Burn Scars, Eddie Generous [read full novel txt] 📗

feet of the desk and chair combination rubbing a cry against the floor. A few students glanced him and got back to it as he stepped toward Mr. Jackson’s table; a few more gave him goofball expressions, laughing at him inside their youthful skulls.

“Fag,” said one of the country boys from his science class—he must’ve had to retake one of the lower grade courses, because he wasn’t in Rusty’s math class.

Rusty furrowed his brow at the kid. Possibly the kid saw his future in Rusty…but he thought, nah, there’s no foresight at that age. The kid was plain stupid and ignorant, and who cared anyway? It didn’t matter a lick to him anymore, hopefully. Please, god in the sky let this be the last, please.

The intercom buzzed, filling the gym with distraction. “Please send Rusty Talbot to the office if he’s still writing. Once he’s finished, of course. Thank you.”

Rusty frowned. Somehow he was sure it was going to be someone taking this away from him. A couple teachers banding together to reveal they’d made a mistake in adding up the credits he’d earned and he’d have to do a whole ‘nother year. He’d skirted so much trouble and an incest relationship, the usual trouble was due. Time for him to pay because good luck belonged to the wealthy and the pretty.

The students who hadn’t looked at Rusty began watching him. He continued to the table up front and Mr. Jackson grinned at him. “Rusty, this is it huh?” he whispered.

“Hope so.”

Mr. Jackson put a meaty hand on Rusty’s bicep. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll stop by the office.”

“Sure thing,” Rusty said.

—

The apartment smelled like spaghetti and for once, it wasn’t from the restaurant downstairs. Rusty and Christine had moved into Mike Campbell’s one-bedroom unit two days after the eviction notice and the landlady’s outraged tirade down the stairs—she couldn’t yell face to face because her oxygen tank was on wheels and smoking left her too winded to descend from the main floor space.

Rusty hung up his coat and untied his boots in the doorway. Christine kept a pretty tight ship and everything had its place. Took some getting used to, but it was worth it.

The TV was on in the living room. Springer. Christine was in the kitchen stirring noodles. She was taking well to living outside her father’s confines—even taking that she’d killed two people even better. She’d told Rusty on the third night she hadn’t realized how small her world had been. How much the man coddled and manipulated her.

The man himself built a case against Dwayne Siegenthaler, even going so far as manufacturing eyewitness reports of Dwayne being spotted at a small airport where private planes took people into the north without purchasing tickets—no ID used for those flights, no trail left to follow. Craig Daniels got a job at the local Butterball plant. Danny Jacobs left town after robbing the electronics section of the Logic Appliance storefront. Rusty met Cary’s kids at his funeral. They’d embraced him as a friend. Cary had spoken of him and all the things he’d managed to overcome. Cary had loved him like a son and was so proud of Rusty.

That was a hard part, but Rusty was doing okay. It was almost as if he’d swapped Cary for Christine—got her back anyway, mentally.

“Hey,” Rusty said and kissed Christine by the ear.

“How’d it go?” She wore pajama pants, a t-shirt, and a silly apron they’d found under the sink—it featured a chicken looking shocked, holding a half-eaten drumstick, caption reading, It’s what now?

“No idea. Okay, I guess.” Rusty waved a slip of paper he pulled from his pocket. “This guy called and left his name and number at the office for me.”

“At the school?”

“Yep.”

“Who is it?”

“William Reid from Canada Life.” Rusty picked up the chintzy telephone Bell had installed a week after they’d moved in and dialled the local number on the paper. “Guess he has something for me. If he’s trying to sell me on something, I will not be a happy camper.”

The line rang.

“Your celebration lunch will be ready in like ten minutes.” Christine had the day off. She’d gotten a job at the racetrack casino serving drinks at the tiki bar. The operation made money hand over fist and treated the managers right, so, in turn, the managers were great about employees picking days. And they paid four bucks more per hour than Logic Appliance. After leaving there, it was as if everyone else took a step up—aside from Rusty, of course. That extra money from her job was plenty helpful because McDonald’s wasn’t paying Rusty enough, especially not when his eighteen-year-old managers took themselves too seriously, demanded much more than what they offered in remuneration—really, that scene was just about the norm for Rusty, so at least that was reliable. He had to go in for the second part of his shift at four that afternoon.

“Okay,” he said and the line connected in his ear. “Canada Life, Shirley speaking, how may I direct your call?”

“Hey, yeah, I need to talk to William Reid.”

“Who may I say is calling?”

“Rusty Talbot.”

“Oh, excellent. One moment.”

The line clicked and elevator tunes played gently until the line clicked again. “Rusty Talbot!”

“Uh, hey.”

“How are you?”

“Fine. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve been looking for you. I need a signature.”

“For what?”

“A check.”

“A check?” Rusty said.

“Yes, sir. A policy payment.”

“What policy?”

“Um, the name is, hmm, I have the paperwork packed in the car. I didn’t sell the policy. I started last year, took over Gary Tarnell’s book. I’ve had this check for a month and a half. Are you somewhere I can get a signature?”

“Okay. Yeah.” Rusty gave his address and how to get to the apartment rather than the restaurant, and then hung up.