Maggie Boylan Read online

  Maggie Boylan

  Also by Michael Henson

  Ransack

  A Small Room with Trouble on My Mind

  Crow Call

  The Tao of Longing and the Body Geographic

  The Dead Singing

  Tommy Perdue

  The True Story of the Resurrection and Other Poems

  MAGGIE BOYLAN

  Michael Henson

  SWALLOW PRESS / OHIO UNIVERSITY PRESS

  ATHENS

  Swallow Press

  An imprint of Ohio University Press, Athens, Ohio 45701

  ohioswallow.com

  First Swallow Press / Ohio University Press edition published 2018 Originally published as The Way the World Is: The Maggie Boylan Stories by Brighthorse Books, 2015

  © 2015 by Michael Henson

  All rights reserved

  This book is a work of fiction. The characters and places and the incidents involving those characters and places are all fictional. Sadly, the issues which gave rise to these stories are real, but the stories themselves are not.

  Some of the stories in this collection originally appeared in Appalachian Heritage, Gray Sparrow Journal, Overtime, Pine Mountain Sand & Gravel, Storyscape Journal, Superstition Review, Still: The Journal, and Every River on Earth: Writings from Appalachian Ohio.

  To obtain permission to quote, reprint, or otherwise reproduce or distribute material from Swallow Press / Ohio University Press publications, please contact our rights and permissions department at (740) 593-1154 or (740) 593-4536 (fax).

  Printed in the United States of America

  Swallow Press / Ohio University Press books are printed on acid-free paper ™

  Hardcover ISBN: 978-0-8040-1201-0

  Paperback ISBN: 978-0-8040-1202-7

  Electronic ISBN: 978-0-8040-4091-4

  28 27 26 25 24 23 22 21 20 19 18 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Control Number 2017959230

  The creation of this book was supported in part by a grant from the Ohio Arts Council.

  For Billy Ray Sanders (1971–2010) and so many others

  Contents

  Maggie Boylan

  Black Friday

  The Way the World Is

  Timothy Weatherstone

  Liars

  All This Craziness

  Probation

  The Girl Who Spoke Foreign

  Acceptance Is the Answer

  Pillhead Hill

  Maggie Boylan

  1

  JAMES CARPENTER had just hung the gas pump back in its cradle and he had one foot in the door of his truck and here came Maggie Boylan, straight as a bullet, foul-mouthed, skinny, death-head-looking, Oxy-addled, thieving Maggie Boylan.

  “Are you headed into town?” she called. “Can you give me a ride into town?”

  He looked around him. He hated to turn down anyone in need of a ride, but still . . . this was Maggie Boylan. He thought, This could be a big mistake in the making.

  Maggie was bundled into an oversized denim coat that must have belonged to her husband. It was a bright, late October day with a big wind and she staggered a moment as the wind gusted off the hills and down the highway. It tossed her hair into her eyes and she pulled a hand from the pocket of her coat to brush it back.

  “I sure could use a ride,” she said.

  James Carpenter was, in fact, headed into town. There was no way to disguise it. He had no handy lie he could use to put her off. So he told her, “I got to drop off some papers at the courthouse and I’m coming straight back.”

  “That works for me,” she said. “I just got to pick up some medicine for my mother-in-law.”

  Later, a friend would remind him: Maggie’s mother-in-law had died a month before, and she had no truck with Maggie when she was alive. Later, he would see how Maggie had fooled him all along. But now, he could not see how he could turn her away.

  “I got to go right now,” he said. He was on a deadline and he hoped that she would have to go back to her house to get something together. Maybe she had to get her purse or maybe some papers of her own and maybe he could dodge her that way. But then, what did Maggie Boylan have left to get together?

  “I’m ready,” she said. “Let’s roll.” She pulled open the passenger-side door and launched herself into the seat even before he could get his key into the ignition. She already had her purse. It was one of these backpack purses, so he hadn’t seen it earlier. She pulled it off her shoulders and began to rummage inside. “Shit,” she said, then put her hand to her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to cuss. You wouldn’t have a lighter, would you?”

  He did not.

  “I should of remembered you don’t smoke. Wait just a minute while I bum me a light.” She planted her purse on the seat and jumped back onto the apron. “Don’t worry. I won’t be but half a minute.”

  There was a little of everything at this crossroads station just outside the little crossroads town of Wolf Creek. Off to one side, on the other side of the grocery section and the Post Office window, beyond the tools and the laundry detergent and the quarts of oil and transmission fluid, four old men sat at their coffee as they did every morning in the restaurant section in the same restaurant booth by the front window and they watched everyone who came in for a stick of beef jerky or a bag of chips or a sandwich from the deli. They were good old men, with no harm in them, retired farmers and loggers and one old part-time farmer who had been his fourth-grade teacher.

  But they talked. They watched everything and they gossiped without shame. And now the story would get around that he was seen with Maggie Boylan and that story would complicate his life even more than it was already. But done is done. Maggie had him pinned there with her backpack purse on his seat, so she was on for the ride to town.

  The old men did not seem to turn—it would not be right to stare—but their eyes turned to watch Maggie leave the truck and enter the store and they watched her stalk down the grocery aisle and right up to their little table where they shrugged all four of them around. Each one kept a pouch of Red Man Chew in the pocket of his coat but not a one of them smoked. Maggie had better luck with a trucker at the counter. He gave her a cigarette and a light and she came out to the truck inhaling desperately.

  “You don’t mind if I smoke in here, do you? I’ll hold it out the window.” She cranked the window down and exhaled into the open air.

  “I’m so glad you could give me a ride,” she said. “My mother-in-law’s got that high blood pressure and you don’t play with that and she can’t get out on her own and she needs that medicine bad. If you hadn’t come around I don’t know what I would of done because these folks around here is all too proud to be seen with me, like they ain’t got their own shit to deal with, pardon my French, so I really do appreciate you doing this and I don’t know how I can thank you.”

  All this, as he cranked and cranked the ignition which, for some reason, at this moment and under the eight eyes of the four old men, had gone deader than a hammer. No horn, no dashboard light, not a whisper from the starter. So he guessed the problem. He got out, lifted the hood, and saw right away that a white crust of corrosion covered the positive post of the battery and it had chosen this under-the-eight-eyes moment, when he was already strapped for time and Maggie Boylan was perched in his cab in front of God and everybody, to break the connection. No connection, no juice. He knew the quick fix, though. He pulled a hammer from behind the seat, came back around to the battery, and gave the cable end a tap.

  Just a little tap, no sense in breaking the post, but a little tap was enough to tighten the cable end onto its post, so in a moment, he had the truck started and had pulled out onto the highway toward town.

  Maggie picked up the hammer and admired it. “That
’s an old railroad hammer, ain’t it,” she said.

  “My grandpa worked for the B&O.”

  Maggie studied the hammer a moment more. “I bet it’s worth some money.”

  He shook his head. “Flea market, couple bucks.” If Maggie thought his grandfather’s hammer was worth anything, it might slip away with her when she left the truck.

  “You fixed that battery pretty slick,” Maggie said. She set the hammer down between them on the seat. “I was afraid we’d be stuck there till tomorrow evening.”

  “I wish everything in life was that easy to fix.”

  “Don’t I know it? But I always did think you was a smart one. Even when you was still a cop and you’d have to haul my drunk ass to jail and my kids’d say you was mean and all, I’d tell them, he’s just doing his job, honey, and he ain’t all hateful like them others.”

  James Carpenter remembered something entirely different. He recalled that Maggie Boylan had cursed him with names he had never been cursed before or since, names almost Biblical in their damning power, names that seemed to have been pulled full-formed from the earth, like stones or the roots of strange weeds. She had her full weight and strength back then and fought like a wet cat right out in front of those children with their eyes dark and wide.

  But that was years ago and now those children were gone to foster care. Since that time, Maggie had done a stint in Marysville and a halfway house and had come back to trade the alcohol for OxyContin and the OxyContin for crack cocaine and to trade the crack back for the Oxys and whatever else she could find. And to lose half of her body weight so that now she was a spiky little burned-out sparkler of a woman, nearly weightless, withered and hollow-eyed as if she had been thrown into a kiln and dried.

  “I always said it was wrong the way they done you,” she said. “You was the best cop this county ever had. And I’ve knowed them all.”

  He said nothing to this. Who could stop Maggie Boylan when she was on a roll? An ambulance passed with its red lights awhirl. The wail of its siren moved up the musical scale, then down as it passed, headed toward Wolf Creek.

  “That’s what I want to do,” Maggie said. “I want to be an EMT. They taught us CPR up in Marysville and I told myself, if I can ever get myself straight, I’m gonna go to school and get certified for that shit. I could save me some lives.”

  He wanted to tell her to save her own life first, but he knew she was not about to listen. He knew she would continue to talk all the way into town, which she did as he drove on, checking the condition of the fields as they passed. As she talked, they passed fields marked by shattered cornstalks and the daggers of cut tobacco and barns bulging with tobacco hung to cure, some still a pale green and others gone the color of leather. There were fields stripped black by the plow and ready for winter planting and still others unplowed, unpastured, grown over with ironweed, Johnson grass, and yarrow, surrounding farmhouses gone gray and leaning ahead of the wind.

  And closer to town, there were still others, pastures or cornfields just a few years ago, now landscaped level as a putting green with long lanes leading up to houses so new and excessive that it hurt his eyes just to look at them, the new houses of people with new money or the second homes or retirement homes for people from the city.

  “Anyway,” Maggie said. “Everybody knows they done you wrong up there. And the ones that’s left is a bunch of suck-ass perverts, God damn them all to hell.” She did not apologize for cursing this time. “And after you just lost your wife from cancer. Double-damn them, that was low.”

  James Carpenter looked out at a gray barn hung thick with curing tobacco the color of a dull flame, and he did not hear what Maggie said next.

  * * *

  HIS WIFE was sick for nearly a year and, for nearly a year, James Carpenter slept barely three hours a night. He went about the business of arresting drunk drivers and investigating stolen calves; he endured conferences with doctors, visits from nurses, and the indignities of home health care, all in a half-wakened, half-somnolent state, so that once the funeral was over and his daughter flew back to California, he slept for three days straight.

  That made for trouble with the sheriff, but it was nothing like the trouble to come, for when he woke, he found he had developed a habit of restlessness and found himself still sleepless, alert in every cell.

  At three in the insomniac morning, he walked through the rooms of his house, listening to the owls and the coyotes and thinking hard.

  For the world had shifted under his feet and he was aware now of a new sense of who was wrong and who was being wronged, who was stealing and what was being stolen.

  2

  MAGGIE BOYLAN was a pretty girl back when she was in school. But wild. Wild enough that, at fourteen, she ran away to Nevada; at fifteen, someone had to pluck her off a railroad bridge before she jumped; at sixteen, she had her first conviction and her first child; at seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, and twenty, she had more wild times with even wilder men, a couple more children, and a rap sheet of drunk and disorderlies. There should have been a string of theft charges as well, but the only thing Maggie seemed to do well was steal, for things disappeared when she was around, things small as cigarettes and wedding rings and large as bales of hay and two-ton trucks, and she was always suspected, but never charged.

  By the time James Carpenter came out of the Army and joined the county sheriff’s patrol, the pretty young girl was just a memory, but the wild woman was in full force, for Maggie had the weight and muscle of a farm woman and she had the grizzle and fight of a cornered animal.

  Each time Carpenter came out to the house on a call, Maggie heaped her curses on him and his partner—he knew better than to go out there alone. She fought, scratched, wrestled, and battered until they could stuff her into the backseat of a patrol car. And then, often as not, she would bang her head against the cage until her forehead bled and they would have to truss her up like an old rug and she would lay up in the cell half the night banging on the bars with a tin cup and shouting out her curses, which seemed endless in their variety and their bedrock vehemence.

  Somewhere along the way, she dropped the wild men and settled on sixty acres her daddy had left her when he died. And she married a man who hoped that love would tame her. But it had not worked.

  Finally, the judge sent her away for peddling amphetamines at the truck stop in Wolf Creek. She did three years in Marysville, then three months more in a halfway house, and had a tough parole officer who kept her on a short leash for another year after that. She stayed clean, Carpenter supposed, for he never had another call out to the farmhouse near the crossroads until OxyContin blew into the county like a long, ugly storm. So it started all over again.

  * * *

  OXYCONTIN WAS a terrible thing. It could turn a good man into a thief, a good woman into a prostitute. It could make a farm go to seed; a house go to foreclosure.

  Three days after his wife died, he caught a man in his kitchen at three in the morning. You’re too late, he would have told the man if he hadn’t run. Her cousin had stolen the pills from her bedside before she was even cold.

  * * *

  HE ASKED her, “They still got your old man in jail?” They were near the place where the cedar woods gave way to the golf course at the edge of town.

  Maggie looked at the end of her cigarette, decided there was one more draw in it, took that, and threw it out the window. “Yeah,” she said. “That’s another raw deal. Expired tags. That’s all they got on him, expired tags. They’ve had him for two whole months in that little shithouse of a jail. They tried to get him for running dope and they tore his car to pieces looking and couldn’t find nothing but them expired tags he was running on till his check would come in. So they took that poor man in and I don’t know how I’m gonna ever make his bail and he ain’t never smoked more’n a joint or two in his whole life, but they think just because I sold some drugs ten years ago, which he was never involved in, they still think they can find somethin
g on us, and the poor man ain’t done nothing wrong except put up with me and raise them kids when I was in the joint.”

  James Carpenter had his doubts. In twenty years on the force, he had never known anyone to be held any time at all for expired tags. Rumor had doubts as well, for rumor had it that her old man took the fall for Maggie to keep her from being sent up again.

  “They think because he’s married to me, they can find something on him. But what they don’t know is, I’m clean. Can you tell? Can you tell I’ve picked up weight? Seven pounds in a month. I’m off the drugs, been off for two months. Look at my eyes. See? They’re clear now. They ain’t got that cloud. Things ain’t never going to be like they was.”

  James Carpenter nodded his approval. He was sure this was another one of Maggie’s lies, but he had decided it was easier to go along.

  My God, my God, he wondered. What have I got myself into?

  * * *

  MAGGIE BOYLAN had once been a regular part of Carpenter’s work life, but in the months since he lost his job, he had seen nothing of her at all. It was strange, and a little embarrassing, to have her now in the cab of his truck when before, she had ridden behind him in a patrol car, cuffed to the backseat and cursing.

  He glanced over to her ravaged face with the bones all knocking at the doors of her flesh and tried to see in her the pretty, wild girl.

  But that girl was gone, as if she had never been, chased away by smoke and needles and a flood of cheap vodka.

  3

  “I’LL MEET you right here,” she told him in front of the drugstore. “I’ll just leave this purse right here if you don’t mind.” She pulled out her billfold and stuffed the purse under the seat. “If I ain’t on the street, I’ll be in here after these prescriptions.”

  That was all well and good; he wanted to spend as little time in town as possible. Get in, get your business done, get out. That was how he liked it ever since the trouble with the job and all the assaults on his reputation. He had to check in with his lawyer and drop off some papers relating to his grievance and appeal. Fifteen minutes max, and he would be ready to head back home.