Murmur

Matthew McFarland

If I kicked someone in the face right now, thought Adam Wallenchek, they'd be fucked. He was staring at the sole of his boot. There were chunks of glass embedded in it from the Jack Daniel’s bottle he'd smashed. He imagined the bloody mess he could make of someone's face. The thought amused him, but he did not smile. He took a pull from his current bottle - still Jack, always Jack - and waited. Misha would be coming soon.

He had come out to the old house for two reasons. The first was simply that he loved the place. Here, he wouldn't get hassled by cops, friends, phone calls, last call, horny women, horny men, nobody. He could sit out here and drink and nobody could tell him shit about it. The second was that because there was no phone, Misha couldn't just call him back when he paged. She would have to come out here.

He had already left her voice mail once, and tried to call her where she was babysitting. Supposed to be babysitting, anyway. She hadn't been there when he'd called, but he knew he'd called the right place, because the snot that answered had talked French to him. So maybe Misha hadn't been babysitting at all. More likely she was dancing.

Adam took another drink and stood up. He walked around the yard a bit, trying to pass the time. That was the one bad thing about this place - no electricity, so no TV. There just wasn't much to do. He stared up at the sky, trying to see constellations, but all he saw was stars. He never got how the Greeks, or whoever the fuck they were, had gotten the pictures they did out of stars. Big Dipper, yeah, he could see that. But scorpions and women and whales and lions and who knew what the hell else? They must have been looking at a different sky.

He lifted the bottle to take a drink and splashed his chin with whiskey. Wiping his mouth, he felt something in his goatee - liquid, slimy. Vomit, probably. He didn't remember puking tonight, but that didn't mean anything. He wasn't wearing his watch and he had no idea how long he'd been here. Long enough to empty one bottle, but he couldn't remember how full it had been to start with.

He walked to the fence and stared out over the field. In summer, the field got so overgrown with weeds that you couldn't see across it. He knew high schoolers liked to come out here and fuck in the weeds - after all, he and Misha had done it plenty of times. In October, though, it was bare and dirty. He spat over the fence and propped his foot up on the bottom rail. Something about his shoes felt strange, and he had to think for a moment before he remembered the glass. He kicked the bottom of his foot against the fence until he dislodged the glass.

His father had built this fence a lot of summers ago. Dad had grown tomatoes and lettuce in the backyard, and they'd had a problem with rabbits. Adam remembered a lot of summer night when the smell of gunsmoke and vodka would blow in his bedroom window. He never woke up from the gunshot, but always from his father yelling "Gotcha, you little fucker!" He'd throw the rabbit corpses into the field "as a warning." It never worked. There were always more. That's why he'd built the fence.

Adam had tried shooting rabbits once. After his father fell asleep on the porch, snuck out next to him, picked up the rifle, and waited. When he saw something move in the lettuce, he shot at it. His father woke up, swung his hand out, and caught Adam in the temple. Adam fell to the ground, too shocked to cry. His father snatched the gun away, and went out to see what Adam shot. It was a neighbor's cat, as it happened. His mother had given him a long "guns aren't toys" speech, whereas his father had just beaten the shit out of him. At the time, he'd been ten.

The bottle, which had been dangling loosely in Adam's fingers, fell to the ground on the other side of the fence. "Shit," he whispered. He jumped over the fence to get it, and managed to land on both feet without falling. He picked up the bottle and wiped off the mouth. Not much was gone. That was good, because he didn't have another one here and he didn't feel much like driving.

Adam had already been picked up twice that year for driving drunk. The first time, the cop had turned out to be buddy of his from high school, so hadn't done anything. The second time, they hauled his ass to the grimy collection of one-way streets that passed for a "downtown" in this Ohio shithole. He'd called Misha, who had at first told him to slurp shit and die, but eventually drove down to get him. It had cost him a lot of money and three weeks at some alcohol-is-eeevil classes to get through the whole thing. He'd slept through most of it.

Another pull. This one went down the wrong pipe, and he choked and spit and swore. He set the bottle down and walked to the front of the house. The house was still in his mother's name. She had tried to rent it out a few times, but she wasn't in any shape to act as a landlord, not after the stroke. So Adam was always "considering" different tenants. Someday he might go through with the rental thing, but for now he liked having a place to go.

A car of niggers drove by, blaring their boom-boom-gansta music. Even with the car windows closed, the bass shook Adam's feet. Hope you all go so deaf you can't hear the shots that kill you, dumb fucks, he thought. He thought about standing up to flip them off or yell or something, but they wouldn't have noticed. Adam didn't feel up to fighting four guys at once, anyway. He shook his head. He was glad his father hadn't lived to see that trend, these homeboys with the souped-up bass in their cars. He'd have shit kittens if they woke him up. Would have yelled and bitched and drank about how there should be laws against that sort of thing, that there probably were but the cops were too busy eating donuts to enforce them. He’d complain – loudly – about how much better things were before everything was integrated. And Adam would laugh at him, and he’d laugh too, because if he started out shouting, he ended up laughing.

Adam drank to his father and looked at the sky again. The stars had started to spin. “Fuck,” he whispered. He didn’t want to stay out here all night. “Where the fuck are you, bitch?” he murmured. He was beginning to get angry. He always murmured when he was angry.

He walked to the back steps and sat down on cold concrete, resting his palms beside him. He felt hot, but in the strange, incongruous way that comes with a fever – hot and cold both at once. He pressed his hands to his eyes, leaned his head against the door, and dozed off.

He had no idea how long he was out, but Misha’s car was in the driveway before Adam noticed her pull up. He saw her headlights go out, heard her say, cautiously, “Adam?”

He thought about not answering, just letting her find him. But then he yelled, “Back here!” She walked around the house, stepping over the pile of junk that had accumulated beside the house. She was wearing that tan trenchcoat that he hated. It made her look like a flasher, which was more or less what she was. She was shivering, standing there looking at him, with too much makeup and probably not enough clothing. Adam felt his face burning, and he didn’t know if it was the alcohol or humiliation. He took a pull on the bottle and stumbled to his feet. “Rough night at the club?” he asked. He tried to look at her and couldn’t; everything was suddenly spinning.

She wrapped the coat more tightly around her. “Not particularly.”

“I thought you were going to quit.”

“That’s right,” she answered, leaning against the house. “You thought I was.”

“Don’t give me that shit, OK? We talked about this-“

“No, you talked about it.” She stopped leaning and took a step forward. “I sat there and made like I was listening quietly, when what I was really doing was praying to God you’d calm down before you plowed the car into something. Again.”

Adam spat. “This again,” he murmured. “That time wasn’t my fault. I-“

Misha cut him off. “I know. The guy pulled right in front of you and you couldn’t swerve. Whatever. Just be glad they didn’t give you a breath test.”

“You gotta bring this up every time you see me?” The spins were getting worse, and his vision was blurred. And this was pissing him off. He took a step toward her.

“Well, it’s a lot like you bringing up my job every time you see me. It does get old, doesn’t it?” She was just about in his face now, and she was talking quietly. He found he was about to smack her one, so he shouted instead.

“I’m tired of a bunch of old pervs watching my girl naked!” She jumped back a bit. Good. That made it easier. He was hoping she’d yell back. Adam couldn’t take shouting seriously. It was that quiet, intense murmur that people got when they were really pissed that got him going. If she yelled back, he’d calm down. He knew it. But she didn’t, damn it.

“I don’t know why I came out here. I’m tired, I’m cold, and I’m really sick of your shit.” She turned and started walking toward the junk pile. Adam made for her, meaning to grab her arm and jerk her back into the yard, but he slipped and landed on one knee. He tried to get up, but only succeeded in falling again. He looked up, and he could see Misha’s back. She was standing still, in front of the junk pile, waiting. Or thinking. He didn’t know, but he called to her.

“Babe?” Nothing. She wanted him to apologize. Well, fuck that. “Hey.” Not forceful, but just to make her hear him. Nothing. Fuck it, then. “Misha?” She turned around.

“What?” There were smears under her eyes. He raised his hand to indicate he needed help.

For a second she actually looked like she was thinking about it. Adam wondered if he really looked that pathetic. On his knees, drunk, and reaching out. He almost felt like crying, but that was just the booze, he was sure. Finally, she stepped forward and helped him up.

“Thanks.” He stumbled back and grabbed his bottle off the steps. She followed him, quietly, her head low. Adam wasn’t smirking, not just yet. Next they’d talk about this dancing thing again.

He turned around to face her and lifted the bottle. She stopped him.

“I’m leaving, Adam.” Her voice was quiet, so quiet he saw the words on her lips more than he heard them. He started to ask where she was going, if she would be at his place when he got there, when he realized what she meant. He almost fell down again.

“What?” It was a stupid thing to say. But he really wasn’t sure what else would be a good retort.

“I’m leaving.” She looked up into his face. “Leaving. Leaving you, leaving us, leaving,” she gestured around at the junk pile, his whiskey bottle, the house, the field, “this. All this.”

Now his face was burning worse than before, so hot it itched. He was afraid to open his mouth because he was afraid he might puke or shout or kiss her, and he didn’t know which one. He lamely took a drink, and she watched him with a look he couldn’t quite place. He tried to look her in the eyes, and instead found he was staring at her breasts – even through the coat, he could clearly make out her curves. “Why?” he murmured.

“Why?” she repeated. Two tears fell from her cheeks. “Why?” She took a step back and opened her arms, which had the additional effect of opening her coat. Adam had been right; she was badly underdressed for the weather. She wore a pair of thin, black shorts and a much-too-tight T-shirt. “You tell me, Adam! You’re drunk. No, you’re a drunk. Saying you’re drunk would make it seem like I meant you’re drunk right now. Really, I can’t remember the last time I didn’t see you with a bottle. You never do anything with this place, you bleed your mother dry, and then you have the nerve to tell me I’m doing something wrong because I dance!” She wasn’t shouting, but she wasn’t murmuring either, and that was why Adam didn’t hit her. He did shout, however.

“I do not bleed my mother dry! I am taking care of this place-“

“Oh! Yeah! That’s why the big pile of shit out there by the fence, right? God, hope you never take care of me!” She jammed her hands into her pockets and turned away.

He followed her, and this time did spin her around. “Don’t you walk away-“ was as much as he got out before she screamed in his face.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” She pushed him. He didn't fall, thank God – wouldn’t that have been some embarrassing shit – and Adam laughed at her. He really couldn’t take any of this seriously, didn’t really believe she was leaving. After all, she was screaming. He’d seen this thousands of times, just like his parents, they both needed to work the shit out of their systems, and then they’d talk, and cry, and they fuck against the fence and go home. Adam was still thinking of the rest of the night when the current part of it knocked the bottle out of his hand.

He picked it up. “Did that get your attention?” She was smirking. See, there it was. He wondered if he should kiss her first or wait for her to start it. He decided to kiss her; he was pretty drunk, and wasn’t sure how much longer he’d be able to get wood. He leaned in to kiss her. She pulled back.

Adam felt as though she’d slapped him. His cheeks were so hot, she might as well have. She had never pulled back from a kiss before, ever, no matter how drunk he was, no matter what was on his breath, never. He narrowed his eyes and he felt his breath coming heavier. “Now look. All the shit I put up with from you, all the times I’ve waited up for you when you’re out hooking, you owe me-“.

She cut him off, but not with a shout. Her voice was quiet, cold, and maddening. “Owe you? I don’t owe you. Let me remind you, darling, you knew what I did when we started dating, or whatever you call this. You could have walked any time you wanted, if my dancing bothered you that much. But if you want to talk about owsies, OK, let’s. What do you owe me for letting your buddies watch us fuck? What do you owe me for sucking you off in a theater? What do you owe me for buying your booze, for loaning you money to fix your car, for not talking when the cops asked me who cut Casey’s face open? Huh?”

Adam’s hands were trembling. He closed his fists, his right hand squeezing the bottle so tightly his fingers began to ache. “Who the fuck is Casey?” he asked quietly. He knew very well who Casey was; Casey was the asshole who’d tried to start some shit with him at Misha’s club one night. Adam had fucked him up good, and then cut his face…as a warning. But Adam knew his name because they’d met at a party the year before, a fact Adam hadn’t realized until later and had never mentioned to Misha. He had no idea how Misha knew his name.

“Casey? Remember? You stormed into the club? Shoved Lila? Started yelling for me? Casey found you later?”

“Stop it.” Adam hated her tone, making questions out of everything.

“Fuck you, Adam.” Adam’s eyes, which had been closed to help cope with the spins, snapped open. “I’m done. Get help, all ri-“

She didn’t finish the sentence. She didn’t finish, because Adam hit her. He swung the bottle, and it hit her left cheek with a dull clink. She fell the ground, holding her face, shaking, not quite crying.

He dropped the bottle. He tried to move, but really couldn’t. He’d come close to hitting her plenty of times, but never done it. He always hated that his father had hit his mother, thought it was pussy for a big guy to beat on a woman. He always thought no woman could make him lose it like that, but she’d just kept going and kept going, and…

And now he understood. He understood why his father beat on his mother. Sometimes, she just wouldn’t shut up.

He picked up the bottle. There was a smear of makeup on the side, but it didn’t break. Whiskey bottles were thick – wine bottles you could break against somebody’s head, but not Jack. He walked around her – he didn’t feel quite brave enough to step over her – and sat down on the steps.

She stood up. Her face was bleeding. She looked at him, and he saw that look again, but this time recognized it – it was the same looked her parents gave him, the same looked the parents of the kids she babysat gave him when he walked her to the door. It was disgust, it was fear, it was almost like a more adult version of a kid who accidentally stepped in dogshit. It was the expression on the rich bitches who lived on the south side of the lake when he showed up at their parties. They were all thinking one thing, and he could read it no matter how fucked up he was: white trash.

“Fuck you, then. Don’t give a shit,” he said. She turned and ran. Stumbled, really. She got in her car, and pulled out onto the street. He took a long drink. “Really don’t give a motherfucking shit!” He got up and walked out to the yard, looked up at the stars again. “And fuck you, too!” he yelled to them.

The bottle still held a double shot or so. He drank it straight down, and threw the bottle through the back kitchen window with a satisfying crash. “Fuck yeah,” he said.

Adam sat down in the grass, and fell over onto his back. He stared up at the stars, which were spinning again. He closed his eyes, and started to drift off. His heartbeat was slow, spotty, and strange colors danced when he tried to move. “Fuck it, then,” he murmured. He’d be fine here. He actually felt pretty good, very relaxed, considering what shitty night he’d had. Misha could fuck off. He did what he wanted, and he was in control. And if being in control of his life instead of rushing right back to school so some other faggoty teacher could tell you what to do made him white trash, then at least he was in good company.

He rolled over on his side, so he wouldn't puke down his own throat. The state’s classes hadn’t taught him anything he didn’t know – Adam could handle his booze just fine. His final thought before passing out was that his fingers felt rather numb.

By the time the morning frost covered the ground, he had been dead for several hours.

No reproduction is allowed without the author’s express permission.

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