each could have been perfect, he took a
step back. Later I’d learn he’d done this because he’d seen that jerk hitting on me
at the secret sprint and figured I maybe needed a break from men, but just after he
stepped back, I wondered if he’d just blown our chances for a best-in-a-lifetime first
kiss. And then, the longer we stood, with no summer breeze or starlight between us,
the more I felt disappointment and doubt and an irksome new nervousness.
And I should probably also admit that it was then, as we stood there, that Tug realized
he’d always cherish me for telling him to let light from stars guide him, so he wanted
to thank me—though he was wise enough to know that thanking me out loud right then
might ruin whatever good moments we had left. So he decided to instead thank me with
a gift as soon as possible, not with anything near as risky as an engagement ring,
just something to let me know he cared for me, maybe even believed that, despite our
weirdnesses as horse folk, love between us was possible.
The problem with gifts, though, diamonds or not, was that they cost money, of which
Tug never had more in his pocket than the few dollars luck had spared him if Tom had
just won big. Yes, Tug had saved cash for college thanks to the horse farm’s best
days, but that cash had long been untouchable, sitting as it did in his parents’ savings
account.
What Tug needed—and soon, he realized—was work, any kind of work, even a low-paying
stint like mucking stalls for some trainer who’d recently won a few purses and could
now afford an extra hand. Though for Tug, employment had never come easily. Just after
high school, when he’d hunted for a job painstakingly—beforehis parents had relented and let him use their meadow for his horse farm—owners of
the most lucrative horses and the thriving shops on Main had often asked him one question,
a question whose unfriendly undertow now made him cringe:
“You’re that Corcoran guy’s son, aren’t you?”
25
DEESH
THE COP LIES ON ASPHALT less than five feet from me, and, from the sidewalk beyond him, a teenage brother
eyes me. He is not Jasir, but he still makes me realize how I, Deesh, look sitting
right here, in this pickup beside this fallen cop with a bullet-torn cheek.
“Go!”
Bark screams, the barrel of his gun now up against my ear, so I drive off, freaked
by death’s quickness, by Bark’s now undeniable bonds with violence, by the hundreds,
hell, thousands of nights I’ve hung with him. Were we ever blood-brother tight, even
when we won state? There has always been this tendency of his to end our conversations,
to not even answer my most direct questions. There has always been this unvoted-on
rule that, somehow, Bark is in charge.
Hell, right now, up against his gun, I am taking lefts and rights and swerving exactly
as he tells me to. I am speeding all the way tothe GW Bridge, where I accelerate onto the lower level, to hide us from the helicopters
he fears. Maybe, I realize, he’s played pals with me for those times when, against
my better judgment, I’d accept UPS’d packages full of baby powder and crack for him
at my address, or I’d answer his phone when common sense screamed it was stupid to
help him lay low.
And now, on the dash radio, there’s this white dude saying, “police activity in the
Bronx,” which means Bark and I aren’t far from millions of people wanting our faces
torn by bullets, too.
But the broadcast gave no descriptions, I tell myself, and to calm myself I try to
picture Mississippi, but Mississippi, right now, means nothing to me, no fellow tenants
sure to smile, no women I’ve slept with, certainly no Madalynn and definitely no Jasir,
and now Bark and I roll from the GW into Jersey, approaching overhead signs for Fort
Lee, I-95 South, the Palisades, Highway 1, Highway 9, I-80 West, something about the
end of I-95,
and Bark is
step back. Later I’d learn he’d done this because he’d seen that jerk hitting on me
at the secret sprint and figured I maybe needed a break from men, but just after he
stepped back, I wondered if he’d just blown our chances for a best-in-a-lifetime first
kiss. And then, the longer we stood, with no summer breeze or starlight between us,
the more I felt disappointment and doubt and an irksome new nervousness.
And I should probably also admit that it was then, as we stood there, that Tug realized
he’d always cherish me for telling him to let light from stars guide him, so he wanted
to thank me—though he was wise enough to know that thanking me out loud right then
might ruin whatever good moments we had left. So he decided to instead thank me with
a gift as soon as possible, not with anything near as risky as an engagement ring,
just something to let me know he cared for me, maybe even believed that, despite our
weirdnesses as horse folk, love between us was possible.
The problem with gifts, though, diamonds or not, was that they cost money, of which
Tug never had more in his pocket than the few dollars luck had spared him if Tom had
just won big. Yes, Tug had saved cash for college thanks to the horse farm’s best
days, but that cash had long been untouchable, sitting as it did in his parents’ savings
account.
What Tug needed—and soon, he realized—was work, any kind of work, even a low-paying
stint like mucking stalls for some trainer who’d recently won a few purses and could
now afford an extra hand. Though for Tug, employment had never come easily. Just after
high school, when he’d hunted for a job painstakingly—beforehis parents had relented and let him use their meadow for his horse farm—owners of
the most lucrative horses and the thriving shops on Main had often asked him one question,
a question whose unfriendly undertow now made him cringe:
“You’re that Corcoran guy’s son, aren’t you?”
25
DEESH
THE COP LIES ON ASPHALT less than five feet from me, and, from the sidewalk beyond him, a teenage brother
eyes me. He is not Jasir, but he still makes me realize how I, Deesh, look sitting
right here, in this pickup beside this fallen cop with a bullet-torn cheek.
“Go!”
Bark screams, the barrel of his gun now up against my ear, so I drive off, freaked
by death’s quickness, by Bark’s now undeniable bonds with violence, by the hundreds,
hell, thousands of nights I’ve hung with him. Were we ever blood-brother tight, even
when we won state? There has always been this tendency of his to end our conversations,
to not even answer my most direct questions. There has always been this unvoted-on
rule that, somehow, Bark is in charge.
Hell, right now, up against his gun, I am taking lefts and rights and swerving exactly
as he tells me to. I am speeding all the way tothe GW Bridge, where I accelerate onto the lower level, to hide us from the helicopters
he fears. Maybe, I realize, he’s played pals with me for those times when, against
my better judgment, I’d accept UPS’d packages full of baby powder and crack for him
at my address, or I’d answer his phone when common sense screamed it was stupid to
help him lay low.
And now, on the dash radio, there’s this white dude saying, “police activity in the
Bronx,” which means Bark and I aren’t far from millions of people wanting our faces
torn by bullets, too.
But the broadcast gave no descriptions, I tell myself, and to calm myself I try to
picture Mississippi, but Mississippi, right now, means nothing to me, no fellow tenants
sure to smile, no women I’ve slept with, certainly no Madalynn and definitely no Jasir,
and now Bark and I roll from the GW into Jersey, approaching overhead signs for Fort
Lee, I-95 South, the Palisades, Highway 1, Highway 9, I-80 West, something about the
end of I-95,
and Bark is
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