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Each morning you hauled yourself into town and sat in the same diner, plopped down at the same corner booth, ordered the same coffee and opened the most recent issue of the same newspaper. It was a local newspaper, the sort where they wrote about the agriculture tax and the food industry and about chain stores being opened in other towns, rather than writing about strange and off-putting theatre performances. A paper whose opinion pieces were written by folks who actually knew what they were talking about, not those blazer-wearing “experts”. A paper that didn’t celebrate politicians shirking duty by going on paternity leave instead of doing their jobs like normal people. And yet still raking in better pay than the rest of us. You’d already read this issue five times, and you’d read it another ten before a new one would come around.
Your daily cup of coffee was poured by some city slicker, who was undoubtedly just the kind of bugger that had you avoiding other papers. Not a politician, not rich, and hardly an expert in any field, if leaning on the table and grinning like a fool didn’t count. No, nobody successful would ever end up in this dump of a town. Something about the kid reeked of liberalism, or worse, high culture. And he, of all the people in the world, had the nerve to flash a bright smile at you and ask about your day, even though he only got two-word answers in return.
As if he gave a damn. Fucking do-gooder.
And you, a slave to your routine, still returned each day, and let him smile and ask his questions and wish you a good day as your hands started to tremble around the seventh cup and you finally trudged out the door. Back to work it was. Gotta keep an eye on those crops. They probably wouldn’t bother growing at all if there wasn’t an old man watching.
Back home, the clock ticked forward slowly. The coffee was already long gone from your system, and yet sleep was still a distant dream. Who knew what the neighbours would come up with, if the field was unguarded during daytime. You’d already eaten your sausages and mash, now smeared against the edge of the plate. You leafed through a dog-eared magazine, the subscription long since cancelled, because one can only write a certain amount of worthwhile reading material about shotguns. Doubt they’d deliver it out here anyhow. Looking at guns wasn’t particularly interesting right now, and it definitely wasn’t cheering you up.
Your cousin and his son were making a racket outside. Who knows, they might come here, or call the cops again with some tall tale. The bushes outside needed trimming, but you couldn’t be bothered. You could do it, mind you. You still got what it takes to cut open the pumpkins and to read ridiculously tiny print in your accounts. You had conceded to getting a magnifying glass. You didn’t need anything else. You couldn’t afford to. Because if there was anything you’d learned in life, it was that it was best to rely on no-one and nothing.
(On the TV, folks who were supposedly your age looked like they were barely in their thirties.)
--
“Pour me another,” you’d said at first, then just “another”, and by now you would just hold the cup outside the cover of the newspaper and it’d get filled, not a dribble falling onto your fingers. You didn’t even look up from the newspaper. If you did, the kid may try starting a conversation.
You tried to imagine the kind of life that boy had lived in the big city. What in the world could have happened there that he ended up here? In your eyes, he’d born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Warm house, food and paper napkins on the table. No, unlike him, you had never been a child. Just a smaller adult, doing little jobs fit for a little man, at Mama’s orders. A little man crouching over the milk bucket before the sun was up (back when you still had cattle) and aiming the udder into his open mouth, that’s breakfast for you. A little man who once accidentally kicked the bucket over, and God knows he never did that again.
Out of politeness, the folks asked Avery what he was doing in the Holler. You rolled your eyes, safe behind the newspaper. Politeness. You’d call it meaningless jawing. The same old codger might ask the same question several times, not remembering the answer nor having asked. You never asked about it, and you didn’t need to, seeing how you remembered just fine. You sipped your coffee, only on the fourth cup today! You had to lock in if you were to get your money’s worth out of this.
“Who’d be sitting at school when there’s real life outside? Chalky-white little brats who’ll never learn to work an honest job, that’s who.”
“Who asked, Tremaine.” You didn’t remember his name, nor did you care.
Avery smiled. “He means well. Thanks, Mister Tremaine.”
You pulled your newspaper higher, murmuring something that never quite reached a full sentence.
--
There was someone outside. Your ears were still working, sometimes a little better than you’d have liked – and they didn’t miss the telltale rustling of leaves. You choked down the last piece of your black licorice. What the fool didn’t know was that he was trespassing on the wrong property, for you had prepared for this day, and the ground around the house was booby-trapped to kingdom come. A wild animal would wander into them every now and then, which was fine. Can’t pass up free fox meat. But these weren’t no animal steps, that was a person, alright.
It'd probably be best to put a stop to that idiot, even if whatever happened were his own fault for coming in here. Everyone in the town ought to know better than to mess with the Tremaines.
You peeked out the window. God fucking damn it…
“Don’t you fucking step any further! Stop right there!”
Avery froze dead in his tracks, his foot hovering in the air stupidly, just above the piece of undergrowth with the bear trap peeking out. At least he listened, thank God. His gaze dropped to the ground, his face flashing with surprise before settling back into its usual grin, and he stepped a polite distance away from his demise.
Now that the immediate danger was gone, you decided to trust the kid not to kill himself in the five seconds it took you to get from the window to the door, rushing out to meet him. “What the hell are you doing, trampling the bushes?! Damn it, kid, I’d be beside myself if you went and-“
“Sorry, Mr. Tremaine,” said Avery. “I came through the woods, and I guess I stepped off the path at some point.” He vaguely pointed towards the thicket. Sure enough, the boy had a few twigs sticking out of his hair, and somehow it didn’t look out of place at all. Like he was some forest spirit from Mama’s tales.
You crossed your arms. No point in asking another question when he was yet to answer the first.
“Ah, you’re probably wondering what I’m doing here. I just thought I’d stop by to say thanks for the bench.”
Oh yeah, the bench. You still had splinters stuck under your fingernails. Not that it mattered, you had plenty of spare time for woodwork. Else the kid would be carting in some plastic contraption to mar his garden, ones that would turn brittle and bird-dunged before winter set in.
“God. You could have thanked me tomorrow morning, if you must.”
Avery smiled. Your mouth tasted like stale licorice, it must have stuck to your teeth, too. “Oh, I could have. But I guess I came to see if there was anything I could do in return around here.”
You were about to turn him down when he continued: “And besides, you don’t seem the type to want me to thank you in public like that. People might find out you have a heart.”
Bah! Get the kid working and maybe he’ll learn to shut his mouth.
Avery pruned the bushes without a complaint. You wouldn’t let him out of your sight, lest he somehow found another bear trap to step into, or wound up with an axe in his face. You told him about the traps, and he just shrugged it off. Would you look at that – a city slicker with some sense in his head. Both he and Winnie were like that, not too judgemental, which you could at least appreciate. You sat in a folding chair while he took forever shearing those bushes, the knees of his jeans covered in grass and mud, beads of sweat on his forehead. When he got up to leave, you remembered that the upper shelves could use some wiping, and you couldn’t reach them very well yourself. Might as well keep the kid around a bit longer if he would dust them. And then, of course, the leg of your table had some screws coming loose. Avery gave you a strange look as you explained that your knees were too rickety to be crawling around on the floor.
Then, the last of the jobs was done. Avery wiped the sweat from his forehead. “All done! I think I’ll be heading home, but just call me if you need something!”
It’d probably be polite to say thanks.
“Thanks, son,” you grumbled, shoving a cold coke in Avery’s hand. He flashed a tiny, tight-lipped smile, paced on his feet for a moment and then said his goodbyes. His back got further and further away as he stepped past the treeline, the last of his curls finally disappearing from sight.
You returned indoors, where the boards creaked with every step and the glow of the evening sun switched to the pale yellow light of the buzzing lightbulbs. And wouldn’t you know it, one of them had conked out again. You’d need to ask for Avery to sort it, he could easily reach them with those long legs. But not tomorrow. Maybe in a week, you could concede to ask.
--
“Thanks, son.” Saying thanks was routine by now. Then Avery would smile, take his coke, and leave you be.
But that’s not how it went today.
“Actually,” Avery said, “I think I prefer it when you just call me ‘kid’. ‘Son’ doesn’t really fit me, you know?”
…Okay.
…Wait a second. Right.
Yes, you’d noticed that there was something strange about Avery, his feminine posture and the high-pitched tilt in his voice. You’d simply thought that was the way those city boys were. They sometimes had jewellery and thin wrists, and a voice that sounded like they were constantly asking something. But Avery did have a bit of beard on him, and some hair peeking out from under his halfway buttoned-up shirt. And tall he was, too.
It wasn’t worth it trying to understand what he was going on about, not at your age. A boy’s a boy.
But now he was looking at you all vulnerable-like.
You let out a deep sigh. It stuck in your throat in a nasty way.
“Alright, get out of here, kid.”
Avery bared his entire set of white teeth, smug motherfucker. “I’ll get going. Grandpa.”
“You’re going to catch a bullet one of these days.”
He waved once more from the car window before speeding away.
You never had the need to talk about Avery in third person. Who would you have talked to, anyway? You only opened your trap to instruct your cousin to stay on his own side of the field for once, or to call the law when he didn’t listen. Not that the cops gave a shit, either. You could scream until your voice was gone and nothing ever came out of it, no one ever took any responsibility for fucking anything.
Others would still talk about Avery in passing, I’m going to ask for another coffee and does anyone know where they’re from and how is he kin to Winnie. Then the conversation would move on to more important topics, like which of the miners had haemorrhoids at the moment. No one ever mentioned Avery by name, and you slowly began to suspect that the other patrons didn’t even know it. Which was something, seeing as how Avery insisted on introducing himself to every old coot that didn’t deserve his manners.
“So, is he gay or just a waiter?” someone whispered. The rest shushed him between snickers, glancing around in case a bloodthirsty Winnie was within earshot.
She wasn’t, but you were.
You screwed up your face into the angriest scowl you could raise. That bastard scowled back. But it didn’t matter if they hated your guts. No one liked you anyway, and that was just fine. The mines didn’t particularly pull in women your age anyway, and there was no one else among the miners whose opinion meant anything to you.
Avery swept in, bringing hot-out-the-oven biscuits from the kitchen, cheerful as ever. The kid probably hadn’t heard.
Or maybe they were just hiding it well.
--
“You know,” Avery said as they screwed a light bulb into place. The three-legged stool wobbled dangerously, so you bent down to steady it. Your knees had a thing or two to say about that, they did.
“You could switch to LED bulbs. They’d last longer, and you could get a bit more light in here! And you wouldn’t have to be changing them all the time.”
“Hmph. I don’t need no allydees. And you don’t have to come around here, I can get them myself if I haul the ladder in.”
Looking up at them from floor level, Avery looked even taller than usual. They glanced down at you and grinned. “No, I’ll change them, call me anytime. Not like I have much going on in the evening.”
Avery stepped down from the stool and flicked on the light. You straightened up, and… Ah, fuck.
“You alright?”
“It’s just my back,” you waved your hand dismissively, miming throwing your shitty spine onto the equally shitty floorboards. You should clean those up, sometime. “Don’t you worry about it. Years of hard work does that to a man.”
“If you’re sure,” they said, then looked out the window. “It’s getting dark out, I’d better get going. Do you have a flashlight I could borrow? I could give it back to you tomorrow if you come to Winnie’s.”
“Hmph. Of course I’m coming to Winnie’s. Did you come on foot?”
“Yep. Getting some fresh air.” As fresh as this town had, sure.
“I’m not leaving you to wander around in the wilderness,” you grumbled, fumbling for your car keys. “We’re taking the truck.”
Avery sat with their knees right about up to their mouth as you managed to get the old heap started. The clutch was acting up again, but Avery was hardly a mechanic, otherwise they would have already offered to help.
“If your car ever breaks down, I can come tow it.”
Right. As if you could afford to get it fixed if it finally kicked the bucket for good, rather than just having some dents and bent rearview mirrors and a slightly ineffective handbrake. You always parked on level ground or put a brick behind the tire, and that way the car still worked just fine.
“We’ll see about it.”
It was already getting dark, indeed, as you drove in eerie silence. Avery thumbed at the cassette player, hoping to get some music out of it, but you slapped their hand away. Gently, mind you. The kid didn’t mean no harm, they were just nosy. One of these days they would trust the wrong person, stick their nose in the wrong place. No, it wasn’t good for them to be stumbling around the woods at this hour.
“Look out!” Avery suddenly shouted, and you barely had time to slam the brakes as a deer jumped across the road. The car skidded sideways on the gravel, stopping just shy of the ditch. Your neck twisted in a nasty way, you’d be paying for that later.
You turned to look at Avery just as they turned to you. Even in the dark you could see a trail of blood, from the kid’s nose all the way to their chin.
“Damned deer! Fuck… are you alright, shit-“ you swore, as it was a well-known fact that yelling at wildlife solved many of life’s problems. You had some tissues in the glove box, you had to. You couldn’t get it open, and when you finally did, the crumpled paper, old pieces of gum and pencils rattled onto the floor. You pressed a tissue to Avery’s face, and that little brat had the gall to laugh.
“I just hit my nose on my knee! I’m fine.”
Avery took the tissue in their own hand, and you remembered to pull yours away.
“Damn it.” Blood roared in your ears as you stared at the empty dirt road, fingers digging into the steering wheel, Avery stifling a nosebleed next to you. “Not a word of this to Winnie, okay?”
“Alright, Julius,” Avery spoke into the tissue, still laughing to themself. A chuckle escaped you as well, until you managed to force it down. This kid would be the end of you.
--
July rolled around, and it was time to get sowing. A sheet of graph paper with hastily scribbled instructions on it burned in the pocket of your coat. You kept it with you at all times so it wouldn’t get lost. Even if it was probably more likely to get lost this way, than if you kept it safely tucked in a drawer. Maybe it’d be for the best if it fell out. You weren’t exactly young anymore, and this blasted season was always the worst. Your cousin planted pumpkins, too, and every year he’d come to claim another bit of the field and then whine about it. He didn’t show when Avery was visiting, but he was probably grumbling about it somewhere out of earshot. That made things easier, at least.
You sat back in your chair, since your knee was acting up again, and let Avery take care of the urgent business. They weren’t half bad at the work, seeming to have a way with plants, even bringing one for your bedroom, where it sat in the corner. You saw it every day, first thing as you woke up, and you were expecting for it to wither away. But no, it kept its leaves, even pushing out new ones. Probably because Avery came in to fuss over it from time to time, spraying water on its leathery leaves, turning it to face the sun.
You never understood why they bothered anymore. Their garden already had its furniture, and you were hardly good company. Yet here they were, doing your work for a measly coke in return, some black licorice if you were feeling generous, which they bravely tried, but never ate very much of. And they beamed through it all, as though the work was fun for them. They tried talking to you, even when you got nothing clever to say. They asked if you’d come to a Halloween shindig, if they were to hold one in October. Of course you wouldn’t go. You’d just wind up standing in a corner, surrounded by drunken kids who couldn’t stand the sight of you.
They were coming here out of pity. That’s what it had to be.
It was hard to make them out from where you were sitting. The kid turned from a person to something person-shaped, to a blurry little speck in your field of vision. You squinted, but still couldn’t see them properly.
(Of course, you could have moved your chair closer. Get within earshot, chat about this and that with them into the late evening hours.)
(Like a faggot.)
You turned to look at the slowly setting sun, the treetops, the birds. Anything but Avery. You fiddled with the piece of paper in your pocket, picked it out, straightened it. The poem and the time of day, July, midnight. The razor waiting in the bathroom cabinet and the extra pumpkin seeds at the bottom of the bag, left there just in case.
It was no wonder that Avery felt sorry for you.
You were so fucking pathetic.