Volt: Stories Read Online Free Page B

swung open and a bent old woman stood there gawking at the boy, at Winslow standing over him. Winslow sprinted away, his arms pumping, quarters tumbling from his pocket down onto the icy asphalt.

12
    A thumping rattled the trailer door. Ham and Bently stood out in the freezing dark. Bently explained he had to put Winslow in jail, though he’d file no charges and knew those boys were bad news.
    “Just so folks think I’m keeping order,” the lawman said. “Don’t have to stay in the cell. I’ll even give you keys. Until the first of the year you just stick around the jail and don’t let folks see you. Then you’ll be free as a bird, with a new year and a clean slate.”
    Bently said Ham had something to tell him, too, and Ham stared into the cold trailer. “Goddamn, Red,” he said, rubbing the flab of his neck. “No wild-man shows for a while. Until New Year’s Eve, you got some time off from it.”
    Winslow nodded.
    “Bently’ll let you out to come to the house for Christmas, too,” Ham said. “You’re family to us, and we want you there.”
    Bently set a hand on Winslow’s arm. “We’re worried you’ll get down around the holidays. You feel blue, you’ll tell us, won’t you?”
    “I’m fine,” Winslow said.
    “We’ll worry anyhow,” the lawman said. “You just take it easy, friend. Get yourself back to center.”
    Winslow gave Ham a bottle of Scotch for Christmas. Now it was night, Christmas day come and gone, and Winslow poured a glass to empty the bottle. The family sat piled on the sofa across the room, Jim asleep, his head in his mother’s lap, Sheila slumped against Ham, Ham with his drink balanced on his belly and his feet up on the coffee table.
    It was quiet, very late, and Winslow asked, “Ever done something so bad folks won’t forgive you?”
    Sheila snuggled Ham’s shoulder. “I got married.”
    Ham smirked. “Didn’t use a rubber.”
    Wood popped in the chimney stove. Winslow watched the fire behind the grate. “I once met this fella who drove a train,” he said. “A train just don’t stop that fast. It just—” and Winslow gulped his Scotch, swallowed hard. “I mean, you ever stand by someone you can’t forgive? Ain’t no good saying, ‘I forgive you.’ Saying things don’t do nothing. Not really.” He held his glass to his cheek. “Just can’t move away from myself.”
    Sheila’s eyes opened, but she didn’t move. Ham glanced down at Jim, ran a hand over the boy’s head. “You oughtn’t drink so much, Red,” he said. “You don’t do well with it.”
    Winslow downed his Scotch, scooted to the edge of his chair. “Thanks for Christmas.”
    “You going?” Ham asked, sounding surprised.
    “Best get back to jail.”
    “You ain’t in no shape to travel, Red.”
    Winslow stood. “I’ll manage.”
    “You ain’t gonna do nothing to yourself?” Ham said.
    “Nah.” Winslow leaned clumsily to set the glass on the coffee table. “Got a big show in a few days.”
    Winslow curled listless on his cot. All but the hours of Bently’s visits, there he lay. He didn’t exercise, didn’t eat. Bently called in the doctor and Winslow claimed he just had a bug, said he’d be fine if they’d leave him to rest. The doctor gave him a bottle of pills. It was easy to dispose of them, to smash them beneath his heel and brush them away like so much dust. On the eve of New Year’s Eve, his sentence coming to an end, Winslow donned a resolute face.
    “Feel better today,” he told Bently. “Doc fixed me up fine.”
    But Winslow had endured a disintegration of spirit. He no longer felt all he’d been through was a penance for what he’d done, a punishment to be served. Now this was just his life. He’d die in this skin, feeling this way.
    Moonlight seeped through the high bars. Winslow thought of the train man whose path he’d followed months ago. He recalled the moon-white hair, the lips split by a scar. He could see the man racing through the barley, elbows