Futile Efforts (17 page)

But a man had to walk his track and play out his entire string.
 
Floyd would make the effort to cross Parks up, if only to hold onto his minimal pride.
 
He held Papa's gun out and pointed it at Parks. "You kids go on now.
 
Find somethin' to do."

"Yes, Pa," three or four of the Brooms said.
 
They all paraded from the kitchen in size order, the years wearing thinner and thinner behind them, being erased as the line continued on, but their souls seeming so archaic trapped between participants of ancient battles, until the shortest Broom wandered out without a word.
 
Myrtle showed no life and didn't move, except she had begun to slowly, softly rub at the back of her skull.

It had been bad drama from the beginning, but Parks bundled his hopes on it.
 
He had no choice but to follow through on this course, finish out the hand he'd dealt himself.
 
He'd caused his brother enough trouble, and he didn't need to make it worse by having the man feel even more ineffectual and stupid.
 
They'd both had enough of that.

Parks gave a strained bark and came up out of his seat as if he was terrified.
 
He made a flustered grab for the pistol like he was actually afraid it might go off, like he was fighting for his life.
 
He clipped Floyd on the chin, and knocked him backwards over the corner of the table.
 
Parks stuck the Colt in his belt.

"You rotten little bastard," Floyd said.

"Once the movie hits, I'll buy the land back for you," Parks said.
 
"Whatever it costs.
 
Or get you another farm, if you prefer.
 
Or set you up in a different business."

"I saw a review for your last movie," Floyd told him, getting to his feet and folding himself into a chair. "In the paper."

"Yeah, you did?" He was genuinely impressed that his brother actually looked at a paper.
 
He figured a long time ago that Floyd was willfully illiterate.

"Called you pretentious, they did."

"Yes, quite a few of them."

"And cryptic."

A word that Parks once liked, but now didn't.
 
At first he thought it would help him achieve cult status, that the underground would come to his aid.
 
That the flick might have a new run at life on DVD, but none of it had happened.
 
"That's right."

"Artsy
fartsy
."

Parks settled back on his heels.
 
So maybe his brother really couldn't read.
 
None of the print reviews had used the term artsy
fartsy
, but some wiseass critic on a major network had, holding up a balloon and letting the air out slowly, so it sounded like it was breaking wind.
 
You just had to love stuff like that.

He focused again on Floyd's gray lips.
 
"That so?"

"Said you had little girls in there.
 
With their tops off.
 
Showing off their pink buds.
 
Got in trouble with all them civic watch groups.
 
Good church-
goin
' people protesting."

"It wasn't quite like that," Parks said without much conviction.

The girls were young and did flash some skin, but the worst part of it came later.
 
A sixteen year old started claiming he'd promised her a part in the film in exchange for sex.
 
Her mother started making
 
some noise to the tabloids.
 
Before the papers completely exploded, she took a payoff, but on her heels came another girl making the same allegation.
 
The studio execs now had him pegged as both a pretentious prick
and
a liability.
 
You could be one but not the other.
 
The fact that both girls made up their stories didn't even come into play.
 
All that mattered was he'd been stupid enough to leave himself vulnerable.
 
It had taught him an important lesson just a little too late.

But he also knew that nothing mattered more than cash.
 
If he could prove himself with another hit, nobody would care about past folly or blunders.
 
It was the penance he'd pay, learning to toe the corporate line.
 
He didn't give a damn anymore about art, he just wanted to get back into the action. He'd been going crazy ever since he had to give up his parking space at the studio.

But why take it out on Floyd?
 
Just like his father, his brother never had a chance in this world and accepted the truth of the matter, and kept right on moving through life without letting the regret break his will.
 
Parks had gotten there, been at the top for all of two years or so, and now kept falling off the big edge without any bottom in sight.

"My head," Myrtle said, and began to limp forward.
 
"I need to go lie down."

Floyd touched her elbow as she went by but made no other effort to help.
 
He scowled at Parks and again the relief seemed to smooth out the rugged creased in his features, as if he was glad the fight was finally over and it wasn't his fault for losing.
 
"You can stay the night.
 
Not because you're my blood but because I don't set any man out of my house once I've invited him in.
 
I might shoot you, but I won't kick you into the dark.
 
That's how a man acts.
 
I get up at dawn.
 
That's five thirty, case you don't remember, and I'm sure you don't.
 
Don't be here when I rise."

"I won't."

They walked into the living room together, side by side, and in his brother's shadow he felt small and feeble again.
 
Strange it should hit him all at once like that.
 
None of the children were in sight, and the house felt very much the same way it did when Parks was a kid–empty, impeded, and mute with unvoiced rage and fear.

"You're a damn heartless fool," Floyd said, but there was an instant before he moved off where he might have wanted to reach out, make contact again.
 
It was too much, after all this time.
 
They both shrugged away in opposite directions, and Floyd went to his bedroom where Myrtle waited with a wet washcloth draped around the back of her neck, and closed the door.

Parks found a jug of moonshine under the sink and poured himself four fingers. The first taste of it made him want to vomit, but after that it was like water.
 
A subtle warmth pervaded him but the band around his chest kept on contracting.
 
Maybe he'd go through all this just to get back to L.A. and go toes up from a heart attack.
 
That might get somebody interested in the movies again, cryptic or not.

He finished the liquor and still wanted more.
 
Jesus, it was amazing how quickly your old tastes came back, how easily you slipped back into your shoddy boots.
 
Your past was always waiting around the corner with a net, ready to yank you back.
 
He poured another half glass and returned the jug, walked out to sit with his grandfather.

Père
Hull took one look at Parks and said, "You got ghosts, boy."

"Doesn't everybody?"

"Yeah, but most not so bad as you.
 
Worst case I seen in forty years."
 
Père
leaned over the arm of his wheelchair, peering closely, the teal scarf overflowing from his lap.
 
Parks was about to ask who else had them this bad, but
Père
beat him to it.
 
"A traveling preacher fella come through town at the time, in middle of July, set up his tent and had an all-night sing.
 
I could hardly see him '
cause'a
all the ghosts he carried wrapped around him.
 
He had a bowed back from carrying them for so long.
 
They nearly snapped him in two.
 
He was dead by that winter."

"I bear up," Parks said.

"Your mama's behind you."

"I know."

"I can't really see her face, but it's her, all right, that much is clear.
 
Aunt
Tilly
, she's holding your left hand, and Baby Sis Claudine gripping your right.
 
She was my youngest cousin on my Pa's side, died when she was five.
 
She always
grabbin
' on somebody.
 
Those hands hurt you some tonight, don't they?"

"Yes."

"You should visit all their graves.
 
They might loosen up a touch then."

Parks had thought about it before, but he was scared that if he showed up at the cemetery, they might wind up tightening their grip even more.
 
He never should have come back.
 
Should've stayed in L.A. and just had the lawyers mail the papers.
 
He sipped the moon and checked his watch.
 
It wasn't even nine o'clock yet, and there wasn't a sound in the house except the soft murmurs of the TV.
 
Some sitcom where families laughed together and helped each other through the tough times.

"You should go before you pass out," said
Père
.
 
"You ain't used to that kind of drinking no more.
 
You sleep past five AM and Floyd might just tie you to the bed and beat hell out of you."

"You're right."
 
Parks was already feeling the effects, and figured it would be wiser to grab a whore at Louie's and pay her for the night, get up early to catch the eight AM bus.
 
He took out his wallet and figured he had just enough.
 
Mama wouldn't follow him in there.
 
"Sorry about all this,
Gramp
."

"Don't be.
 
We all got our loads and hardships.
 
You'll either make it right later on, or you won't."

"I will."

"Maybe so.
 
Probably be better for you in the end if you did."

There was nothing left to say to that.
 
Parks got his jacket back on, picked up his satchel, sensed the potential and promise of the script inside, took one last look around the place, and flipped open the busted screen door.

There was a sudden blur of silver motion in front of him–he thought for an instant that his mother had taken shape, come in to hug him goodbye one last time–and then something shattered his right eye.

The pain was so intense he couldn't even scream for a few seconds, and found himself on his knees gasping and writhing against the wall.
 
As he trembled and drew in a deep breath to shriek, he felt a wad of cotton being thrust into his mouth, a thick band of tape sealing against his lips.
 
They used twine on his wrists.

It happened so fast, with the same kind of often-practiced actions as they'd shown in the kitchen.
 
Some Brooms had scissors in hand, others held ten penny nails or wire.
 
He couldn't make them all out but there seemed to be more kids now than he'd thought.
 
So many of them that they crowded the room.

They'd brought Floyd's toolbox inside.

In agony, Parks turned his head aside.
 
He saw
Père
Hull's body jittering and contorted in his wheelchair, the crippled left foot thrust straight out, the man's skinny arms pulled unnaturally far behind him as he convulsed.
 
The crocheting needles quivered in his flesh, stuck somewhere in his face, through the tongue or in his ears.
 
Or somewhere else.
 
The Brooms covered the old man and were carefully handing each other tools, using them on
Père
in ways Parks couldn't quite distinguish, then replacing each back in the box, dripping.

As Parks thrashed again he realized a screwdriver had blinded him and was still jutting out of his head.
 
Jesus, he thought, it must be wedged into my brain.
 
How else would it not fall out?
 
If he wasn't crazy before he'd have to be now.

The television was still on, low, the laugh track proceeding on and on with tinny unreal hilarity, and Parks wanted to scream at the kids to turn it up, it's not as bad if you drown the crows out with some chatter and laughter and noise.