it passed and with a simple twist sent Lester face first down into the rug, where he pinned him with pressure on the wrist and a sandal in his armpit. Lester let out another wail as he tried pushing up with his broken hand. “Lester, I didn’t come here to hurt you, but unless you quiet down, you’re gonna lose the use of both hands. I came over to tell you something I’ve been discussing with Murphy.”
Physical energy left Lester suddenly, as if someone had tripped the power circuit and all the engines stopped. He lay on the rug starring blankly at the skillet. It rested upside down, at his eye level, on the floor in front of the stove.
Billy let his arm go and it fell like a prop rendered useless. He sat on the rug beside the overturned TV watching Lester slowly roll over and stare up at the ceiling.
“Beer?”
“No thanks Lester. And that’s not because I don’t want to drink with you. I don’t drink beer. I’ll get you one and see what’s in the fridge.”
“Take a beer.”
Billy went to the refrigerator and returned with two beers, popped the tops, put one on the rug and held one at arm’s length for Lester. “Screw it. Maybe I drink beer today.”
Lester’s anger vanished with his energy, replaced by remorse and self-pity. “Sorry. What I said about helping people. I say stuff; do stuff. World’s gone crazy. I pick up and drive logs. Never dropped a load. Own my truck. Paid for. No accidents.” He looked over at Billy. “You own your boat?”
“Yeah.”
“You worked hard getting all those fish to buy it?”
“Yeah.”
Billy nudged him with the beer and Lester took it lying down. “I worked hard every day since Nam. For what? To be a drunken logger whose family hates him, in a town full of fishermen? No offense.” Billy signaled it was OK. Lester cradled his broken hand on his belly and spilled his beer as he struggled to push himself up with his back against the sofa. He tried drinking and pushed higher. The pain of his shoulder and his hand showed in his face. “Under the sink, grab that bottle of Jack under the sink.”
Billy set his own beer on the rug beside Lester. “Let me help you up onto that sofa
