Not Much of a Choice

by Heath Gibson

My dad used to say the world was not right when my mother had nothing to say. “Her silence is the first sign that something has gone terribly wrong.”  

I knew it was her because her Saturday morning calls were as consistent as a church bell. But when I said hello, I got no reply.

“Mother?” For a moment I thought she’d hung up.

“Randall, I’m sorry. I should have gotten my wits about me before I called. I just … I just … reacted before I could get the words in my mouth.”

“What, Mother? Just say it.”

“Can I call you back? Can I have just a second?” Her voice cracked. 

“No, Mother. Are you kidding me? I can’t hang up.”

“You’re right. You’re absolutely right.” She took a deep breath. “Oh, son, this is so hard to say, but I just got a call. Paul is dead.”

I didn’t know how to respond to that. Hearing his name conjured some complicated emotions. I had not seen or heard from Paul in over ten years. All I managed to say to my mother was, “I wish I could say I am surprised.”

 

There was a whole pack of us that ran together when we were kids. We explored every bayou and inch of marsh from Dantzler Street to River Road. 

“I bet you could hide a dead body in there and nobody would ever find it,” I’d said one summer afternoon when we were splashing along the banks. The other boys stopped and stared across the marsh grass, scratching their heads trying to calculate whether or not they thought I was full of shit or not. But I stated my case before they could respond.

“It smells like rot, death, sulfur and methane already. A dead man wouldn’t make any difference. The fiddler crabs and nutria rats would take care of most of it. Not even the bones would be discovered because everybody knows ten steps into that mud and you’d be up to your hips.” 

“Randy’s talking crazy again fellas,” Andy said. “Right after my mama says ‘watch out for cottonmouths’ she says, ‘and stay away from Randall Cunningham, he’s as crazy as a shithouse rat.’”

The others laughed. And I said, “Your mama certainly would know.” Because we were twelve and not very good at insults yet. But she was right about the cottonmouths. Not that we were worried, strapped with a Daisy pump pellet gun and a pocket knife. 

Knee-deep in that brackish water the only thought we had was how to test each other’s skills and stomachs. 

“Five bucks if you can take that crow,” Paul Lowry said and pointed across the water at the black bird resting on top of a cypress knee. 

“Ah, kiss my ass. You don’t have five bucks.” 

Paul fished into his jeans pocket and pulled out his blue checkered wallet. He waved that Lincoln in front of me. “Got you right here. It could be all yours, but I have a feeling my money is as safe as Noah’s baby sister sucking on her mamma’s titty.”

“I told you! Stop talking about my mamma like that.” Noah spent the better part of a decade defending his mother’s honor against our juvenile lust and crude remarks. The truth is she did not make it easy on us, with her low-cut cotton sundresses. I have no doubt quite a few young men in Moss Point had their first orgasm with visions of those sugar plums dancing in their heads. I am embarrassed to say that is what Paul called her (sugar plums) when Noah wasn’t around, and we all let him do it. We had not yet learned to stand up to each other about anything important. 

“Dude, you should be proud,” Paul said. “She’s got the best set in the whole state of Mississippi.”

Noah pumped his pellet gun a few times. “Say another word like that. Go ahead and you’ll be digging lead out of your goddamn forehead.” 

“Hang on,” I said, “you can’t shoot him until I take his five dollars.” I learned to be good at distracting those two from each other before any blood or broken bones.

“Listen to Mr. Confidence over here,” Paul said. 

I pumped my pellet gun, took aim, and dropped that crow dead in the water. Moss Point taught us to be comfortable with death. With cane poles bought from a gas station, we pulled our first fish from the water before we were in kindergarten – little bream and croaker suffocating in our tiny hands. Our fathers propped us up against 410 and 20-gauge shotguns to shoot squirrels out of pine trees. It was not uncommon to see men crowded around the bed of a truck in the Hardee’s parking lot in December, admiring the eight-point buck taken that morning, its dark, blank eyes staring into oblivion. The first horror stories we heard were not tales of ghosts and goblins but rather of men with limbs ripped off on an oil rig or incinerated in a chemical fire at the paper mill, children swept away in a rip tide at Dauphin Island. So, killing a crow was just harmless fun and games.

“Son of a BITCH.” 

Paul handed over the bill. He parted with money easily. Probably because it wasn’t his to begin with. He stole from his brother Brian all the time. Brian made it easy to do, leaving his tips from working at the Sonic Drive-in scattered across the seat of his Chevy S-10. He made the mistake of thinking the violent streak he was known for would deter Paul (and anyone else for that matter) from invading that sacred space. To Brian, that truck was no different than his own skin. 

At that point Andy pulled out a can of snuff. He snapped his finger against the tin lid. “Bout time for a dip if you ask me.” We could always count on Andy to swipe a can half finished by his dad. That man kept a can in almost every room in the house and a couple extra in the glove box. There was no way he would ever miss the random can that disappeared into thin air. We were all thieves of sorts.

We waded around the point into a shaded area where an oak tree grew sideways over the water. We crawled out on the trunk and sat with our legs dangling. Andy stuffed tobacco into his lip before the can made its way down the line.

Nobody said a word. We squeezed our lips shut and waited for the juice to build up before we attempted to spit bullets like the older boys. Mostly we dirtied our chins and wiped them with the back of our hands like we were Clint Eastwood in The Outlaw Josey Wales. Within minutes our heads and guts swam on a wave of nicotine. 

“Nothing like a dip of snuff on a sunny day,” Andy mumbled, trying to keep spit from trickling down the back of his throat. 

Paul and Noah nodded, “Uhh hmm,” trying to pretend they weren’t already turning green.

My stomach was made of steel. I could eat rocks off the pavement and chase them with a quart of Castrol. So I took great pleasure in watching the three of them trying so hard not to be the first one to lean over and spew his grits for the fish.

That day it was Noah. “Them eggs must have been bad,” he said. 

Paul and Andy let his comment slide without giving him shit. Neither one had much room to talk. It was obvious how grateful they were because they couldn’t dig that snuff out of their lips fast enough. 

“Well, I guess that means we’re moving on,” I said, gloating just a little. I had always liked snuff, from the very first dip, that rush of nicotine. I found that pressure in my lip comforting. And it was easy to hide from my dad. He would have smelled cigarette smoke on me before I could get through the front door. 

That was one of the last days we hung out like that. It’s why I remember it so well. I am a pack rat of memories. I covet these snippets more so than tales of grandeur. 

Seventh grade started a few days later, and the invisible forces of nature and the universe took their toll.

 

I did not attend Paul’s wake, but I did go to the graveside. Like me, Paul did not believe in God, but funerals are not for the dead. If gathering folks around a six-foot hole while Paul’s cousin Mard played “Amazing Grace” on his trumpet made his mama and daddy feel better, then so be it. It was a small price to pay to stand there under the weight of so much more than my blue sport coat and let them have a sip of comfort. I bowed my head, paid my respects, and whispered good-bye to my friend. 

I slipped away in the middle of the final prayer, while everyone had their eyes closed. I could not bear the platitudes, the attempt to console or justify Paul’s death as part of the grand scheme of some magical man in the sky. My mother, who came with me, would never think of doing such a thing. She had lived in this town her entire life, and nobody could die without Linda Henderson speaking to the next of kin. She had a reputation to uphold. I had no choice but to head toward the car and air conditioning. 

I got only one leg in the door before I heard, “Randall goddamn Cunningham.”

I pulled my leg out of the car and shut the door. “Noah fucking Griffin.” 

We shook hands. “I figured it would take somebody dying to bring you back home,” he said. 

“Yeah, well, this hasn’t been home for a long time.”

Noah, nodded. “I suppose.” He knew I spent most of my formative years chomping at the bit to unburden myself of trying to exist in this place, and he was not interested in trying to defend this town or the choices of the people who decided to live and die here. Instead he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and situated a butt in his lip. He lit the cigarette, then looked away as he exhaled and said, “So, are you headed over to his parents for the reception?”

“I wasn’t going to.” 

“Got to rush back to the bright lights of Nashville, do ya?”

“It’s not that, I just … well … ” I could not begin to explain. 

“Come on. Give us a chance to catch up.” 

“Mama’s bringing her baked beans so I could stick around for a few minutes.”

Noah nodded his head and took another drag. “Sounds good.” 

When my mother climbed into the passenger seat, she said, “I thought I taught you better than that,” in reference to my premature exit. 

“You did. It isn’t your fault it didn’t take.” 

“Well, I still hope you’ll come to your senses one day.” 

“Not likely.”

“Anyway, stop by the house so I can pick up my beans.”

I pulled into the driveway and told her to sit tight. I’d run in for her. The glass dish was sitting on the kitchen counter covered with aluminum foil. The bottom was still warm when I picked it up, a testament to my mother’s skill in timing her cooking so it would not have to be reheated. Her baked beans were legendary, and, as far as she was concerned, a moral duty. 

My dad watched tv in the living room. “How was the graveside?” he called from his recliner. He’d watched too many caskets get lowered into the grown as a policeman, so now he felt justified in letting my mother and me represent the family. 

“Paul’s cousin Mark played ‘Amazing Grace.’” 

“Did he now?” 

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, I don’t think that is going to help his soul much, but I’m sure Paul’s mama and daddy appreciated it.”

Mark was twelve years older than Paul and me, filled up to his ears with talent. He could play just about any instrument he picked up – trumpet, piano, guitar, and drums mostly. He used to be in a band that played gigs from Texas to Georgia. One Christmas he sang “O Holy Night” at church and literally brought half the congregation to their knees. Paul and I had long stopped believing in God by then, but we were unwilling to have that fight with our parents. So we sat there and watched the pastor lift his hands to the ceiling and praise Jesus Christ Almighty for sending an angel like Mark to deliver the Holy Spirit into our midst. Paul and I would not look at each other, but I knew we were thinking the same thing. 

A few years later a twelve-year-old boy named Alvin Lee took guitar lessons from Mark. And there was an accusation. My dad conducted the interview, but they could not arrest Mark on word alone. I was in Nashville by that point, getting regular gigs, writing songs, picking the same chords Mark taught me when I was Alvin’s age. My dad called me and told me the story. He wouldn’t ask me straight out. All he could bring himself to say was, “How likely do you think it is that this boy is telling the truth?”

“Very,” I said. 

 

My mother is a funny lady. When we arrived at Paul’s parents’ she would not even think of letting me carry the beans to the kitchen. She toted that dish like she was showing off a prize-winning hog. 

“Isn’t there something in the scriptures about sinful pride?” I joked. 

“Oh, be quiet Randall. I’m old.” 

I did not follow my mother into the house. It buzzed like a bee hive with relatives, friends, and congregants. I wanted to find Noah as quickly as possible, and I was pretty sure he was smoking a cigarette in the corner of the backyard, sipping Jim Beam and Coke from a red plastic cup so the church ladies wouldn’t throw a fit.  

I spotted Noah from the gate. Mark stood next to him. 

Noah waved me over, and I turned and walked back to the front door. 

I stood there by the steps catching my breath, rolling up my sleeves as if it was possible to get some relief. I had avoided Mark for over a decade. That is how long it took to come to terms, back when Mark invited me to come over to practice anytime I wanted. He told me stories of the girls he met on the road, details about their bodies that made me blush and ache. “Let me show you what one of them did,” he said. 

Before I left Nashville I made a promise that I would not, could not, speak to Mark, pretend he was safe from my memory, especially now that Paul was gone. 

Paul knew before I did. I hated him for not warning me, and he hated me for knowing. But we did not have the kinds of words we needed to navigate those waters. 

Paul hit the weightroom in eighth grade. I heard stories, how he worked out as if the steel plates taunted him. He’d push himself to the verge of collapse. Do squats until he puked and then do another set so everybody, even the weights, knew he hadn’t been beat. By the time we started high school he was showing off stretch marks, even his skin unable to keep up. He played linebacker, going after opposing players like they’d killed his dog. Old men shook their heads, borrowed pride plastered across their faces. “That boy just plays meaner than anybody I have ever seen.” And they were right. 

I opened the door and stepped into the foyer. The hardwood floor vibrated with voices. A long table set up in the living room was covered with trays of fried chicken, an array of casseroles and cakes. People enjoyed sweet tea and coffee with their conversations, smiles on every face because it was their duty to try to fill that house with as much joy as they could before they left, hoping the residue would linger. 

Mark came in the back door, and I ducked into the kitchen. 

“Good Lord, my eyes were not deceiving me.” Ms. Audrey Taylor, my high school English teacher, stood at the sink washing coffee cups and saucers as quickly as she could. She wiped her hands on an apron and turned to face me. “I thought I saw you at the graveside, but I wasn’t sure I could believe it. Get over here and hug my neck.” 

I obeyed because her teacher’s tone demanded it. When she released my neck she gripped my arms with both hands and shook her head. “I am so sorry this is what brought you back home.”

“I know,” I said. 

“But I bet your mamma is glad to have you under her roof, just the same.”

“Yes, ma’am, that she is.”

Ms. Taylor let go of my arms and patted my shoulders. “Well, you might as well say it. I’m sure you have been saving up for it. And I certainly deserve it.”

“What?”

“I told you so.” She winked at me.

I spent more time in her class junior year writing bad song lyrics instead of reading The Great Gatsby. And Ms. Taylor did not take it too kindly that I would not give literature more consideration. One day she picked up the paper I was writing on, ran her eyes down the page, and proclaimed, “Those who will not read great work have no chance of creating it.” I could only try to save face by saying, “We’ll see about that.” Her words dug into my skin like a fishing lure. I would not give her the satisfaction of diving into the books she assigned. But I did discover the works of Pat Conroy and Rick Bragg. 

“Yes, well, as it turns out, we were both right. So we’ll just have to call it even.” 

“Sounds good to me.” Ms. Taylor turned back to the sink because she could not risk letting the house run out of cups and saucers. 

Mark lurked in the hallway, obviously waiting for me. I slipped out the opposite side of the kitchen like a fleeing child. I hoped to make it clear I didn’t want to speak. Maybe he’d get the message and ease back into the yard so I could pay my respects to the family in peace.  

Paul’s parents were on the sofa, their bodies barely resting on the edge with their backs stiff and straight as if they were terrified they might sink back into the cushions and enjoy even a second’s comfort. They were committed to their pain. 

I stepped over and gave each of them my hand. I did not want to say, “I am sorry for your loss.” I simply could not let that empty cliche pass my lips. Paul and I were such good friends until we could not stand to be in each other’s presence. Too much shame, blame, rage and helplessness that we did not know what to do except try to tear each other down – me with my words and Paul with his muscles. 

I knew exactly what to say to cut him to the quick. 

One morning we all stood in front of the school under the awning where the buses dropped us off, waiting for the bell to ring. Paul said something about how much he was benching. I couldn’t help it. “There ain’t enough weights in the world that can help you.” 

He knew what I meant even if no one else did. “What’s it to you?” Both his hands slammed into my chest, sending me to the ground. My face burned as I picked myself up off the ground. I stared him down. He bowed up at me for the witnesses begging me to strike back. I shook my head and walked away. He knew all those bench presses would never give him what he wanted.

“There are no words good enough,” I said to Paul’s parents. They both squeezed my hands, nodded. They did not cry, their insides give out and dried up like the sun-scorched clay that paved every dirt road in Mississippi.

I could not look at their pain-soaked faces for long. I instinctively looked to the side and caught sight of Brian in the backyard, smoking a cigarette with Noah, holding onto the same kind of red cup. 

I shook his parents’ hands one more time and told them I’d be in touch because it seemed like the right thing to say.

Mark stood near the back door deliberately blocking my escape. I allowed my eyes to make contact with his. And he smiled in that way people do when they are glad to see you, his grin an invitation, a prelude I remembered too well. 

For a moment I was paralyzed. Until he took a step in my direction. 

I escaped out the front door and made my way around to the backyard. I sidled up to Noah and Brian, the mild panic eased with the presence of two men who had a reputation for doing damage. Although Noah had left all that on the football field years ago, Brian was the kind of man who wore a handgun on his hip at his brother’s funeral. 

Brian lifted his red cup and drank with an undeniable purpose. He swallowed and stuck out his hand. “Randall my boy!” I shook, recognizing the familiar texture of skin that had been punished by labor. “Let me get you some comfort to hang on to.” I watched him go into the shed where the booze was hidden away from the judgement of the dedicated Baptists. 

“How the parents holding up?” Noah asked. 

“Bout like you’d expect.”

He nodded.

“You haven’t spoken to them yet?”

“Brian caught me before I could get to the door.”

I looked down at his nearly empty cup. “I guess that is a fair enough excuse.”

Noah scanned the backyard pretending he was looking for someone. 

“You might as well say what’s on your mind,” I said.

He smirked. “I was just wondering, you know, why he didn’t leave a note.” His eyes settled on me, silently pleading for me to make some sense for him. It was a hell of a thing not knowing why Paul decided to die. 

“Knowing wouldn’t make much of a difference.”

“I just can’t imagine he didn’t think he had any other choice.”

I wanted to say I could, quite well. Every song I had ever written, played, and sold was tainted with Mark’s touch, his cologne I still smelled when I set a guitar on my knee. In the beginning my writing and playing was an attempt to prove I was better than him, that it would somehow be a victory over what he did. By the time I discovered there was no winning, I had started to make a bit of money and couldn’t give it up. So, the thought of nothingness was seductive. 

Brian returned with a red cup of my own, filled with bourbon, ice and not very much Coke. I took a good swallow.”

“So, you still picking those strings for a living?” Brian asked. 

“Well, people pay me more to write than play these days.”

“I remember when you first started playing. I was really worried about you.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Noah asked. 

“Oh, nothing.” Brian looked at me. “Right Randall? I’m just talking nonsense.”

“Never argue with the bartender,” I said before tipping my cup again. 

Noah shook his head. “Y’all ain’t making any sense.”

Brian shrugged. I smirked. And that is how easy Noah let it go. This town had taught him well. It was better for everybody not to follow their suspicions, dig too deeply. Anything that wasn’t theft or murder was a family matter. And even then, circumstances had to be considered. My dad knew that better than anyone in Moss Point. He said it was maddening. “Gossip and gospel hold hands on the social ladder, but God forbid if you need a witness.” Mark had relied on that for many years.

The three of us stood there in silence sipping our drinks and doing our best to ignore the circumstances. “So, I guess you’ll be heading out of here pretty quick,” Brian finally said. 

“Tomorrow, much as it angers my mother. But she has given up arguing with me.”

“Well, you’ll have to show me that trick. My momma hasn’t backed off for thirty-five years.”

“I think the 600 miles between us helps.”

“Yes, I imagine it does.” 

The three of us smiled and nodded in unison the way men do when they have nothing more to say or what they want to say is just too hard. None of us were paying attention when Mark stepped up. 

He clapped a hand on mine and Brian’s shoulders. I was nearly overcome with a sense of claustrophobia. I slid out of his grip and took a sip of my drink in one motion, somehow conscious of trying not to seem impolite. That made Mark squeeze Brian tighter, pull him closer. 

Brian looked straight at me, and I watched his expression morph, as if a whole life passed across his face. The shame of his youth, the rage of adolescence, and hopelessness of the present came and went like a rapidly moving tide. I could not help but look away because I was embarrassed of my empathy. That is why I did not see it happen. 

The sound reminded me of a sudden cymbal crash, the unexpected violence, the following collective gasp. 

Mark lay on the grass, blood pouring from his head. 

Brian slid the gun back into his holster. 

Paul did leave a note after all.

 

Heath Gibson received an MFA from Hollins University in Roanoke, Virginia, in 2008. Two young adult novels followed: Gigged (Flux) in 2010 and Burn (Flux) in 2012. Gibson is a native Mississippian but lived in Atlanta for 20 years. He now splits time between the U.S. and Oldmeldrum, Scotland, where he gains much joy exploring the amazing cuisine, landscape and people of this region.