Cutting Ties
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~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~
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It was a cold, gray day at the end of October, and Roy Lee McCoy walked into the office at Stebbin's Used Autos & Scrap Metal for the last time. His nose filled with the familiar stink of cigarette smoke, old metal, and tobacco juice as he stood at his boss' desk.
The old man looked up from his paperwork. "Yeah?"
"I'm here for my check, Mr. Stebbin."
Like I have been every second Friday for the past five years, you cheap bastard.
"Right, right. Nearly forgot. Here you go, kid. Let me see," he said, holding onto the envelope as Roy Lee restrained the urge to tear it out of his hands. "You're taking Monday off, right?"
"Yes, sir. I'm visiting some friends of mine up in Lexington over the weekend."
He frowned. "Lexington? Kentucky? They don't go to the college up there, do they?"
"No, sir. They work for a welding company."
"Good. Good. Stay away from those smart-asses at the college, boy. You can't learn nothin' from them that you can't learn down here." He spit a brown stream of tobacco juice into a styrofoam cup by way of punctuation.
Except how to shave, brush my teeth, and use deodorant,
he thought. "My check, please, sir?"
"Right." He tossed it on the desk. "If you're taking Monday off, you don't get paid for the day. You've used up your vacation days."
All five of them.
"Yes, sir. I understand. Have a good weekend." Picking the envelope off the desk, he nodded and walked out the door.
Standing outside the small, shabby office, he broke into a triumphant grin as he opened the envelope and pulled out the check.
Last time. Last time I'll have to grovel in front of that dirtbag.
He fingered the paystub reverently as he climbed into his car.
Twenty thousand, four hundred and seventeen dollars. And eighty-two cents.
It'll be enough. It
has
to be enough.
After cashing the check at the bank, he drove his old Dodge through the small, decaying business district, taking care to stay below the speed limit. He pinched his lips together as he passed his aunt's hair salon, noting that all three chairs were empty. He briefly glimpsed Eileen, sitting at her desk, reading a magazine.
The town's dying,
he thought.
Why am I the only one who can see it?
Maybe the residents of Deer Creek, Alabama had just stopped caring. Passing the city limits, he increased his speed until he hit the turn-off onto Saw Mill Road. He guided the car expertly along the rutted, potholed track, and then swore viciously.
His father's truck was in the driveway.
What the hell is the old man doing here,
he thought as he maneuvered his car past the truck and into the dooryard.
It's football night at the high school. He should already be there, reliving the glory days when he was seventeen.
Taking care to keep his expression calm, he climbed out of the car and went into the house.
The smell hit him like it always did, a combination of old sweat, dog piss, and stale beer. "I'm home!" he called, and hung his keys on the hook by the front door. His father's old beagle, Jack, came up to him, wagging his tail.
"Roy Lee? Get your ass in here, boy!"
Working hard to keep the contempt from his face, Roy Lee walked into the living room.
Dale McCoy might have been a handsome man once, but those days were long gone. Overweight and with three days of stubble on his chin, he sat on the ratty old couch in a pair of greasy jeans and a faded sweatshirt. A bottle of beer stuck up between the seat cushions.
As always, Roy Lee was confused when he saw his father. A sick mingling of love, disgust, and pity roiled his mind. How could the man he had admired so much in his childhood have fallen so far?
"What the hell's this bullshit I hear about you going up north this weekend?"
"I told you about it last week, Dad. I'm visiting Ethan and Billy Joe up in Lexington. I'll be back Monday afternoon."
Dale frowned and scratched his balding head. "Maybe you did tell me something about it. But this old brain don't remember things like it used to." He took a swig of beer, draining the bottle, and belched. "All right, you can go." He held out his hand. "Let's have the rent now, boy." When Roy Lee hesitated, he scowled. "Come on, boy. Sixty a week, just like we agreed."
Seething, Roy Lee pulled out his wallet and handed him a trio of twenties. Dale staggered to his feet and shrugged into an old denim jacket, stained with dirt and engine oil. Shoulders hunched against the cold north wind, he left the house, the screen door banging shut behind him. He paused with his hand on the handle of the truck's door.
"Get yourself down to your aunt's and get your hair cut. You look like a god-damn hippy."
Then he was gone, the truck weaving down the track.
*****
Roy Lee restrained the urge to jump in the air and scream with triumph. With his father gone for at least the next four hours, there was nothing stopping him from leaving. And by the time the old drunk realized he wasn't coming home from his "visit" to Lexington, he would be so far away that he could never find him.
Not that he will care that much. All that matters to him is the money I bring home that he uses to buy beer and cheap whiskey. And the fact that I pay for the groceries. And half the damn utilities these days, too, since he made the decision that I was "renting" from him.
Renting my own bedroom. In the house I grew up in.
Dammit, Roy Lee, stop fucking around and get moving.
He backed his car up as close to the front door as he could. Pulling the folded cardboard boxes out of the trunk, he carried them to his bedroom, the one part of the house which he had managed to keep in decent shape. Rather than the filthy, smoke-stained walls of the living room or kitchen, his bedroom was painted a cheerful yellow. The floor was swept clean, with small, hand-knotted rag rugs throwing up bright swatches of color.
He unfolded the boxes and sealed the bottoms with duct tape.
All right. Let's do this.
In less than twenty minutes, he was packed. Clothes went into three of the boxes, which he carried out and stowed in the trunk of the car. His books and CDs went into others. Miscellaneous items, like the rugs, framed pictures, and his notebooks full of scribbled notes for stories, went into the last.
Roy Lee paused for a moment, looking at a family portrait that had been taken when he was thirteen. His father, still able to present a decent face to the world, smiled, standing at his wife's side, while Jillian McCoy rested both her hands lovingly on her son's shoulders as he sat on an ottoman in front of his parents.
He remembered that year. He had sprung up nearly half a foot in eight months. And a year later, his mother, driven to distraction by Dale McCoy's alcoholism and financial recklessness, had left one night, never to return or even to make contact with her husband and son.
He shook his head, dumping the picture into the last box and jamming it into the trunk. Grabbing his overnight bag, he made a last pass through the bathroom, gathering up mouthwash, toothpaste, and his razor. He took a minute to look in the mirror.
Light blue eyes and sandy brown hair met his tight-lipped gaze. Tall, with long, gangling arms and legs, the only thing he had ever wanted from his father was his height. He took a deep breath, resting his forehead against the mirror.
"Calm down, McCoy. You can do this." But it did little to settle the sick feeling in his stomach. Could he really jump into the unknown all by himself?
He frowned as he considered his hair. He
was
getting a little shaggy. Maybe his father was right for once.
He stopped in the doorway of his bedroom. The bookcase was bare, the closet and bureau held only a few clothes that he had worn out or didn't want. He had even stripped his bed of the sheets and blankets and stuffed the pillows into the back seat of the car. With a muffled curse, he spotted the second-hand laptop on his beat-up desk and stuffed that into his bag.
In the kitchen, Jack had pissed on the floor again. For once, Roy Lee didn't stop to clean it up.
Let Dad take care of it.
It was his belief that Dale's casual disinterest in house-breaking his dog was what finally drove his mother to leave. He remembered her crying in bitter frustration as she mopped up dog urine from the kitchen floor, while Dale, unemployed for the past six months, sat at the kitchen table, playing solitaire and listening to Rush Limbaugh.
He tossed the overnight bag into the passenger seat of his car. He took one last look around, his throat tight with love and despair.
Should I leave a note? Tell Dad why I can't stay any longer?
Aunt Eileen. I can get a haircut and tell her on my way out of town. I can trust her to keep it a secret for a week or so.
He fished his cell phone out of his leather jacket and dialed her number.
As the phone rang, he glanced at his watch. 5:42.
Hopefully she hasn't closed yet.
