26 May that night in July, By Corvus Nagle
When the first harmonica-stricken breath of “Piano Man” barges through the radio, my hand leaves the steering wheel quicker than my thoughts to jab the station dial. It then comes through as only static, but that’s the better of the two.
The outside air is cool. The sweltering heat of early August fades with the daylight as the sun touches the horizon behind us, painting the skies a reddish-orange hue. There’s nothing but fields and the occasional farmhouse as far as the eye can see—as much as you can expect from rural Saskatchewan. As my dad would say, “You can watch your dog run away from home for days.”
My knuckles turn white against the wheel. Even with my eyes on the horizon, I see Jack give me a look in my periphery. His eyebrows raise as he flicks through the FM channels, eventually settling when Gord Downie’s soulful voice fills the old Volkswagen bus. Jack sinks back into the passenger seat, taking another drag off his smoke hanging out of the window and flicking the ashes off against the glass. He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
…
It was raining. When I think of that night, that’s the first thing I remember.
My sneakers crunched into the slanted gravel shoulder of the county road, water sloshing through the insides. I was soaked to the bone in the late-July downpour—it didn’t help that I had left my jacket behind. My T-shirt and blue jeans cling to my body like a second skin. Haphazardly chopped black hair lay slick against my face. When I reached up to push it back, I saw the glint of red coating my fingers, reflecting the moonlight. I know it’s not all mine.
My trudging slows to a halt. It’s hard to tell when I’m this deep in the boonies of southern Ontario, but with the little visibility there is, I’d guess I’m a few miles from my house—about half a mile from Jack’s. I crouch down, rinsing my fingers in the sludgy water pooling in the dips of the gravel. The crimson gives way to gritty beige before long.
…
It was 2:48 AM when my knuckles rapped on Jack’s basement window, according to the glowing red alarm clock across the room. It took a minute before he lifted his head long enough to realize the hollow pang, pang, pang wasn’t a part of his dream. As soon as he did, he cranked his head around to check the time, and whirled out of bed like his sheets were on fire.
“Well, ain’t you the prettiest drowned rat in town,” he offered quietly as the window slid open. My gaze drifted left, as if my words may be somewhere in the dense woods of his parents’ property.
He jumps onto his desk and hauls himself up out the window, standing under the awning in nothing but his pajama pants. He puts a hand on my shoulder, using the other to push the hair out of my face, examining my busted lip and the undoubtedly black eye beginning to swell closed. His thumb presses tenderly, experimentally around the bottom of the socket. He stops when I recoil from his touch.
“Damn, old man sure did a number on ya. Crashing here for a bit? I mean, can’t promise my folks’ll be too pleased—only two weeks past graduating and they’re already keen on me taking a hike.” He laughs. I can’t join him. His demeanor begins to stiffen. He glances down, his stormy gray eyes fixating on my shirt.
“That ain’t yours?” In the outdoor motion light, I can see the red stains he’s staring at. I nod.
He lets out a sigh, raking his fingers through his dirty blonde mullet and interlocking them around the back of his neck. He looks down and away for a moment, then back to my bloodied shirt, tilting his head.
“Shotgun?”
I nod.
“I know I told ya to stand your ground… that’s a helluva way to do it,” he huffs, the corner of his mouth twitching upwards.
“So, uh… how’re we doing this? Self-defense, or making up a note and wiping off the prints?” It takes me a minute to realize he isn’t joking.
“Why?” My voice is hoarse and distant. Jack stares at me like I’m speaking another language.
“You’re fucking with me, right? What, did ya think I was gonna say ‘sucks to suck’ and call the fucking cops?” He looks genuinely offended, his voice raising for the first time. “Who stood up for me when I got into it with Tate Corbeau and them, huh?”
“That’s not the same—”
Jack goes on: “Who shared his lunch with me all the way through grade school when I didn’t have none? Who begged and bargained with his folks to let me stay with him for a whole month when my parents were splitting? Who held my fucking hand at my Ma’s funeral when my old man was too strung out to even take me?”
“I didn’t do anything for you that you wouldn’t have done for me.”
“So, you’re telling me that if I showed up on your fucking doorstep, bruised and bloody with my piece-of-shit dad’s insides splattered all over me, that you wouldn’t say the same damn thing?”
In that moment, I couldn’t tell what Jack was angrier at: the world, for dealing us such shitty hands; or me, for thinking even for a second that he wouldn’t help me fake a suicide if I asked him to. Because he’s right, and he knows it.
I gaze off towards the soft-sided garage holding the Volkswagen bus Jack rebuilt from the ground up. His words from the first night I came banging on his window ring out in my head—the same he’s echoed each time since.
“Let’s do it.” I turn back, looking him in the eyes.
“Alright then, that’s more like it. You got something with his writing?”
“Not that, I mean—let’s just go. Like you said, let’s go. We drive west and leave all this shit behind. You and me, we can do it,” I explain quickly. “I mean, if you’re still up for it, given everything.”
His mouth tugs into a real grin.
“Thought you’d never ask.”
…
The downpour soothed to a drizzle by the time we stepped foot on the asphalt driveway of my house. The sun was still well below the horizon, our way illuminated by the warm, inviting glow from the windows. Chirping crickets sang with the creaking wooden steps as Jack began to climb towards the front door. I towed heavily behind. He stopped and turned to me as he reached the door.
“Look, I’ll handle whatever’s going on in there, okay? All you gotta do is pack—I wanna be long gone by sun-up. Where am I headed?”
“Kitchen. He’s in the kitchen.” I look down, swallowing my stomach. I’d love to say I want to help him cover this up, but there’s a strong chance we’d end up cleaning vomit as well as fingerprints.
“And the gun?”
“On top of him.”
“How ‘bout your Ma? I can’t imagine she’s here, and the car’s gone. Any idea on her?”
A long, breathy laugh escapes me at his words. With my eyes locked on my shoes, I hear a low sigh.
“I had a feeling. After all these years, couldn’t figure what else woulda made today the day.”
“Just a note on the table. That’s all; no goodbye or nothing. Then Dad got home. I don’t know how it happened, Jack. He was fit to be tied. I don’t know if I meant to. I don’t know. It went down so fast, and then I was yanking it from him and—” The words spill out until Jack cuts in.
“Well, it ain’t matter much now. Sky’ll be light soon, and we don’t wanna be anywhere near here when it is. I don’t know about you, Quinn, but I don’t look too good in orange. So, for the love of God’s green earth, get your ass upstairs and pack your shit.”
Jack opens the door with his already-gloved hand, allowing us both inside before shutting it behind us. The rain and crickets fall silent, replaced by the voice of Billy Joel from the staticky kitchen radio; a harmonica calling out its melody in return. It’s one of my favourite songs. When we leave, we don’t shut the radio off—I wonder how long it was until someone finally did.
A couple of weeks, likely. That’s at least how long it took for us to find the brief note in the paper:
Jeremiah McCormic, 52—found in his home having died by suicide.
He is survived by his wife and son, Suzanna and Quinton McCormic.
May he rest in peace.
…
Jack clears his throat. “Hey, uhh… we could do for a break, eh? It’s getting late.” I glance over at him as he squishes the butt of his cigarette into the car’s ashtray.
“I’m good to keep driving for a motel. You can climb in the back and get some shut-eye if you want, though.”
“There’s a trailhead parking lot somewhere here. We should be good to hang around it. I think it’s that next right up ahead there,” he returns, unbothered. I flick the turn signal.
We drift into the lot in neutral, the gravel crunching as we roll to a stop. I yank the hand brake and slouch back into the driver’s seat, rubbing my palm heels into my eyes. I hear the ker-khunk of the passenger door opening, then denim dragging against the fabric of the seat. Boots hammer on gravel, the door slams shut, and a stale silence falls.
I drag my hands down my face, then lock my fingers together, resting my forearms on top of the steering wheel. Gazing out the windshield, I see Jack standing about ten feet in front of the bus, performing some exaggerated gestures at me. I can almost hear the corresponding narration:
What the fuck are you doing? Get over here!
With a huff, I reluctantly take the keys and climb out, stretching my legs to get the feeling back into my long-numbed ass. I click the lock on the inside of the door, slam it shut, and shove the keys into my pocket. When I look to Jack, he’s gone thirty-or-so yards down the walking trail through the sparse grassy plain. I shake my head, jogging lightly until I catch up with him. He walks off the trail and looks around for a moment, bending down to feel out various patches of grass before settling on one in particular, plopping himself on top of it. He sprawls out onto his back and once he’s settled himself onto what he’s deemed to be an adequate place for resting, he gestures at me again, patting the ground next to him.
Sit your ass down.
I meander over and set myself down on the grass. Looking at the unsatisfied expression he’s throwing, I lie down next to him.
While most of the grass here is dead or dying under the August sun, Jack managed to find one patch still grappling onto life. The green is soft against my skin, like the carpet in my childhood bedroom. Blades tickle the backs of my knees and neck; dust clings to any sweat still glistening on my bare skin. Crickets and cicadas chirp all around, playing over the rhythm of Jack’s breathing.
The sun sinks below the horizon, its watercolours bleeding towards it. The disrobed skies share their stars in return. Out here, they’re the brightest lights around, warm and inviting, and as steady as the ground beneath us.
Jack has no more gestures for me, and no words to offer.
“I’m fine, you know,” I breathe out, glancing over at him. His eyes stay fixed to the stars.
“I know.”
A car passes on the highway. A dog barks from the farmhouse in an adjacent field. A breeze rustles the long, dead grass, making the hair on my arms stand up. The sky gets darker; the stars glow brighter.
“Are you fine?” I break the silence.
“Nope,” he hums.
He turns his head to me. His breath is as warm as his gaze. I decide to study the constellations above us.
“Are you?” Jack prods softly.
“No.”
“I know.”
Coyotes yip and howl far into the prairies. The last traces of sunlight fade. I turn to meet Jack’s eyes.
“If you were in my shoes, all considered, would you have done it?”
A quiet hum leaves him as he looks to the sky. The world is quiet for a moment.
“I don’t know, Quinn. I couldn’t tell ya, ‘cause I wasn’t there, and I didn’t live your life, and we’ve got different makings in our blood and bones.” His words carry low over the grass. His gaze meets mine again. “What I can tell ya is that in my eyes, you ain’t done nothing wrong. That I don’t blame you for a second. That I wouldn’t’ve done a thing different on my end. And I can tell ya that there ain’t a use in beating yourself into the ground over things you can’t change. Maybe he should’ve had his day in court and all. Maybe it would’ve turned out better that way. But shoulda, coulda, woulda—it don’t matter now. To me, all I care about is that it wasn’t your blood painting the walls that night, and I very well reckon it was bound to be him or you.” He turns back to the stars, a wet glint at the edge of his eye. “Ain’t nothing to be fixed about it, Quinn. All we can do is try to put some good back in the world while we’re both still walking it.”
I study his face through the darkness. Right now, Jack is more solemn than I’ve seen him in the decade since we met. His brows furrow as he reads me in return.
“Do you regret it?”
I breathe out slow. My eyes shut for a moment, but I don’t look away.
“Regret’s not really the right word for it. I wish it didn’t happen—that’s for sure. But saying I regret it would be saying I wish I made a different choice. And I think you’re right, that he would’ve put me in the ground if I hadn’t done it first. But I guess I’ll never know.”
“Of course you wish it didn’t happen. There’s a lot I wish didn’t happen. I might be an asshole, but I’m glad you shot him. I need you with me—you know how selfish I am.” He smiles at me. After a moment, he stretches out onto his back again, fingers laced behind his head. I join him, looking back to the sky, to a world so much bigger than us.
“I love you too, Jack.”