My father was next to appear on the porch. He shot a brief glance my way, his eyes unable to conceal the indifference he felt toward me, and did not speak. The moisture of his bath remained on his body; his forehead was slick and his shirt clung to his chest and back in damp pools. The old man was still hard and muscular, and the half-football bulge just above his belt was solid to the touch. He stood at the edge of the porch for a minute as he fished a cigarette from the pack in his breast pocket, slipped it between his lips, and began patting his pockets to locate his lighter. Once the torch had been found, he lowered himself down on the top step to fire up his smoke. A high-pitched whine escaped from deep in his body as he inhaled hard on the first draw, then allowed the exhaust to slowly escape from his mouth, sending up tendrils of white smoke that danced in front of his face. Streaks of gray were starting to show at the old man's temples and the white scars of a hundred fights flickered like bits of neon on his tanned face. He smelled of Marlboros and the hair cream that glistened on the back of his pockmarked neck. While he sat and smoked, Dad pulled and twisted the metal wristband of the watch that hung loose around his left wrist. He twisted the watchband whenever he got nervous or anxious, and the trips to the prison always caused him angst. He didn't like the visits, and I don't think he liked Edgel. I grew up never understanding the underlying reason for the dislike, but I assumed it was simply the result of two hotheads living under the same roof.
Mom was last out the door with a bag of cookies and treats for Edgel, which were packed up in a shopping bag that dangled from her right wrist. In her right hand were the house keys. She pulled the knob with her left hand, snugging the door tight against the jamb, then locked the deadbolt with the key in her right. I continued to rock and Mom stood quietly until Dad flicked the burning butt of his Marlboro into the yard, the tacit signal that he was ready to go.
On this Sunday, the first in June, he pitched his cigarette when he saw the rattletrap, red pickup truck begin its ascent from Red Dog Road, groaning and throwing stones as it strained against the steep drive. It was my brother Virgil, who had called collect the previous night to say he was coming home for the day. Virgil had worked through the night tearing down a carnival in Parkersburg, West Virginia, and had a day off before heading to a festival in Huntington.
I had never gotten along with Virgil. The truth is, I couldn't stand to be around him. He was very much like my dad, bitter and always angry at the world, and as a brother seven years his junior, I had proved to be the perfect punching bag on which he vented his myriad of frustrations. From what I could tell, Virgil had never made a single mistake in his life. To listen to him talk, you would have thought the entire world was involved in a sinister, conspiratorial plot to make his life a living hell. Virgil had always been my dad's favorite. He and Virgil got along, in part, because they seemed to share a soured outlook on life and a mutual lust for alcohol and fighting. Dad couldn't control Edgel and thought I was a momma's boy because I didn't like to go looking for a fight.
Virgil took the back seat behind my dad and immediately bummed a cigarette and the old man's lighter. The car's undercarriage scraped on the gravel as it dropped onto Red Dog Road, and Virgil settled back in his seat, his elbow resting on the knee of his filthy jeans. His sinewy forearms and hands were black with grease that was ground deep into the pores and lines of his hands. Beneath the grime on his right forearm, I could see the faint outline of where Virgil had tattooed himself with a needle and ink and had given himself blood poisoning when he was fifteen; the tattoo was of a misshapen skull and crossbones and the words, “Born to Die,” which Virgil always said was his motto. His fingernails were caked with dirt and grease, and a rim of shiny black oil ran around the cuticles, outlining the tiny bit of visible pink beneath the nail. When he saw me staring at his hands, he asked, “What are you lookin' at, junior?”
“Nothing.”
He held up his hands and twisted them so I could see every line of filth. In his heavy, southern Ohio twang, Virgil said, “Them's the hands of a working man, but you wouldn't know nothin' âbout that, would ya?”
“Yes, I would. I've got a job this summer.”
He smiled and chuckled. “Really? Doing what?”
“Mr. Monihan hired me up at the truck stop. The county's making him clean up all the truck tires he's been rolling down over the hill all those years. Must be twenty years' worthâa couple thousand of them by now, I bet, and he's going to pay me ten cents for every one I haul up and stack.”
He dragged on his cigarette. “When you decide to trade in that snatch and get yourself a dick and balls, let me know and I'll get you a real job.” He blew smoke in my face. “That's pussy work.”
“No it's not.”
“It ain't a man's work.”
“Well, at least I'm no carnival jockey who looks like he hasn't had a bath in a month.”
Virgil's eyes turned to slits and the skin drew back around his mouth. “You best shut your mouth, boy, or I'll bust your head, and don't think I won't.”
“Shut the hell up, both of yuns,” my dad yelled. “Jesus Christ, it's like havin' a couple of goddamn six-year-olds in the car.”
I fought back a grin. I was now twice the size of Virgil and the days when he could whip me were long over, and he knew it. Of course, the threat of a good beating never stopped a Hickam from diving into a fight.
Virgil took a long drag on his cigarette, this time blowing the smoke out the window. “And to think I was going to get you a job on the carnival this summer,” he said. “That ain't happenin' now, that's for damn sure.”
“He couldn't go anyways,” Mom interjected. “He's got football practice starting in July.”
“Football,” Virgil said, like he had a mouth full of curdled milk. “That don't put no money in your damn pocket.”
“Coach Battershell said if I keep improving and keep my grades up I might get a scholarship to play in college.”
“Yeah, that'll be the day that
you
go to college. Barber college, maybe.” Virgil and my dad both laughed aloud. I expected resentment from Virgil as it seemed to be his lot in life to assemble and disassemble Tilt-A-Whirls, but it was hurtful to hear my dad laugh. I don't think Nick Hickam ever wanted any of his sons to make more of their lives than he had made of his, and he was secretly glad that my brothers were failures. The fact that they had no more education than he had, and one was an inmate and the other a carnie, allowed Dad to maintain his stature within the family.
We arrived at the reformatory at one-thirty and walked into the large lobby where we had to sign in. Construction on the prison began in 1886 and it looked like a European castle with its ornate architecture and stone walls. Stepping into the building gave me chills as I joined the pathetic lot of human flotsam, black and white, that wandered through the lobby, waiting to be called behind the bars for their visit. Visitation was strictly on the terms of the State of Ohio. The slightest infraction of the state's rules would keep you from the visitation room. Even the angriest of men, like my dad and brother, understood this and kept their tempers and mouths in check.
I don't have much of a memory of Edgel before he went to prison. After he dropped out of high school, he worked odd jobs and was rarely around the house. Edgel and our father had such a tense relationship that I think he found it easier to sleep in his car or at the home of a friend rather than stay at our house. The summer before I entered the sixth grade, I was in the front yard hitting stones with a broom handle when Sheriff McCollough pulled up in his cruiser. He got out of the car before the dust had settled around the tires. He was a big man with shoulders that strained the fabric of his white shirt and hands that could hide a softball. A toothpick was tucked into the corner of his mouth. He nodded and said, “Howdy, buster. Your brother hereabouts?”
“Which un?”
“Edgel.”
“Uh-huh. He's out back in the shed with my pa.”
He winked and headed around the house. As soon as he had disappeared beyond the porch, I dropped the broom handle and ran around the other side of the house, creeping up to the back of the old shed with the gambrel roof where I knew there was a gap in the old plank sheeting.
The sheriff didn't announce himself but just walked right into the shed and said, “Whoa, would you look at that, an Oldsmobile Rocket 88. Ain't that somethin' to behold?” Sheriff McCollough put a massive hand on each fender and leaned down into the hood of the car my dad and Edgel were working on. “Remember that old slogan, Nick? âMake a date with a Rocket 88.' Yes sir, they sure don't make 'em like this anymore, do they?” Neither my dad nor Edgel responded. Hickam men had enough experience with the law to know that the sheriff never paid them a social call. The sheriff watched them work for a minute, then said, “Edgel, the Radebaugh place over on Township Road 22 got burglarized and torched the other night. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?”
“No, sir. Why would I?”
“I talked to a couple of people who said they saw someone sitting in a car at the school bus turnaround just west of the Radebaugh place last Tuesday, the same night it burned.” Sheriff McCollough stepped back to the open shed door, rubbed his chin and squinted hard at the Olds. “In fact, I believe it could have been this very car. The witnesses said it was a 1950's Oldsmobile, maybe a Rocket 88, coupe, white over orange, maybe red, with lots of primer spots. And this car right here is an Olds, Rocket 88 coupe, white over orange with lots of primer spots. What year is this car, Edgel?”
“It's a . . .” my dad started.
“Is your name Edgel?” the sheriff's tone was suddenly harsh as he cut off my dad. He arched his brows at my brother.
“It's a fifty-five,” Edgel said.
“Well, see, there we go. This car matches the one that was seen down by the Radebaugh place the night it burned. And since this is your car, and there aren't many like it around these parts, I'm going to go out on a limb and say it was you sitting in it that night. What do you think, partner?”
“You accusing me of something, sheriff?”
Sheriff McCollough slowly shook his head. “No, Edgel. I'm just wondering if you could help me out. I thought maybe you saw something, since you were sitting out there near her place.”
“I never said I was out there.”
“No, you didn't. So, where were you last Tuesday?”
“I don't remember, right off.”
The sheriff's face grew cold and he chomped on his toothpick. “You don't remember? Well, son, you better start thinking real hard.”
“You got no right to talk to him like that,” my dad said.
Sheriff McCollough never took his eyes off of Edgel. “It's been a while since I gave you a good beatin', Nick. Open your mouth again and I'll be obliged to bring the score up to date.” He grabbed the shoulder of Edgel's T-shirt and pulled him out from under the hood. “I think that was you out there, Edgel. Since last April there've been five houses burglarized and torched in Vinton County.” He held up a big hand, his thick fingers spread wide. “Five of 'em. I'm an elected official, Edgel. The people of this county elected me to enforce the law and protect them and their property. And now those same people are real upset that I haven't caught the piece of shit that's doing this. I don't like it when voters get upset, 'cause that means I have to work a lot harder to keep my job. Now, if you know anything about this, Edgel, you better come clean. A little guy like you would have a tough go of it in prison. You better keep that in mind.” He released the grip on Edgel's shirt and walked out. I scampered back around the house and was again hitting stones by the time the sheriff appeared around the corner. “You get yourself an earful back there, buster?” he asked. He stared at me until I nodded. “Keep your nose clean, you hear?”
“Yes, sir.”
All that summer I'd heard people talking about the rash of burglaries and arson fires. Not until Sheriff McCollough drove on to our property had I even considered that it could have been Edgel. But it made sense. He didn't work, yet always seemed to have cash. According to the newspaper, the burglar had been stealing coins and jewelry and items that could be easily fenced. The arson fires, it was assumed, were an attempt to destroy any physical evidence.
At dinner a week after the sheriff's visit, Edgel slid a black, cloth-covered box across the kitchen table at my mother. “What's this?” she asked.
“It's a present.”
She put her fingertips to her breast, smiled, and opened the box. Resting atop a patch of cotton was a gold chain, from which hung a sparkling pink sapphire the size of a nickel.
“Oh my.” My mother rolled the box in her hands, watching the light dance off the stone. “Oh, it's beautiful, Edgel, but where'd you get the money for this?”
“Why are you worrying about that? I just picked it up somewhere.”
“Where?”
My dad was looking at the gem in disbelief. “Yeah, Edgel, where did you get that?” he asked.
“What difference does that make? It's a gift for Mom.”
“Alice Radebaugh had one just like this,” Mom said. “She used to wear it to work. She had matching earrings.”
Mrs. Radebaugh was a widow who worked the cash register at the truck stop with Mom. “Alice Radebaugh doesn't have one like this, 'cause this one's yours,” Edgel said.
Mom sat motionless as Edgel took the necklace from her hands and walked behind her.
“Her husband bought it for her on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary,” said Mom, still not moving. “Alice said he saved for a year to buy it, and she was so upset when it got stolen.” As Edgel clasped the chain behind her neck, Mom looked as though the hangman were tightening a noose. Dad's eyes darted back and forth from the necklace to Edgel, who just grinned at my dad with his bulbous lips.