Free A Tree Born Crooked by Steph Post Page A

ignored him, letting the bar door slam behind her. James didn’t know if he should punch Rabbit, or Delmore, or himself. Rabbit turned back to James.
    “Yep, she’s a firecracker alright. Didn’t I say you’d find her here? Thought you two might hit it off.”
    “Shut up, Rabbit.”
    “Okay.”
    “And when you’re done shutting up, why don’t you think a minute, and then tell me what the hell you want.”
    ~ ~ ~
    “That’s what you wanted? Are you kidding me?”
    They were sitting in Delmore’s Silverado extended cab, parked next to an all-night Wash ’n Fold. Rabbit had refused to talk to James unless they got in the truck and went for a drive. Against his better judgment, James had climbed into the back seat. He knew that Rabbit was still wounded by his demand to be taken home the night before.  
    After Rabbit had dropped him off at The Blue Diamond, he had gone back to the motel and lain in bed half the night, grinding his teeth, unable to sleep. When he woke up in the morning, the sheets were twisted around him so tightly that he panicked until he remembered where he was. He had stuffed his clothes into his army surplus duffle bag before going to bed, and as he brushed his teeth he stared at it, leaning up against the motel door, all ready to go.  
    But instead of being on the road, headed for nowhere, James had found himself squatting in the overgrown grass next to a recently covered grave and a marker that looked like it was fresh off the discount rack. The inscription read only, “Orville Hart 1953-2010.” James knew Orville would have been disappointed. He had said many times that when he finally kicked it for good, he wanted lines from some poem engraved on his tombstone. Something about a yellow wood and two roads. Something about choosing which one. James wished he could remember. Orville used to recite the whole poem, standing out in the middle of the yard, drunkenly belting out the words. He had always thought Orville was a lunatic on nights like that. He wouldn’t come in, no matter how many times Birdie Mae yelled at him from the trailer door, but just stood out in the dewy grass, a bottle of Old Grand-Dad swinging in one hand. There were many poems. About roses, about women walking in beauty like the night, about a wheelbarrow sitting out in the rain. James could never figure out how Orville came to know so much poetry. When he was sober, Orville would just laugh when asked about the poems. He said that he didn’t have time for that kind of willy-nilly nonsense.  
    James would have liked to recall and recite that poem about the two roads, as he stood above his father’s grave, but the words escaped him. Instead, James had reached over and put his hand on the mound of loose dirt. It was warm beneath his palm. He rubbed the grit slowly between his thumb and forefinger, grinding it into his calluses. When he finally stood, he brought his hand to his face and breathed in, hoping for a moment that he would smell something strange. Perhaps Old Spice aftershave, sweat and whiskey, or orange peel. But it was only dirt. James had wiped his hand on his jeans and took the long walk back to his truck in the warm noon sun.  
    “No, James, we ain’t kidding. Really, it’s a beauty. Fool proof. There’s no way you want to miss out on this. Right, Delmore?”
    Delmore twisted around in his seat.
    “You’d be an idiot not to get in on it. That, or a coward.”
    James laughed and looked out the window at the side of the laundromat. The lowering twilight was creating strange shadows of shifting gray against the bricks.  
    “So, let me just make sure I heard you correctly. You’re gonna knock over the same strip club where you’re already selling oxy to the strippers. Who know you. Who are making you money.”
    Rabbit nodded eagerly.
    “That’s why it’s all so perfect. We already know the ins and outs of the place. We know the boss man, Lyndell. Delmore’s known him for years, since way back.