Covet Thy Brother’s Truck

by Travis Lee

Earl had just slathered the first lick of peanut butter on his toast when Chuck gurgled. Earl held the knife and the bread steady, watching his brother. They sat across from each other at a small, round breakfast table. Flies buzzed above dishpiles in the sink. Behind Earl, a cool morning breeze whispered through the screen door and groundfog crawled over the fields. Chuck gurgled once more. Then he keeled over in his chair, his elbow plunging into his cereal and splashing milk and Froot Loops on a stained, Dollar Store tablecloth.

Earl stabbed his butter knife upright in the peanut butter jar. Couldn’t you’ve waited till I was done fixin my damn toast?

#

Earl wolfed down his toast, saving the crust for the stray mutt who wandered by sometimes. He tossed the crust into the backyard one piece at a time. In high school he was the baseball team’s ace and twenty some-odd years later he still had his arm strength. He balled up the last piece of crust in his palm and launched it, a rocket that landed somewhere behind the natural gas tank Chuck once tried to shoot while drunk. Too many Michelobs mixed with jars of God knew what. When Chuck got to drinking, he got to thinking, and he wasn’t too good at either one.

I seen you out here, Earl whispered to the groundfog covering the fields. And now it’s time.

Earl went back in, latching the screen door behind him. He stood with his hands on his hips, eyeballing the scene. Chuck lay slumped in his chair, elbow still in the cereal bowl. Stray Froot Loops floated in a puddle of milk. It would dry and ruin the tablecloth if he didn’t wipe it up.

Earl sipped his coffee and checked the time on the stove. County Clerk’s office opened in about an hour and if he hurried it might be first in line.

#

Earl showered and got dressed. He sat in his truck, letting it warm up. All the work he’d put into it. A Ford F-150 from 1987, two gas tanks and beaded seat covers. In high school he’d pulled up to the bonfire like a king, the dual-exhaust roaring for miles. Earl on the tailgate in his letterman jacket with Susie and Sara, the S twins, while Chuck wandered around the party with a jar of homebrew. A man six years graduated, still partying with high schoolers. Chuck was a joke in Oakwood’s hallways, but it wasn’t Earl’s house or Earl’s land, it was Chuck’s, and it wasn’t Earl’s liquor or Earl’s keg, it was Chuck’s. Sumbitch was good for that much at least.

Motion in the groundfog jarred Earl from his dreams. The blur was quick and brown, the deer hopping into the woods. Gimme my thirty-thirty and I’ll knock your head back, but Earl hadn’t gone hunting since his daddy passed.

#

The County Clerk’s office was in downtown Easton and there was no line. The courthouse, the clerk’s office and city hall occupied the same building, facing a main street longing for better days. In his daddy’s youth Easton’s main street was bustling. Now it featured a few salons, a gunshop only open on Thursdays, the Dollar Theater boarding up its doors last summer.

Earl got out of his truck and bounded up the steps, wiping his boots on the welcome mat. Inside, the receptionist smiled at him from behind thick glass.

Yes sir?

I need to report a death.

Oh sorry to hear that sir. She wore thick-framed glasses and Earl was certain he knew her. She went on, I’ll just need you to fill out a form. Were there any medical professionals present at the time of death?

He died at home.

So no doctors or nurses?

No. Just me. Why?

She pushed up her glasses. Well, sir. First, we gotta notify—

While she babbled, Earl saw himself behind the wheel of the beautiful Cummins diesel that had belonged to Chuck. Big rims, a dual-exhaust purring at normal speeds and roaring louder than any other truck in the county. Cruising these country roads, envy of Carter County. Earl’s eyes watered.

Sir?

Earl wiped his eyes. Sorry. You were sayin?

You can go ahead and get this form done if you want. Only fill out the first two pages.

I ain’t got a pen.

She dug around in the drawers some more, turning up a pen, and passed the pen and the form under the glass.

Earl sat on a bench and filled out the form. Scratched letters on the pen identified it as property of Easton Motel. Earl finished the first two pages and went back to the desk. He pushed them under the glass.

The receptionist glanced over the first page. Alright sir, looks in order. That’ll be forty-four oh two.

Earl grunted. Death wasn’t cheap, but at least he wouldn’t have to worry about a funeral. He opened his wallet, attached to his belt by a silver chain, and forked over two twenties and a five.

The receptionist dumped his change in his palm and he stuffed the change in his pocket and hooked his thumbs through his beltloops. That the old governor? he asked.

Yessir. New one ain’t sent in no picture yet.

Shame. Earl looked at the receptionist. There any way I can just get it all done today? I’ll be needin that certificate.

Well sir, if you’re worried about the funeral, home don’t need one to store the body.

He ain’t gettin no funeral.

Oh. Well sir, you know you can’t legally bury your deceased till you get that certificate. And if you ain’t usin the morgue, you gotta keep the body on ice yourself. Now I can give you the funeral home’s number and the director over there’s ken to me, I know he’ll be happy to walk you through it, won’t be no trouble at all.

Alright. I’ll get that number from you.

#

Earl started his truck and read over the number. The receptionist crossed her 7’s and it weirded Earl out when people did that. The 7’s looked like they couldn’t make up their minds if they wanted to be F’s or t’s.

Earl folded the slip of paper and shoved it in the cupholder. Shouldn’t have to wait, he whispered, putting his truck in reverse. Done waited long enough.

He drove across Easton to First Volunteer Bank. The bank occupied an island of artificial grass in a concrete sea, a vast parking lot serving the bowling alley next door and the Electrolux plant in the back. Earl did a circle through the parking lot, letting his dual-exhaust roar. In high school all the dualed-out trucks backed in to the spots along the gym. Earl and the guys called it Murderer’s Row.

Earl backed in to a space a few feet from the door and got out of his truck. Guy backed in next to him drove a black GMC Sierra with Hunters displayed on the back window in fiery letters. Giddy, Earl picked up his step and hurried inside the bank.

He didn’t find Ricky Anderson, star running back Earl’s senior year, but Susie Bennett behind the glass, doing a crossword puzzle.

How about it? Earl said as he waltzed up to the counter. One of the S twins, the years after high school had done her no favors. She still had a big butt, but the rest of her had grown to match it and all that remained of her high school beauty was her eyes, deep blue and fixed on him with recognition.

Earl, she said with no sign of joy.

Hey it’s been a while. How was the reunion?

That ain’t till next month.

Well shit guess I’ll find out myself then. How was the other one?

That was ten years ago. What can I do for you?

Earl cleared his throat. He wanted to remind Susie that in high school she’d worn his letterman jacket and while she’d never let him hit it, Earl knew he’d come close. 

How’s Ricky?

Still doin landscapin.

Yeah. I remember him sayin somethin about wantin to start up his own business after high school.

Yep. Susie nodded, one hand on her crossword puzzle book. Well he did.

Guess I should keep in touch more. Earl grinned. His teeth were crooked, his gums receding. Last time he visited a dentist the dentist told him that he was suffering from chronic gum recession. Eventually his teeth would loosen and fall out, but he could hold it off by brushing and flossing every day. Five years later, and Earl’s teeth were still intact and saw a toothbrush whenever he felt like it.

You know people get educated and think they’re smart, Earl said.

Do what?

Oh nothin. Just thinkin out loud.

Yeah. She pinched a page in her crossword book. Can I help you with something?

Yeah you can actually. I need to open Chuck’s safe deposit box.

She closed her crossword puzzle book. You got the papers for that?

Not yet but the clerk said come on down here and open it. Earl smiled at her.

Susie returned none of his good humor. Earl couldn’t remember if she was this much of a bitch in high school or not. Oakwood was in short supply for hot girls, and the ones who did meet Oakwood’s standards flocked together, going not just for athletes but clean-cut athletes. Guys who lived in the country but were not of the country, guys like Ricky Anderson.

Like I said, clerk sent me over here to open it.

I need the forms.

Forms?

Yeah, the forms.

Earl shrugged. Clerk didn’t say nothin about no forms.

You either gotta have the forms, Susie said, Or you need you Chuck’s written permission.

Earl laughed. I ain’t gettin that. Chuck passed away this morning.

Sorry to hear that.

When the Good Lord calls your number, there ain’t no refusin it. Chuck’s in a better place now and he wanted me to open his safe deposit box when he passed, so…that’s why I’m here. To get that thing open in accordance with his last wishes.

Susie’s face reminded Earl of statues he’d seen in a social studies book. Earl hadn’t bothered to pay attention much in school. But what stood out to Earl was those statues, on some island in the Pacific Ocean. Someone built those things. Purpose didn’t matter to Earl—only to the builders. A huge undertaking, for themselves, and Susie’s expression was cut from the same sort of stone those Indians had used.

Earl, you ain’t openin your brother’s box without the forms.

#

Earl got home that afternoon. The groundfog had burned off but the sun remained locked behind sliding scums of clouds. Earl went in the house and the buzzing caught his ears. He approached the kitchen at a lope, catching sight of Chuck slumped in the chair, and a black blanket of flies covering the screen door.

A few flies lifted off, zipping in confused circles. The rest of them writhed as one black mass on the screen, and Earl curled his lips. He charged the door, yelling, and the flies billowed like a cloud of black smoke, settling once Earl retreated.

Sumbitches. Got the cure for you, and Earl grabbed a bucket from under the sink and filled it with tapwater. The faucet belched a few splashes of brown before pouring clear. Earl tilted the bucket, leaning it on the pile of dishes, letting the water swirl round and round. Then he shut off the faucet and hauled the bucket to the screen door.

Earl raised the bucket, Get yourselves somethin to drink, and he dumped the entire bucket on the screen door. Some of flies fell from the screen like torn velcro strips, others buzzing to safety on the outer edge of the porch.

Earl tossed the bucket aside and turned to his brother. Look what you done, draggin all these flies over here. He snatched a chair and sat facing Chuck. Earl glanced at the stoveclock. Just after four. Time for Chuck to start drinking, catch his first buzz and stare dully at a rerun of Cheers before drinking more and yelling at the nightly news.

You never reckoned it happenin like this, did you? Thought you might outlive me, but you didn’t. And you know somethin? Here in a few days, they’re openin that box you got at the bank, they’re givin me your keys and that truck of yours is mine. And don’t you worry none. I’ll take good care of her.

Earl got up and went to the living room. A sofa wrapped in yellowed bedsheets faced a rabbit-eared TV that picked up five channels, six if the weather cooperated. Earl plopped on the sofa and picked up the telephone. He called a family he knew and got their son on the phone, a teenager who cut his grass in the summer.

I need you to bury something for me, Earl told the boy. There’s fifty bucks in it for you. Can you come over tomorrow morning?

Blade agreed, and Earl hung up, thinking about what a stupid name that was. Blade. But that was the trend these days. Special kids grew up to become special adults, giving their kids special names. Where did it end? In some dim way, Earl understood the world had passed him by and that was fine, he was content to let it keep going.

#

Earl woke up several times in the night and the last time he lay in bed till the first hints of a new day snuck in under the curtains. Earl and Chuck’s old man had trusted them to take care of his legacy, and how had Chuck mourned him? Chuck, a grown man six years out of high school, threw a kegger on their property and he’d brought the kegs not in the F-150 that Earl drove around, but a brand-spanking new Cummins Diesel. Huge rims, a dual-exhaust that silenced every other truck. Nearly a hundred grand, and watching his brother, his dumbass brother too stupid to appreciate the wealth that had fallen in his lap, Earl had decided that Chuck’s truck would be his. He deserved it. Chuck didn’t deserve anything.

And now the day’s come.

Earl got out of bed and got dressed. He went to the back porch. The pile of dead flies was smaller than he remembered. Earl hosed off the porch and dug some flypaper out of his shed and strung up two pieces, flanking the screen door.

As Earl admired the flypaper, Blade pulled up in a beat-up Chevy S-10. Decent starter, nothing to brag about. Earl went over and shook his hand. The boy had a weak grip, but that was par for the course considering kids these days. He played on the football team and they chatted about the season. Blade thought there was a good chance the Warriors might make the playoffs this year and Earl thought if so, they wouldn’t make it past the first round with a handshake like that.

You need somethin buried? Blade asked.

Yeah come on in. Earl threw open the screen door and waved the boy inside.

Blade took a step back. That’s your brother.

Sure is. He passed yesterday morning, God rest his soul, and now I need you to give him a proper burial.

Don’t he need a funeral?

Didn’t want one. Wanted to be buried here on the family property like our daddy. Told it to me out of his own lips.

Blade wrinkled his nose. He scratched the few whiskers on his chin, nothing you’d call a proper beard. Ain’t there rules about this kinda stuff?

Ain’t no rules about a funeral. All I gotta do is bury him twenty-five feet from the road and as you can see, we’re plainly more than twenty-five feet from that there road.

I don’t know, Blade said. When you said you needed me to bury somethin, I was thinkin i a cat or dog.’

Since when’ve I had a dog? I’m payin you fifty bucks and it ain’t hard. I’ll even help you carry him.

I don’t know…

Hundred bucks then.

The boy’s gaze settled on Chuck and quickly shifted elsewhere. Lemme head out to my truck for a sec.

The screen door opened and slapped shut. When the motor started, Earl went outside. The boy’s truck cruised down the driveway, took a left and disappeared up the road behind a blend of creekside trees.

#

Earl was halfway through his peanut butter toast when the phone rang. With the bread in one hand, he picked up the phone with the other.

Yeah?

It was Blade’s father. Earl, you really ask my son to bury your brother?

Yeah.

Why the hell—  and Blade’s father laid into him.

Earl relaxed on the couch, chomping on his toast where it could be heard clearly on the other end. After Blade’s father was done, Earl said, What if I up it to a hundred and fifty?

My son ain’t buryin your damn brother, Earl.

Alright. Let me ask you somethin though. How come you give your boy such a dumbass name? Hello?’

Earl dropped the receiver back in the cradle and finished his toast on the couch. He got up and passed his brother and opened the screen door.

Past the gas tank, the mutt was sniffing around. He was mostly white, with a brown splotch stretching from his neck and ringing one eye. Earl couldn’t place the dog’s mix to save his life. He placed two fingers in his mouth and whistled. Hey!

The dog trotted up to him, tongue out. Earl knelt down and rubbed his ears, You’re a good boy aren’t you? You hungry? Earl held out his hand and as the dog went to gobble up the crust, Earl pulled his arm back and stood up straight, Check out my fast ball, and he balled up the crust and launched it past the natural gas tank. The dog ran after it and when the dog returned, Earl rubbed his ears again, There’s a good boy.

#

In the kitchen, Earl fit his dish in the pile like a Jenga piece, then turned to face Chuck. He guessed his brother weighed two-hundred pounds. In his heyday Chuck had clocked in at a buck fifty but that was before post-high-school pudge. The football team Chuck’s senior year, everyone picked them for State. The highlight of their season was keeping within one touchdown of eventual state champions Ezell-Harding, a private school recruited all the good players and best coaches, as Chuck was happy to point out, And we almost beat em. It’s alright though. We’ll see em again in the playoffs and beat em then, but the rematch stayed a fantasy. The Oakwood team Chuck and his buddies claimed was the best in school history bowed out in the first round of the playoffs, Chuck losing four fumbles.

Ya’ll just got lucky against Ezell, Earl said. Outside, thunder popped. It was cold already and the storms would roll over the house, leaving worse cold in their wake. Chuck once said tossing the football in the cold was like throwing a block of ice around, but it would be worth it to play on Thanksgiving, Except you never did. All that shit ya’ll talked, couldn’t even make it past the first round. What were ya’ll doin the night before? Partyin. Pretty hard to hold onto the football when you’re too hungover to know which way’s up.

Earl assessed his brother. The skin on Chuck’s forehead sagged like his flesh was sloughing off his skull and gray hairs curled from nostrils spiderwebbed in capillaries the color of a fever.

Earl thought over the steps needed to give his brother a proper burial. It wasn’t too complicated, and for a hundred bucks, a teenage Earl would’ve dug that hole with no gripes.

Kids these days got no work ethic, and Earl went out to the shed. The wind picked up, the shed’s sheetmetal walls groaning in a strong gust. Earl grabbed a shovel hanging from a hook on the wall and on the way back in winter winds tickled the back of his neck.

Earl leaned the shovel by the screen door and went in the kitchen. Thunder boomed, the house rattled, and Earl looked through the screen door to see the first explosion of rain, and the mutt whining in the downpour.

#

It rained all night and Earl slept dreamlessly, waking a couple hours before dawn. He listened. The mutt snored at the foot of the bed. Slowbeat of rain on the roof. Earl sighed.

He got out of bed and downstairs heard the buzz. The stench of the cerealmilk had grown worse and Earl pinched his nose as he leaned toward the back door, listening.

He opened the door and the buzz vanished. Earl switched on the kitchen light. One of Chuck’s gray eyes stared sightlessly at him. Earl checked the screen door but there were no flies and no noise but his own breathing, raspy, and the rainbeat of a Tennessee winter storm.

#

Earl let the mutt out through the screen door and grabbed the shovel. He pulled on his workboots and walked the wet grass and mud of his property. The mutt trotted playfully behind him. Scent of morning dew. Earl savored it as he did all things about this land, God’s country, let no one tarnish it.

The patch of land he chose was in the woods. Earl stabbed it with his shovel. The ground was soft enough and Earl looked back but the mutt was gone. Earl turned, clutching the shovel with both hands, and lowered his head. His own daddy was cremated, his ashes spread in the creek. Chuck had never specified what to do with his body, And besides it don’t matter. Oughta be happy you’re gettin a burial here and I’m not haulin your ass off to the morgue. Payin out the tail-end for some ugly motherfucker to pretty your ass up and put you in a nice box with a nice gravestone, beloved son and all that. You oughta be happy you’re getting this much, and Earl started digging.

By the time the hole was hip-deep, Earl stopped, leaning on the shovel. Sweat stung his eyes and he wiped at it with his shirtsleeve. The ground got harder to penetrate the deeper you dug. He thought about asking another kid—for a hundred bucks, they ought to be grateful—and pushed the idea away.

Earl left the shovel in the hole and climbed out, brushing himself off. The mutt came trotting out from around the gas tank soaking wet and Earl rubbed his ears, You been in the creek again? You been swimmin in the creek again ain’t you? You’re a good boy you’re a good boy, and Earl went in the house, latching the screen door behind him.

The stench hit him like a gust from a landfill. It reminded Earl of the cat. He and his daddy had been walking their property when they chanced upon a stray cat, its belly torn open. Earl gulped, half-digested scrambled eggs crawling up his throat, his daddy unaffected, Go grab my shovel, and Earl had gone to the house and brought back the shovel and he and his daddy had alternated digging a shallow grave for the cat, Chuck couldn’t help cause he was out working the drive-thru at the Hardees in Easton, one of the many jobs he’d fired from.

Earl hooked his shirt over his nose and stared into his brother’s gray eye, You never could keep a job longer than a week. Only reason Hardee’s didn’t get rid of your ass sooner was that manager had a crush on you. Can’t begin to imagine why, and Earl carefully lifted Chuck’s elbow out of the cerealbowl and dumped the sour milk over the dirty dishes. He placed the bowl outside the main formation of food-encrusted plates and stepped outside.

Earl lowered his shirt, sucking in cold, dry air. He looked at the sky. Plenty of daylight left. He looked out at the gas tank. The mutt was gone.

Alright then. Earl backed his truck up to the porch and lowered the tailgate. He went in the house through the front door and upstairs grabbed one of Chuck’s shirts from the closet. He used garden shears from the shed to cut a slice from it and tied that slice around his nose and mouth. In the kitchen he sifted through expired bottles of cleaner under the sink and snagged a pair of dishwashing gloves from the back, peeling cobwebs from between the fingers.

Earl pushed open the screen door and stood in front of his brother. Last job Chuck ever held was in the year after their daddy died.  On a Sunday morning Chuck stumbled home reeking of Michelob Ultra, Got fired they caught me bangin Cassie, and whether the part about Cassie was true or not, Kroger had indeed fired Chuck from bagging groceries. From there his life unraveled into a steady cycle of drinking and hangovers. Eventually the hangovers stopped but the drinking plowed right along, finally ending the other morning.

Earl gripped the top of the chair and tilted it. The weight nearly knocked him over. Shaking, Earl dragged the chair toward the back door.

He saw the problem but tried to force the chair through anyway, the sides knocking against the doorframe. Earl steadied Chuck and leaned on the doorframe, catching his breath. Angle, he whispered between breaths, and tilted the chair, grunting, its legs leaving scratchmarks on the floor. This house wasn’t much and once the interment was done, Earl thought he might build a new one. He deserved a nice house to complement his nice new truck.

C’mon. Earl angled the chair, but it still wouldn’t fit. Chuck’s body began its slide and Earl reached out, but it was too late.

Chuck slumped in the doorway, sour milk leaking out his lips.

Shit fuck shit. Earl worked the chair through the door and launched it into the yard, where it tumbled into a cherry bush. Panting, Earl looked down at his brother, You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me, and Earl wiped his forehead with his shirtsleeve. Way this was going, it might be better to do a damn funeral after all and the thought of all that time and money made Earl’s head hurt. Funeral directors were conmen. No better than carnival grifters. It was his damn land and his damn brother, and he’d bury the motherfucker any way he liked.

Earl took off his gloves. He went inside and drank water from the bathroom sink. He cupped handfuls into his mouth and on the way to the backporch heard the familiar crunch of tires on gravel.

Earl pushed open the screen door as the Carter County Sheriff’s Department cruiser rolled to a stop. It parked too close to Earl’s truck for his liking and he winced as the deputy swung open the door. The man who stepped out, his uniform clung to him like saranwrap, his belly sinking below his belt. It took Earl a moment too long to stamp a name on the cop’s face and when he did he grinned, Damn they’re still lettin you run around with a gun?

Guess they are, Tyler said. Got a call about you yesterday.

Yeah? Bout what?

I— Tyler began, but Earl cut him off.

Don’t shoot my guns off at the creek no more. Told ole Miss Annie sorry for wakin her granbaby up and now when I shoot em off I make sure and do it here.

It’s not that, Tyler said. It’s that.

Tyler jabbed a stubby finger at Chuck.

Yeah he passed yesterday.

Earl, there’s procedures you gotta follow.

I know. I’m buryin him twenty-five feet from the road.

Not just that. You gotta a casket of some kind?

I got some tarp in the shed.

Tyler rubbed his face. Look Earl, you gotta get a death certificate first, but before that a doctor’s gotta declare him dead, the medical—

Lady at the clerk’s office never mentioned that.

Well I spoke to her about an hour ago and she said she told you everything you need to do.

She didn’t tell me nothin, Tyler.

Well whatever you think she said or didn’t say, medical examiner’s gotta take a look—

What the hell for?

Rule out foul play.

Foul play? Shit. It’s Chuck, Tyler. It’s a damn miracle he lasted this long and you know I’m right.

Don’t matter. You gotta follow the rules, Earl, and once everything’s done, then you can bury him.

Earl squinted at the gas tank. He squinted instead of rolling his eyes ever since his daddy slapped the taste out of his mouth when he was a boy.

Fuck.

Earl pursed his lips, Listen Tyler. I gotta tell you the truth. I really don’t care how my brother gets buried. I already talked to the lady at the clerk’s office and I’m just waitin on them documents so I can go open his box at the bank. You know what’s waitin for me in there?

I sure don’t.

Keys to his truck. I’m getting ahold of Chuck’s truck, God rest his soul. Remember how he used to come out to parties drivin that damn thing full of kegs like he was cool or somethin. Fuckin grown man partyin with high schoolers. The fuck was wrong with him?

You oughtn’t speak ill of the dead, Earl.

Well shit, you know I’m right Tyler. Only reason anybody liked him was he got em beer.

Still, Tyler said, It’s not proper.

Yeah. So you gonna help me?

Help you what?

Haul Chuck to his final resting place. It ain’t far, just down yonder.

Did you hear a word I just said? Tyler stared at him wide-eyed and the look was the same one Earl gave Chuck many times. Shooting at the gas tank. Doing donuts in Old Lady Landry’s yard. Starting fights in the drunk tank before Earl could bail him out. Lighting—

—fires he can’t control, and Earl took a breath. Pain in the ass, Tyler. You know it and I know it.

Ambulance’ll be by soon to get him, Tyler said. You can ride with them or not, it don’t matter. Just need you to sign some papers when the morgue’s done pokin at him.

And then I can bury him?

You gotta get him a casket, Earl.

I said I got some tarp in the shed.

Tyler sighed, got back in his cruiser and left.

#

The ambulance showed up later that afternoon, no siren. It turned around and backed up beside Earl’s truck, putting more distance than Tyler had bothered with. The back doors opened and the EMTs were young, looked to be in football shape. The driver joined them and got Earl and Chuck’s names.

Bout how long’ll this take? Earl asked as the EMTs zipped up Chuck in a bodybag.

Will what take? the driver said.

Examinin my brother. Earl disliked the driver’s tone. He sounded like some college kid too smart for his own good, the types Earl and his buddies used to flick spitballs at in Algebra.

All told, takes about a week.

A week? I ain’t got a week.

Sir, the driver said, I don’t control the time. If you got an issue with it, you need to talk to the medical examiner. She’s the one who sets the pace and I can tell you your brother’s just the latest in the queue.

Latest in the queue…who the hell talks like that? Earl fumed, and after the ambulance was gone, he went back inside.

The chair was missing but Earl didn’t feel like retrieving it. Chuck had died in that chair and it could be infectious. Earl sniffed. The stench lingered, and he reached back and pulled the screen door shut, latching it.

He got on the phone and dialed the county clerk’s office. It took two tries to get ahold of her and he asked where his paperwork was.

Sir you gotta let the doctor and medical examiner take a look first.

Since when?

Sir, I told you yesterday what you need to do.

Earl stared at the TV and the antenna. Chuck used to say the rabbit ears looked like a hooker’s legs the way they were spread.

You sure there ain’t nothin you can do for me?

I’m sorry sir. Wish I could be of more help.

Earl hung up without saying goodbye. All this, over his dead brother. He rubbed his eyes. Making sense of the world was a tall task. Earl had anticipated Chuck’s death for years, only not like this. His brother would croak, Earl would toss him in some hole in the woods, and go riding around in his truck. His truck. A mighty Cummins diesel.

Earl got up from the couch.

#

After Chuck’s last trip to the drunk tank, the state took away his license—this time for good. Chuck was confined to the house or riding with Earl, and the longer Chuck drank, the more he stayed in. It often fell on Earl to head down to Herndon’s and buy his beer, but sometimes Chuck would walk down there. A couple times he hitchhiked. After all, everyone around here knew the Oakwood running back, greatest class in school history even if they did get upset in the first round of the playoffs thanks to Mr. Football’s four lost fumbles.

Earl had got onto Chuck for walking to Herndon’s, What the hell’re you thinkin? You lookin to get robbed or somethin? and Chuck just smiled that wide smile of his, blackening teeth strangers to brush and floss, and the longer Chuck drank, the more he cast his eyes away when Earl talked to him, only coming alive after several beers, waking up the next morning not with a hangover but with a dull glaze in his eyes, eager for the next drink.

It was Herndon’s Earl pulled into. A lone gas pump served the town, a parking lot on the side. Earl backed into a space, and spotting some girls coming out of the store, old habits took over. He revved his truck, the trick not to press the gas too hard, let her purr, don’t let her roar. Purring brings them in but the girls, who as they passed looked high school age and it was a coin-flip for legal, didn’t even glance in his direction. They piled into some loser Honda sedan and drove away.

Earl got out of the truck. The temperature was down and he stuffed his hands in his pockets and went inside. He bought a box of chicken tenders, asking the Indian man behind the register not to be stingy with the honey mustard. Earl also grabbed a liter of Sprite and paid for everything then sat eating his tenders in his truck. Across the street from Adams’ lone gas station was the Methodist Church. Earl couldn’t recall the last time he went—must’ve been before daddy’s passing.

Earl finished his tenders, burping the biting aftertaste of Sprite. He glanced around the parking lot hoping for another truck—a Chevy would work best—but there were none, and so he tossed his trash on the floorboard.

Earl followed the highway north. Miles of farmland later, Earl crossed the state line into Guthrie, Kentucky. Red neon lights danced on a sign for a country club, Billy’s, and the highway hauled Earl over the traintracks, past a buy-here pay-here lot and the scraps of Guthrie’s former downtown. Only place open was the historical society.

At the four-way, Earl drove straight.

He didn’t listen to the radio, the growl of the dual-exhaust his companion as night crept into the world, last signs of the sun burning out behind grain silos and smokebarns, skeletal winter trees framing a sparse country path and it was full night when Earl made it to the storage units.

Earl punched in the code. The gate opened and he cruised down a gravel road, triggering motionlights above the corrugated rolling steel doors guarding each storage shed. The road dead-ended at a caution sign and a rusty engine block painted in bird droppings. Earl parked facing the storage shed and killed the motor and sat there, his windows rolled down. He waited until the motionlight died. Then he stuck his hand out the driver’s side window and waved. The motionlight flickered to life. When it was dead again, Earl tried the passenger window.

When the motionlight remained dull, Earl got out of his truck through the passenger door and reached in the bed of his truck without looking, feeling for the bolt cutter. He grasped it with both hands and approached the massive steel door. Hundred and fifty bucks a month, more of daddy’s money down the drain and the morning of, Earl had tried to talk some sense into his brother, Ain’t no reason you can’t keep it in the driveway, and Earl went down the list, Disconnect the battery and Cover it up with a tarp and I’ll keep the tires inflated and at last, as a light sparked in Chuck’s eyes so rarely seen that it frightened Earl, You don’t trust me? Just keep em with the rest of your damn keys. It ain’t like I’m gonna go joyridin in it when you’re sleepin.

But Chuck insisted on storing his truck after the state revoked his license and got two of his buddies drive it out here—he wouldn’t even allow Earl that small pleasure. And the keys? In a lockbox, their freedom depending on red tape, bullshit to stop Earl from claiming what was rightfully his. 

Earl whispered, I’m glad you’re gone.

He knelt and worked on the first lock. Two padlocks secured the door and Earl grunted, squeezing the bolt cutters, pressing all his weight into them. The first lock snapped, the second.

Earl raised the corrugated door.

The truck was so beautiful it robbed Earl of his thoughts. He stared at it, awestruck. The motionlight died and in the dark he wetted his lips. He pulled the chain for the bulb hanging above the truck.

The truck was backed-in and unlocked. Chuck used to leave the keys on the dash when he was still allowed to drive and would stumble in drunk around midnight and pass out in the living room after doing donuts in the yard, the dual-exhaust terrorizing poor ole Miss Annie who lived across the creek. Earl held out some hope that Chuck’s buddies had accidentally left the keys here—like Chuck they weren’t the brightest crayons to come rolling out of the Crayola factory—but the dash was empty.

Ain’t no worry. I come prepared, and Earl eased his own truck close enough to kiss Chuck’s. Then he got the screwdriver and drill and jumper cables from his passenger seat. He laid in the seat of Chuck’s truck and compared his truck key to the drill bit, doing so until he knew the length by heart. Then he drilled into the keyhole. He drilled three times and lowered the drill and maneuvered the screwdriver in place. Leaving it alone, he got out of Chuck’s truck.    He popped both hoods and hooked the jump starter cables to the battery in Chuck’s truck. Earl started his own truck and waited a couple minutes.

Then he started Chuck’s.

His eyelids fluttered at the purr of the dual exhaust. He closed his eyes and he was back in high school, pulling into the party in a brand-new Cummins diesel. The girls couldn’t ignore him and Earl stroked the steering wheel.

He smiled.

He disconnected the jumper cables and backed his truck up. He cut the engine and got back in Chuck’s, now his truck, Should have always been mine now let’s see how you handle these roads, and Earl put the truck in drive.

He pulled out of the storage unit’s lot and cruised down the road. The dual exhaust purred, but dual exhausts weren’t meant to purr, they were built to roar. Earl stomped on the gas and hooted as the dual exhaust roared, triumphant in the hands of someone who could appreciate its beauty.

He turned without signaling, swerving onto a country road lacking a centerline. No barriers on the curves. Earl hooted some more and whooped and screamed Fuck yeah and approaching the traintracks, he gunned the motor.

The truck started to pass over the tracks, and rocked.

Motherfucker. Earl stomped the gas pedal. The dual exhaust roared like it was supposed to, but the truck refused to budge. He stomped again on the gas pedal. The dual exhaust belched.

Then it died.

Earl tried the keys. Icons flashed on the dashboard, but Earl couldn’t make heads or tails of them. Motherfucker, mother God damn—

Earl got out of his truck and popped the hood. He’d brought no flashlight and the engine was a cluster of vague shapes in the dark. Chuck wasn’t a gearhead and Earl apologized to the truck, Sorry. I’ll get you fixed up, don’t you worry.

A whistle blew.

A blinding light cut between families of crooked trees. It took a second for the situation to register in Earl’s mind and when he understood, he uttered a primal scream, his fingers and toes tingling.

No fuck no please, and Earl got behind the wheel. He shifted to neutral and ran to the back of the truck as the whistle blew again, louder, and he pushed. He groaned. He screamed.

The truck didn’t budge.

C’mon c’mon come the fuck on. Earl pushed, he slapped the tailgate, and now the light was upon him, swallowing him, the truck, and he fled back, waving in vain for the train to stop.

It didn’t. It collided with the truck and dragged it down the tracks, dumping it off in a pile of gravel.

Earl ran to the truck. And as the train slowed Earl fell to his knees, face buried in his hands, sobbing before a mangled, smoking wreck. 

BIO

A Tennessee native, Travis Lee is the author of several books available on Amazon, including Irish Lightning and Letters from a Dead Mentor. His short stories have appeared in The Colored Lens, The Rumen and As You Were: The Military Review, among other places. Connect with him on his free Substack: TL1138.substack.com