It's Not Love That Brought Us Here

Cody’s throat was raw, each breath a scalded kiss deep as pneumonia. The coughing fit struck in the midmorning hours, the sun rising, so little time left before his alarm would wail. In the absence of adrenaline, his muscles relaxed. Don’t get up. It hurts too much to get up.

Yet he did, ginger footfalls patting as he left his bedroom, the path to the bathroom a practiced routine. After relieving himself, all he wanted was to sink back into the mattress. As he washed his hands, though, he stared at himself in the mirror. Chapped knuckles nor rheum muted the intensity of the bruise spread across his throat. A horror show ligature everyone would see and ask about.

A few houses down, Chloe couldn’t sleep. That was normal even on the best of nights; her thoughts tended to overwhelm and pool in moments of silence. She tried to steady her focus outward, the ball in her palm rising and falling with each flick of her wrist.

“Except for one other person, only you know. Keep it all quiet and trust me. If it was so important to keep it secret, then why send the pictures to her in the first place? Why the bombast only to go gibbering in flop sweat? Brandon was renowned for his viciousness inside the ring. The solution was right there! Cut and dry child abuse.

It didn't make sense. For the longest time, none of it had. Not when Cody had what she thought was a panic attack after seeing his birth father waylaid by a pack of glue-bound dogs after winning the Universal Championship for a second time. Not with the unnatural distance that had become the norm between father and son, all his time spent staying with his mother despite wrestling season long in the rearview. His fandom and fascination toward Julien Lavigne.

Mystery was an overdose of heroin to the racing mind.

The Texas sun lingered on the edge of the horizon, unfettered from clouds, its oppression burning through the cypress, baking the buffalo grass and snakeweed despite the shade. Brandon kept his distance from the creek, resolved himself to let his father’s ash remain as he’d left it. Try as he might, there was no escape from the overgrowth.

Never ending.

All consuming.

January 14th, 2023. Clay Byrd came to Anaheim and wanted to change my life.

Lubbock and San Antonio. Six hours between us, but I know where you lived. We drank the same water. I snuck watching your father on Friday nights at the Sportatorium and Sunday mornings at the Will Rogers Coliseum. Odd how small the world is. You didn't know any of this until I told you, my arms wrapped around your neck to take your life. 

That seed of doubt you wished to plant within me?

You're a rancher's son. You knew the thorns the moment you reached within. Did they rip into your flesh as they do cattle hooves? Did the scent waft into your nostrils and leave you gut sick as it always has me? 

You didn't finish your job, but not through any fault of your own. No…you couldn't bury that seed because once you saw what was within, you realized there was no piercing through what was already there. You thought we were the same. We’re not. 

You wallow in guilt and misery because you choose to.

I survive and thrive despite the presence it inflicts upon me. Something greater. Something more.

Damned mesquite.

Resolving to cut the cancer away, he slumped into the plastic of his lawn chair, wiping away the sweat and grease beading and dripping from his brow, gloved hands reaching for his ax. A refuge after Eckbolsheim, a place to disconnect, to focus on the work and the land. Amy had the means to contact him and no one else was afforded the same. Alone on this tract still his, but not for so for much longer.

The excavator thirsted near the home that forged him, its foot stone culled, its plot covered with fresh loam, the brick and mortar remains laid in broken folds inside the rusted roll-off dumpster. Finally, everything struck in full, down to the very foundation.

What he would give for a beer.

At the moment, he’d be willing to pay a higher price than even being The Champion again.

Sweat and itch. For Cody, September was too early for sleeves.When rolled up, they bunched at the elbow. A pair of scissors would fix this. All this discomfort paid for the real reason for wear; the synthetic turtleneck covering the bruise. There was rasp in his voice, but it was thankfully subtle.

He didn’t want to go to school, but if he missed, he couldn’t play in the game that night. Eau Claire Memorial at Superior. Win, and for the first time in nearly a decade, the Abes would be in the playoffs. Wounded, cornered. Father and son were very much alike.

The loud rap of knuckles against the bathroom door startled him. “Get the lead out.” His other father was already away at work, but unfortunately, mom was still home.

“Almost done.” The more he trudged, the more he delayed. Just get through the school day. Figure out how to cover the bruise more permanently afterward. Pulling at the collar, he opened the door, grabbing his bag from his room before heading into the kitchen.

“Cutting it real close, aren’t we?” she chastised, peering from her coffee cup. Abes purple and black jeans. A quick change from her scrubs once she got off shift and she’d be ready to go to his game.

Starving, he opened the refrigerator. Four hard boiled eggs. He put a paper towel down on the counter, rolling the shells across it to crack and separate. He ripped a banana from the bunch on the counter hanger before reaching for the drawer on the island, pulling out a butter knife to cut open the peel. Mother was right; there was barely space to breathe with how quickly he took to eating everything.

“You wouldn’t have to be rushing if you got up earlier.” He wanted to snarl, but suddenly, her phone rang, and his stomach dropped. He wouldn’t. That piece of shit wouldn’t– “Appreciate it, Rebecca.” Thank God. “Good thing you inhaled all that. Your ride’s a little early.”

A simple nod. He reached for his bag, slinging it over his shoulder before making his way out.

“Hey!” She shouted from the kitchen, causing him to turn back. His mother’s smile was effervescent. “Good luck tonight. Love you.”

Love wasn’t what guided Brandon from Karachi to Abu Dhabi to Chicago O’Haire. On the other side, he found a world once his own, now more unfamiliar than the grave he’d adopted. There was order to the highways. All that surrounded felt so less lived in, not completely spent. All the more indication he’d become transient.

No place to truly call home.

‘Ariel’ was state of the art beyond surveillance, be it organizing flights or sourcing the truck he’d drive across the state line to Wisconsin. Rental agencies meant proof. Receipts. Given the nature of their employees, Taciet provided resources but reserved the right to feign ignorance if events required.

“All accounts are set and active.” Sterile. Efficient. But as he made his way from Madison to The Dells, humanity crept into her tone. “Are you really sure about this?”

Stupid. Foolish. Why? None of this made logical sense. Why did he find himself caring? A pistol concealed, a part of the package with the truck. Just in case. “I am.”

“Just remember...she leaves at around nine.”

“Thanks.” US-53 to Wisconsin-93. It was dawning upon him. The sugar maples surrounding the exit on all sides braced the sunset, its oranges and reds matching the leaves. His mouth was going dry and his pulse elevated. So much time spent just to get here.

And so much more to have to wait through and watch.

“You sure about this?” Chloe couldn’t stand the silence anymore. Between periods, she stood near her friend’s locker, hands buried in her baggy purple hoodie. She kept her voice low, so only he could hear. “Dude, you’re not looking good.”

“The fuck you talking about?” When her mother kept going on about the game that night, Cody was able to fake his way through conversation. “I’m fine. Drop it, alright?”

“You’re just...you’re pale and–”

“And so are you.” He slammed the locker door shut, his glower stabbing toward her as he tucked his Algebra book under the armpit of his varsity jersey. “All pale and bags under the eyes and all that–”

“Well someone had me up way late–”

“So it’s my fault you couldn’t sleep?”

“Yeah. Kinda really is.”

“Don’t look at me like that...”

“How bad is it?”

His eyes grew wide. “It’s fine.” He was lying because she always knew when he was. There was no hesitation as she reached for the collar of his turtleneck, fingers slipping underneath. Wine and mulberry with a jaundiced yellow spread around the outskirts. He wrenched away, his book falling to the floor, startling their peers nearby. “Don’t you dare do that again.”

Her scowl matched his own. “Or what? Why you trying to hide? Are you...protecting him?”

“I’m doing what I have to do. And you’re either with me on that...or I can’t trust you.”

“You’re really protecting him? After all–”

He refused to let her finish, scooping his book from the floor, storming out of the locker bays. “Drop it.”

Just drop it? This is...this is so stupid. You’re so stupid. Why did you rope me into this?

East Hill, near the corner of Fenwick and Harlem. Brandon cut the engine two hours before, nestling his truck near the sidewalk, obscured by shadow in plain sight. Single level and two story homes, all with their lights glowing through the windows, save the one at the corner. A sedan sat in the driveway, as was expected from the surveillance photographs ‘Ariel’ shared. The wife’s crossover was nowhere to be seen.

The Tarvish residence was ancillary; it was Melissa’s home that he was focused upon. His hand steadied on the steering wheel. It had been years since he’d seen her in the flesh, and after everything that had happened,it was better they remained worlds apart.

In truth, it was overwhelmingly heartening for him to see her living. Flick away the tears flowing. It was involuntary. He wasn’t crying. His grip tensed. A deep breath through the nostrils. Why did I have come here? I shouldn’t be here.

Was it the chance to see his son? When last he saw him, he had just rushed into the world a month premature. Locked away behind glass in an intensive care nursery, covered by tubes and oximeters, his wrinkled and frail body barely visible. Cody’s eyes hadn’t even opened yet.

If they see you, if they know you, you’ll ruin them. 

He waited for the clock to strike nine, and shortly before it did, the door to the Tarvish’s opened, the girl beginning to run, her father trailing behind. Melissa and her new husband appeared from their own home, standing out in their driveway, waiting. The girl rounded the corner, taking off and leaping to swipe at the bottom of the net of the basketball hoop fixed to the garage. After she went into their home, the three parents stood near each other in their round of darkness under the faint floodlight. They spoke for sometime before making leave, and it was near an hour before the light in his former wife’s home finally ceased.

He left his truck and began walking on the other side of the street., making it three houses down before checking to see if there was a vantage point from any of his ex-wife’s windows. Satisfied, he crossed, walking up the narrow cobblestone leading to the Tarvish household. He drew the safety off his pistol and knocked on the door forcefully. The locks began to unclick.

The door opened, and Warren Tarvish, in the darkness of his own home, looked upon him with quizzing, narrowed eyes. There was a hint of familiarity hitting his senses. However, it was a mere prickle. “Can I...help you?”

Youngblood surveyed the man he towered above. Gray pushed through his red hair at the root, his mustache unkempt. Stress, the crows feet, the scent of body odor rising from his evening wear. Brandon nodded. “Only if you let me in.”

Coach Rob Scott was encircled by his football team. “You’ve been working towards this. One win seasons. Laughed at. You worked hard when the classes ahead of you refused. Always showing up with great attitude, great intensity.” Broad chested, flecks of gray encroaching into his chestnut beard. An Old Abes windbreaker and shorts. Always shorts. “This offseason, you followed up spring ball with the Fourth Quarter program and Seniors, Juniors we moved up last year, you did a great job of leading us through that. We learned a lot, got some really great work done, improvement across the board, we really got some really great work done guys...”

Cody’s head bobbed in anticipation. Shift in mindset. Knuckles cracked. Soreness, pain, it became focus and anger, like coils of fire inferno in the chest, ready to burst out. The turtleneck was sweltering.. Andy Faber knew from the look of his friend that something vicious was brewing. “You ready to rip they’re fucking heads off, Coco?”

“We’ve talked about this a long time, fellas. It’s here! Don’t admire your work before the job is finished! It’s before you! Everything you’ve fought all summer, these years, it’s here! We win, you do what no other Abe’s team has done in over a damn decade! Playoffs! Superior used to laugh at you! Let’s go out there and kick their fucking asses and go take what we want!”

They all rose, a cacophony of unrepentant unified fury. Cody roared as Andy and other teammates smashed hammerfists into his shoulder pads. He was frothing at the mouth.

Like father, like son.

Warren hadn’t invited Brandon in, yet his home was invaded all the same. He trailed behind, words sputtering, questions of who are you, what are you doing, who do you think you are. Lamplight was the only managed lightsource, helping visibility in the dark. The refrigerator sat open, and across the kitchen table, nonperishables like breads and beef sticks. The invader made himself at home. “Hard times?”

Tarvish’s voice found steadiness. “You need to leave.”

Youngblood drew his pistol, gesturing with the barrel toward the living room. “I’m not here for a house call, Warren.”

He froze, his eyes growing wide. “Look...I...I...”

“Move.”

“There isn’t–”

Brandon sighed. “I got a schedule to keep.” His captive followed, trudging, trying his best to remain calm. Once inside the living room, Youngblood directed the barrel at the couch, nodding with his head for him to sit down, all while he chose to remain standing. “Melissa. How long have you known her?”

There was a hitch in his voice. “She...um...she worked under me. Lippert. RV plant. She did night shift, and–”

“Pretty close, then?”

“Are you–”

“You’re daughter–”

The very mention of Chloe choked the air from his lungs. “Please–”

“Really close, right? With my kid? Everything I’ve seen and heard shows it. That they’re really good friends.”

My kid? Realization crystalized. Oh no. Oh God! He’s...he’s going to kill them and he’s going to kill me and he’s going to kill my daughter and “She didn’t–”

“Where’s your wife? You still together?”

“Why are you asking–”

“Where is she, Warren?”

He mewled, trying to grasp the last of his composure. “She’s...staying. With her parents right now. And she’s...looking for work out where they are. Like I’m doing here. Now please–”

The gun remained steady. “Why’s the kid here? Why isn’t she with your wife?”

“We...we don’t want to take her out of school. Don’t...don’t want to uproot everything until we have to. I don’t–”

“No for-sale sign. Foreclosure?” Brandon surveyed his trappings. The flatscreen television. The couch and easy chairs. End tables. A ceiling of slap brush. “How many months you behind?”

“Excuse me?”

“Mortgage. Power. Water. All that shit. How far are you behind?”

Tarvish’s head craned back. “Three. Got nothing left.” So many questions, but he was in no place to ask them. “I have no checking, no savings. It’s all gone. That’s why she’s out there. Have to have someplace to fall back on. I’m trying so hard–”

Brandon pulled back on the hammer. “How close is your daughter to my son?”

If this was the end, so be it. “Very. They’re best friends.”

He tilted his head. The man was shaking, shuddering. And so he remained, until he watched the pistol being holstered. In the next few motions, from Brandon’s pocket, he pulled a card, extending it in his direction. “That’s an account you can draw from. Right now, there’s enough to get you current. Every few weeks, there’ll be another deposit. That will cover the bills. A little bit more to keep your family on their feet.” Warren took the card into his hands, quaking. All response was frozen inside his throat. “I want my kid to be happy. But this ain’t free. I’m going to keep a running tab. You’re going to find work and pay me back.” His tone was flat, and once he was done, he walked away, disappearing into the hallway’s darkness. “You can tell your wife. That’s it. Never your daughter. Melissa. Her husband. My son. Nobody else. Got it?”

It’s not love that brought him here.

It was something more.

Trucks aren't meant for sleeping, but the air conditioning provided refuge from the scorching heat. Brandon was close to nodding off, the discomfort of sweat and must dried and cooling against his skin. He snored until his phone rang. Amy. He groaned, flipping it open. “What’s up?”

Her answer was terse. “A lot. Apparently, you’re done?”

Opening the door, he stepped out, walking toward the fire he’d made of fresh chopped mesquite. “With what?”

“PRIME.”

“Really?” He grunted, throwing another branch of the sickness into the pit, the sap dripping, smoking on the coals. “And where’d that come from?”

“Rumors. From the site. News to me. Figure it’s news to you too.”

“Who?”

“Unnamed sources.”

He shook his head as he stooped on his hunches. “Fucking wonderful.”

“I know you said to let the battery run out on your phone...”

“But...”

“Your boss wants to know...Minneapolis/St. Paul or San Antonio.”

He’d wanted more time to mend after Eckbolsheim, but if Madrid beckoned, so be it. But if he went, someone would have to pay. “...San Antonio. And Amy?”

“Yeah?”

“If Lindsay calls...remind her...it’s Turmoil. And if she asks why that matters, you say three words; Knox and Best. And tell her...I got no problem adding another log onto that fire.”

The son struck like his father, and the crowd roared in approval, at least those who called him their own. Chloe watched, as did Melissa, and while one was filled with pride, the other had only concern. Genetics gifted Cody with size, strength, speed. The transition from sixteen to seventeen was that of All-State caliber athlete to Division 1 recruit. He flew across the field at middle linebacker, reading, reacting, cutting through the line to stop the run, moving in underneath coverage to take away slants and inside curls from Superior’s spread cowboy pistol offense.

He’d made the transition from lineman to tight end. He was too fast, too athletic, to not be used as a weapon in the Abes passing game. Yet still, he featured heavily in the running attack, loving the contact, leading in opening and sealing holes for Andy. Every play, Cody made sure to put a lick on someone from Superior. Lackadaisical movement? He’d cut them down. Square up and run at him? He’d drive them back. And he bullied and punished and dominated, as was his bloodright.

47-14. The Abes were playoff bound and the celebration was on. Bound together near the visitor’s locker room, the team waited, hooting, hollering. Sweat drenched, Cody ripped his shoulder pads from his shoulder. Fifteen tackles, four for loss. Two receiving touchdowns. He’d taken their souls.

The Eau Claire Memorial students who’d traveled, their parents, were a congregation. Melissa and Travis rang her cowbells with the rest of them. Cody pulled the turtleneck over his head.

He wasn’t thinking.

“Oh he’s going to have to ice that,” Travis pointed toward his neck. “Must’ve gotten collared or something.”

Melissa winced as she focused. “Oh my God...that looks...that looks awful. Did...someone get him around the neck? I don’t remember someone getting him around the neck.”

Chloe stood there, next to them, shaking her head. If only they knew.

If only they knew.

Why’d you get me roped into this, Cody?

Maybe they should know.

“It wasn’t from the game.”