King of the Dirt Hill
by Rebekah Rowe
“Evening Train” by Jim Ross
The boys should be home and Shannon should be happy. Life was a litany of should. She sipped the red wine, savoring the moment it sucked all moisture from her mouth. Shannon could picture them now, jostling for space on the couch. Under the table, Charlie’s foot traveled up the length of her calf. He smirked at her, the dim restaurant light hiding the grey in his beard. When his toe reached the hem of her skirt, she kicked him and picked up her menu.
Shannon could order for them both with her eyes closed, but she let Charlie look, let him believe he’d try something new. At the end of the night, the receipt would read one bottle of cabernet, one spinach and artichoke dip, one vodka penne, one spaghetti and meatballs, and whatever the cheesecake special was for the night. Twenty years of weekly date nights spelled out with black ink and assigned a price.
When Charlie’s foot reappeared like clockwork along her shin, Shannon sighed and reached for her glass.
-
Acorns crunched beneath the tires of the boys’ bikes. The wind carried the sweetness of decomposition. Sixteen, fourteen, and twelve, the brothers rode in their birth order past inflatable black cats and unlit jack-o’-lanterns. To live in this town, in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains, meant recognizing fall’s arrival only upon its departure. You walk out of the house one morning to a blanket of fallen leaves and it’s time to drag your winter coat out of the box beneath your bed. The boys had caught one of the rare autumn nights.
Marshal led the way while Beckham cut a constant, winding path too close to Wilder's bike, who struggled to keep the pace.
“Beck, cool it!” Wilder yelled. They crested a speedbump, catching air like squirrels leaping to the closest branch.
“Just go faster!” Beckham yelled.
Marshal stayed silent, his back a wide stretch of cotton. Navigating the elevation changes, clutching their brakes, and slowing for stop signs, the boys neared their neighborhood’s entrance.
The rule was to not use the car while their parents were gone. Marshal had his license but could only drive the boys to school. Their parents assumed the boys were at least confined to the neighborhood. Up until that night, their assumptions had been correct.
What Beckham and Wilder didn’t know yet was there was a girl. She accounted for Marshal’s generous mood, for the offer of ice cream, for the insistence that biking the three miles to town would be an adventure.
Stopping by the Oakridge neighborhood sign, newly landscaped with red-orange marigolds, Marshal turned to them. “From now on, we stay on the sidewalk, no trying to pass each other.”
“Yes sir,” Beckham said in a heightened southern accent, saluting Marshal. Using his shirt, he wiped sweat from his forehead. On a whim, Beckham had grabbed his dad’s old letterman jacket with its cracked leather and rusted wrestling pins. It usually hung in the garage, but tonight he had the bright idea of wearing it.
“And if we get caught, we play dumb,” Marshal said. Their parents had left the house at 5:30, which meant they had about an hour and a half to spare.
“We can always blame it on Wild. Mommy never gets mad at her favorite,” Beckham said.
“Just stick to what you’re good at, Beck. Playing dumb,” Wilder said, sticking his foot out to kick Beckham’s tire. “You look ridiculous in that thing, by the way.”
Beckham let the bike drop and got in Wilder’s face. Wilder glared back.
“Enough. Do you guys want ice cream or not?” Marshal asked.
Wilder and Beckham looked at each other and shrugged, the boiling pot settling back to its low, constant simmer. With Marshal leading the way, the boys took off toward town.
-
Shannon watched as Charlie dripped melted cheese across the table.
“So, tell me about your week.” Charlie popped the crisp pita chip in his mouth.
This was her chance to be honest. She could tell him about the thoughts that kept her up at night. She could admit she’s restless, that she doesn’t recognize herself anymore. Shannon used her napkin to wipe her mouth.
“Well, my principal announced that our classes will be even bigger next year. I’ll have close to thirty fifth graders.”
“Tell him you refuse to teach that many,” Charlie said.
“You know I can’t do that.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s not right.”
“No one is concerned about what’s right in that school. He’ll accuse me of not being a team player and stick me with car-line duty again.”
“So, nothing will ever change?” Charlie’s face wore that same knit-brow expression he used for the injustices of the world. In the past, she’d try to explain that she didn’t need a solution, just shared understanding. Now she just sipped her wine.
After a moment, he shrugged. “What do I know?”
She released her shoulders, stretching her neck left, then right. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll think about it.” They finished the appetizer in silence.
“Tell me something I don’t know about you,” Shannon said, shifting in her seat.
Charlie looked at her. “Why?”
“Because it’s fun. Think of it as an icebreaker.”
“We’ve known each other since we were teenagers, I hardly think we need an icebreaker.”
“Fine, I’ll go first. Do you know when I first fell in love with you?”
Charlie grinned and put his elbows on the table. “Let’s see, we met the summer after I graduated. Was it at the pool? I did have a six-pack back then.”
“Nope, it was before that.”
“Tell me.”
“It was at Patrick’s funeral.”
The smile slipped from Charlie’s face. He sat back in his chair. “Patrick Donahue? You were there?”
“I saw you carry the casket out.”
“God, I barely remember that day.”
She’d attended the funeral with her parents because it was the right thing to do. The entire town was drawn to the church, some in sincerity, some for the spectacle. Every parent in attendance feared the reach of this unnatural loss. They sat in the pews and stood in the back contemplating the hand of death snatching their children before them, swimming on the surface of empathy but wanting no part of its reality.
In the final song, Shannon snuck away to the bathroom, unable to hold it any longer. She lingered with her hands under the warm water, hoping to never attend an open-casket funeral again. In the years to come, she would attend many.
When she walked out into the church lobby, she heard music and watched as the double doors swung wide to reveal men holding aloft the lacquered wooden box. At the front, almost buckling under the weight, was a seventeen-year-old Charlie. Tears had soaked the blue collar of his dress shirt, and his face was twisted in agony.
To feel loss so deeply and reveal it unashamed struck a chord in Shannon. That part of Charlie, broken and beautiful, flickered before her now.
“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have brought it up.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re right, I didn’t know.”
Their pasta came, steaming and fragrant. They passed forkfuls back and forth, the tastes so familiar.
-
Had their parents dined in town, they would have seen the bikes fly past, skidding to a stop under the pale pink sign. “Scoops & More” served as an air-conditioned haven, smelling of crystalized sugar and milk. With the change in weather, business had slowed. Marshal opened the door to an empty establishment.
“Good evening,” a delicate voice said from behind the glass-topped freezers. The girl stood up, revealing brown hair pulled back into messy braids. Sitting behind her in math class, he’d often fantasized about touching them, following the overlapping sections with his fingers.
The boys muttered hellos and shuffled over to inspect the flavors. Wilder read each placard from left to right while Beckham beelined to the brightest color. Marshal kept glancing toward the girl. She held a book with a spine so cracked it looked ready to break in half.
“What are you reading?” Marshal asked.
She looked up, then flipped the book over to reveal the cover. “It’s for my AP Lit class. We had to choose a classic and I picked Wuthering Heights.”
Marshal nodded, though he knew he would never darken the doorway to that curriculum. While he excelled at math, books, with their small fonts and big feelings, did nothing for him.
“How is it?” he asked.
“I think I chose wrong. My friend is reading about boys eating each other on an island while I’m learning about bitter people and a creepy house.”
“Do you do samples?” Beckham asked, drumming his hands on the glass.
“Beck,” Wilder scolded.
“What?” Beckham asked.
“Yes, we do samples. What would you like?” Sally stood and placed the book on her stool.
“The cotton candy,” Beckham said.
“And I’d like raspberry,” Wilder added.
Sally took tiny spoons from a jar and turned to Marshal. “And you?”
“I already know what I want.”
“Boring,” Beckham muttered.
“Beck, you get cookie dough every time,” Wilder said.
“At least I try other flavors. I can’t help that cookie dough is the best.” The two bickered while Marshal watched Sally stand on her tiptoes to reach the farthest flavor. After handing out the samples, she turned to him.
“What can I get you?”
“Vanilla in a waffle cone.”
“How very classic of you.”
His laugh, a strangled, startled noise, made both of his brothers go quiet.
The interaction was fast, three oversized scoops teetering on top of cones exchanged for crumbled bills and warm coins. Sally told them to have a nice day with her book back in hand.
“So, who’s the chick?” Beckham asked once outside. Wilder licked his scoop while searching Marshal’s face.
“What do you mean?” Marshal asked, rotating his cone.
“We aren’t stupid,” Wilder said. “Well, at least I’m not.”
They waited, glancing from their cones to their brother.
“She’s in one of my classes.”
“What’s her name?” Wilder peered through the window.
“Sally.”
“Sally and Marshal sitting in…” Beckham began.
“Shut the hell up.”
They ate their ice cream fast, the setting sun glaring.
“We better go,” Marshal said. The boys gathered their bikes and started toward home.
-
“Something you don’t know, huh?” Charlie tossed his napkin on the table.
“Oh, forget it. It was a dumb idea.”
“No, it’s only fair that I have a turn.” The spiced apple cheesecake was on the way.
While Charlie scratched his beard, she looked out the window. As the sun set, a nearby tree with yellow leaves began to glow. For a moment, the everyday combination of limbs became otherworldly. Shannon stared, transfixed until a voice, too close and too raspy, pulled her back to the restaurant.
“Well, hey there Charlie. I haven’t seen you in a minute.”
Blinking the sunlight away, Shannon narrowed her eyes at the polished fingernails resting on her husband’s shoulder.
“Hello, Amanda,” Shannon said, reaching for her wine.
“Hi there, hon.” The woman, all teased hair and tits, rubbed her palm against Charlie’s arm. “How are the boys?”
“They’re crazy as always,” Charlie said.
Her husband was an open book, to a fault. Shannon understood Charlie and Amanda’s shared history, of Friday nights beneath bleachers and cars parked in deserted lots. Like a lot of women in this town, she was fueled and flushed by the memory of an eighteen-year-old Charlie in his singlet. Shannon viewed her like a fly circling a picnic. You could swat or ignore it, either way, it kept coming back.
Shannon saw the dessert approaching and shifted her gaze back to the tree. It was back to its dull, common state.
“We better finish up here. Our boys could be up to anything by now,” Charlie said.
“You have a good night, Amanda. It was lovely seeing you.” Shannon gave her a syrupy smile.
As the woman walked away, Charlie started laughing.
“What?” Shannon asked.
“You shouldn’t lie. It is never lovely seeing that woman.”
“I couldn’t possibly know what you mean,” Shannon said in her thickest drawl, leaning forward and batting her eyelashes.
They shared the dessert in alternating bites. Outside, the sun disappeared behind the building, and the blues and greens of their world deepened.
-
On their way home, the boys passed what used to be a stretch of dense wood, now scraped clean, revealing a swath of red clay. Foundations were prepared but the subdivision remained in its earliest stage, just a simple sketch of what would become tidy yards and two-story homes. At its center sat a pile of dirt, as if five dump trucks had, one after the other, delivered their goods and gone home.
In the distance, the train, which made daily trips through town, sounded its horn. Pulled by some unnamed force, the boys entered the development, biking to the edge of the mini mountain. Beckham hopped off and started to climb.
“What’s all this for?” he asked as sediment gave way below him.
“To fill holes and make sure everything is flat before building.” Marshal had been supplying answers since his brothers were old enough to ask questions.
Beckham’s shoes sank deeper with each step. As the incline increased, he used his hands, crab-walking his way to the top.
Standing at the crest, Beckham grinned down at them. That look should have been a warning, but Wilder and Marshal watched as Beckham took large handfuls of dirt and threw them out like a flower girl at a wedding.
Wilder blinked and shook his head while Marshal scrambled up the pile.
“You’re dead, Beck!” he yelled. Marshal was all long limbs and athleticism, reaching Beckham in seconds. He grabbed Beckham’s legs, pulling hard. They struggled, Beckham laughing, trying to maintain position. Size and strength won out and Beckham went rolling, coming to a stop at Wilder’s feet in a cloud of dust.
Marshal stood, his arms held wide. “I’m king of the hill!” he yelled. The train’s horn rang out, this time so loud that the boys turned toward the sound. Wilder took off with Beckham close at his heels.
“Is that the train?” Beckham asked.
“What else would it be?” Wilder stepped over patches of poison oak toward the just visible train cars. The railroad ran straight through town, parallel to Main Street, then traveled through the woods toward its next stop. It always seemed to be coming or going, slowing down then speeding up again, but never motionless.
Marshal slid down the hill and jogged to where they stood at the edge of the gravel embankment.
“Why did it stop?” Wilder asked. He used to love playing with his train set, spending hours lining up the wooden tracks.
“What does it say?” Beckham asked, gesturing to the graffiti cutting across the white metal belly. All three boys tilted their heads to the left.
Beckham and Wilder moved closer.
“Be careful,” Marshal said. His brothers looked so small beside the hulking train. He had taught them how to ride their bikes and how to brush their teeth. Being close in age, it was easy to forget that they were still children. At sixteen, he felt invincible.
Wilder placed his hand against the cool metal.
“I dare you to climb on,” Beckham said to Wilder. “There’s a ladder right there.”
Wilder, the one who always stayed behind, who tested the water and erred on the side of caution, moved closer.
“Don’t even think about it,” Marshal said, scrambling up the gravel incline.
Wilder wrapped his fingers around a rung and looked back to Beckham. Testing its strength, he pulled his feet up. Beckham’s expression of shock was victory enough.
“Get down!” Marshal yelled.
Wilder followed the momentum until he was at the top of the ladder. From that height, he could see the top of the box cars.
“What do you see?” Beckham asked. Just as he reached up to follow, a long whistle blew. Within seconds, the train was moving, the scrape of metal loud. Wilder started down the ladder and Beckham moved forward, still trying to climb aboard.
Marshal grabbed Beckham’s shirt and jerked him backward.
“Wild, you’ve got to jump!” Beckham yelled. He jogged to keep up with the train.
Wilder looked down and froze at the sight of the wooden beams disappearing and reappearing in the gap between the train cars. “Marsh! What do I do?”
“Hold on!” Marshal yelled, pulling Beckham away from the train. Wilder pressed his body close to the ladder. “Just keep holding on!”
“Oh my god, oh my god,” Marshal muttered as they raced to their bikes.
“Where are we going, Marsh?” Beckham asked.
“We’re following the train!”
“He’ll never jump off. You know that. He’ll ride that thing to Georgia.”
“It has to slow down somewhere.”
Beckham, looking doubtful on all fronts, said nothing as he matched Marshal’s movements.
They stood on their pedals and crossed Main Street. Almost completely dark, the boys flashed in and out of the glowing streetlamps.
-
“Put your seatbelt on,” Shannon said, propping her bare feet on the dashboard.
“Yes, ma’am,” Charlie replied. He reached over and ran his thumb across her eyebrow, tracing over her cheekbone and along the hard edge of her jaw. “I still put flowers on the bridge where Patrick died. Every year in January.”
She blinked and held his gaze. She always noticed the yellow artificial roses, so bright against the stark winter landscape. “I didn’t know that was you.”
He nodded, then kissed her on the forehead. As he pulled out of the parking space, Shannon found one of their old wedding songs on the radio.
Charlie sang along, getting most of the words wrong. Shannon switched the radio again, landing on a classic rock station. She tapped her toes, leaving behind moist prints on the windshield. He drove with one hand behind her headrest.
The feeling of dread settled in her gut. She couldn’t remember when it started, this desire to drive past the school in the morning and take the entrance ramp onto the highway, to drive until she didn’t recognize anything. A family of her own, a house, a job. Like candy left too long in the mouth, the satisfaction had gone soft and sticky. It was supposed to feel good. It scared her when it didn’t.
Shannon rolled down the window and leaned into the breeze as two bodies flashed by. Some inkling of a letterman jacket formed in the dark. She reached over and grabbed Charlie’s arm.
“Turn around,” she said, shifting to look behind them.
“What, why?” Charlie asked, still bobbing his head to the music.
“Just do it.”
Charlie cut a sudden U-turn and drove back the way they came, glancing over at his wife, whose face almost touched the windshield.
“There,” she pointed.
“The two men?” Charlie asked.
“It’s the boys,” Shannon said.
“Is that my old jacket?” Charlie asked, leaning forward.
Shannon unbuckled her seat belt and stuck her head out the window.
“Hold on,” Charlie said, reaching over to grab the hem of her shirt.
“Marsh! Beck!” she yelled, waving her arms. They pulled up alongside them and she yelled again. Only then did the boys recognize their parents.
Beckham braked and watched his mother jump out of the truck the moment it slowed. Unable to catch his breath, Beckham let the bike fall as his mother’s arms wrapped around him.
“He- he-” Beckham stuttered.
“He what? What’s wrong?” she asked.
Charlie left his truck running and his door wide open. Yards away, Marshal stopped but kept the bike under him, a foot still on the pedal.
“Marsh!” Charlie said, jogging over. He held the boy’s handlebars, afraid he might bolt.
“We have to go! We have to get him!” Marshal yelled, frantically looking everywhere but at his father.
“Slow down. Where is Wilder?” Charlie asked, his voice cracking.
“I told him to jump! I told him to be careful!”
“Where is Wilder, honey?” Shannon whispered in Beckham’s ear.
“He’s on the train,” Beckham said, his eyes shining beneath the streetlamp.
“Where is he?” Charlie asked again, grabbing Marshal by the shoulders.
“The train stopped, and he climbed on!” Marshal yelled.
The parents spun to look at each other.
“Which way was it headed?” Charlie asked, looking back and forth between the boys. They pointed in the direction of the next town.
Shannon rushed to the passenger side, pulling Beckham with her. Charlie flipped the console up so Marshal could sit in the middle. As they pulled away, Marshal looked in the rear-view mirror and saw their bikes splayed on the sidewalk. Beckham sat on his mother’s lap, not caring that he was too old. The boys cried, Marshal out of shame, Beckham out of fear that he would never see Wilder again. Charlie sped, thinking of all of the wild stunts he and his best friend used to pull, racing cars and hopping trains on the regular. He gripped the wheel harder thinking of Patrick and the icy bridge, of getting the call in the morning with the terrible news. Shannon wrapped her arms around Beckham and thought of their cell phones left at home, side by side, on the kitchen counter. They kept the music off and the windows down to hear the train, hoping Wilder could hold on a little longer.
-
Wilder kept his eyes closed. The wind blew around him, and his sneakers were slick on the metal rungs. Images flashed of his body crushed along the tracks, left for his family to find in the morning. Already his arms were shaking, and he wondered how long he could hold on, how far his strength could take him. Wilder tried to open one eye, then thought better of it. He still slept with the closet light on, and with two siblings close in age, he was never alone. He hated Beck for this dumb idea, and he hated himself more for wanting to impress him.
Enveloped by squealing and clanging, he breathed through his anger and within the frequency of heavy machinery, found an unfamiliar inner silence.
Opening his eyes, he watched the tree limbs pass. He risked letting a hand go to push his hair back, looking first at the rusted metal ladder, then the gap of darkness below his feet. He reached a hand, then a foot, to climb to the top. The moment his head crested the car, the wind revealed its full power, billowing his shirt and sending goosebumps along his chest. He tried to see the front of the train. Somewhere in his mind, he understood it would slow again, giving him a chance to jump off.
He got used to the cold and the speed, comfortable in this new state of risk. Still clinging to his stolen ride, Wilder smiled into the wind.
He didn’t know it yet, but soon, in the neighboring town where his parents ate dinner earlier that night, his father would grab ahold of the ladder and help him down. His mother would envelope him, her face pressed against his neck, and he’d spot his brothers in the headlights of his father’s truck, running toward him.
But for now, he wrapped one arm through the top of the ladder and threw the other into the air, feeling the whisper of leaves against his fingertips.
Rebekah Rowe is a recent graduate of the Pacific University MFA program in Fiction. She lives in Greenville, South Carolina, and works at The South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. "King of the Dirt Hill" is her first published short story.
Jim Ross jumped into creative pursuits in 2015 after a rewarding career in public health research. With a graduate degree from Howard University, in seven years he's published nonfiction, fiction, poetry, photography, hybrid, interviews, and plays in nearly 200 journals on five continents. Photo publications include Barnstorm, Bombay Gin, Blood Orange, Burningword, Camas, Columbia Journal, DASH, Ellipsis, Feral, Marathon, Memoryhouse, Phoebe, SPRR, Saw Palm, Stoneboat, Stonecoast, The Ignatian, Typehouse, UU World, and Whitefish, with Allegory Spoon, Glassworks, and Peatsmoke forthcoming. Photo-essays include Amsterdam Quarterly, Barren, DASH, Friends Journal, Kestrel, Ilanot Review, Litro, NWW, Paperbark, Slant, Sweet, Typehouse, and Wordpeace, with Pilgrimage Magazine forthcoming. He recently wrote and acted in a one-act play and appeared in a documentary limited series, I Sniper, broadcast internationally. Jim and his wife—parents of two nurses and grandparents of five little ones—split time between city and mountains.