Scraping Roadkill Off Tires
Marcel would consider himself a close friend of the mailman, Thomas. That’s what tends to happen when you run up to him at first sight without fail for two years: you become close friends with the mailman. Not only would Marcel run out of the Abel’s farmhouse and down the grassy slope of land that ended at the dirt road where the mailbox was planted into the ground, he’d torment Thomas with the same question every time.
“Is there anything under the name Marcel?”
His mother wouldn’t put a last name, and Marcel wasn’t even sure he remembered whatever last name he was supposed to have accompanying his first.
Thomas gave Marcel the same pitying look and a head shake every time. One day, he had made the horrible mistake of asking Marcel who he was waiting to hear from as he rummaged through the cloth sack that was slung on his shoulder. Marcel cringes remembering how, like any 11 year old child did, he would overshare at any chance he got. A bad habit that was now completely put to rest at the age of 16.
“My mama’s coming back for me soon, I’m waiting for her letter,” Marcel had said in response.
He believed that, for years, up until his 13th birthday. Even when his mother had dropped him off at the Abel’s farm, she’d never mentioned anything involving a letter or any form of contact she’d keep with her son, for that matter. All Marcel had gotten were the words: “You’ll be staying here a little longer than usual, Marcie. Your mama’s gotta get herself together, and she can’t do that with you hangin’ around.”
Marcel felt like that child again as he stared down at the letter in his hands, as he’d been waiting every day that the mail came for his mama to tell him he was still wanted.
He was anything but that child now, either physically or mentally. His previously pale skin had a somewhat permanent tan to it now from the days he spent out in the sun with Silas on the farm, and his limbs had grown beyond any expectation he’d had for himself. He stood at 5 '11, and the barely noticeable gap between his two front teeth had apparently taken that as the go-ahead to grow in size, too, enough so that Marcel had a slight lisp at times. The shaggy brown mop that had once sat on his head and ended at his shoulders had been cut to the near nape of his neck almost instantaneously by Mrs. Abel as soon as his mother had driven off. It seemed like an itch she couldn’t wait to scratch, and when she had finished cutting Marcel’s hair, he got it. The wind and crappy A/C hitting the back of his neck was a feeling like no other.
For a moment, Marcel forgot Thomas was still in front of him and rambling on and on about his issues. Today, he had picked a particularly uncomfortable topic.
“Christ, and no matter what, Deborah won’t get pregnant. We have been trying for years. Years! And not one baby has popped out of her.”
One of the drawbacks of being a close friend of the mailman, was hearing about his problems.
Marcel did his best to seem interested in the conversation, but all he could muster was an expression of stale, artificial concern. Nothing seemed more pressing than the letter in his hand.
It took a few minutes, but Thomas finished the enthralling tales of his fertility issues with his wife and how much they had been screwing in a sad attempt for a baby. Marcel had counted them down, it had taken exactly 4 minutes and 32 seconds.
The hike back up the farmhouse felt like nothing. Marcel’s legs suddenly had a mind of their own and were carrying him exactly where he needed to go. He ran up the stairs and raced past the frames of photos, none which included him. Marcel hadn’t even made an attempt to clean off his feet from the dirt and grime from outside.
Knocking was a formality. Marcel and Silas didn’t even think about it these days when it came to each other. Marcel considered Silas’s room his own second. He opened the door to his best friend’s and practically barged in without so much as a warning or a polite hello.
Silas was sitting hunched over the desk that was pushed up against the corner of his bedroom. It took up a chunk of the floorspace, with his bed pushed up against the wall opposite to the desk. The floorboards groaned under any weight, and the wallpaper was ugly and disturbingly yellow with floral patterns.
Silas’s blonde hair, a mix of his father’s light blonde and his mother’s dark brown, fell over his face and obscured a majority of it. Despite this, there was no doubt he was doing schoolwork. His eyebrows were pinched together creating a crease on his forehead, a sure sign he was concentrating extra hard. He hadn’t even noticed Marcel’s self invitation into his room.
Marcel tossed the letter on Silas’s desk, careless, as if it didn’t mean the whole world to him at the moment. “It’s from my mom.”
Silas blinked. The letter was laid out innocently in front of him. “Your mom?” He picked up the paper tainted by the very woman who had flat out abandoned his best friend.
“Yes, and I’ll spare you the shock of reading it. She’s reached out for… reconciliation. It seems that way, at least,” Marcel said, pointing at a specific line of writing on the letter. “She's given me the address she’s going to be staying at for the next few days. And how long she’ll be staying there.”
“Reconciliation,” Silas repeated. He laughed, dry and humorless. His expression was harsh. If looks could kill, the letter would surely be in the middle of hearing its own eulogy. “I guess she’s finally gotten herself together. And she can’t even come to you? ”
Marcel stayed silent. Silas’s bitter tone was understandable. More than that, it was deserved. He should’ve known better than anyone how it felt to resent his mother for never coming back. And all Marcel could feel while looking at the paper was an ache in his chest. Like a hook being tugged, yanking at tender skin, a wound in recovery too fresh to be touched.
Silas looked up from the letter and at Marcel’s face. His features softened at Marcel’s clear distress. “…I’m sorry. I know even getting a letter is crazy for you, I shouldn’t have said that. Do you want to meet up with her?”
“I do, I think.” Marcel sighed, dragging his hand down his face. “I want to know what convinced her to reach out. I don’t know if it’s her, specifically, I want to see.”
“You’ll need a ride, won’t you?”
Marcel paused, and Silas could practically hear the cogs in his head turning. Everything was starting to come crashing down on him. “Oh. I will. I’d need a car, money, a map- I don’t even know how to drive.” Now it was Marcel’s turn to furrow his brows, going down a list of the things this trip would require. “A bus. I could take a bus, or hitch a ride with someone on the side of the road.”
“Hitch a ride?” Silas gaped, clearly appalled at the idea of Marcel getting into a complete stranger's car. “When I said you’ll need a ride I was insinuating I could take you.”
Marcel blinked, dumbfounded by Silas’s response.
The two came to an agreement. Out of the two boys, Silas definitely had the most experience being in a car and just being out in the world in general. He had money saved up from an allowance Mr. Abel gave him, something Marcel didn’t even think for a split second to ask for over his years on the farm. With that, they could buy a map once out of Rocheport at the next town. The only part of the plan that they couldn’t quite figure out was what kind of transportation they’d take.
Marcel argued for the bus. It would be easier to go from stop to stop than find their own way with a map. Silas was keen on taking the only car that the Abels owned. You would assume it was Mr. Abel’s second child with how much he cared about the damn thing.
“The bus will cause less problems for us,” Marcel said and plucked the letter off of Silas’s desk.
Silas stood from his desk to meet Marcel, eye to eye. “The bus will also take longer with all those stops we’d have to make for other people, paying for a bus ticket at each stop will be too expensive-”
Marcel held up a hand, indicating that he could stop. He knew better than anyone Silas could keep going. “We’re taking the bus.”
It was clear Silas wasn’t satisfied with that option from the frown on his face, but he took it with a short nod.
The two boys decided to leave as soon as time permitted. They spent the remaining daylight preparing. Silas went off to gather what Marcel assumed was his saved up money, pack the bags for their trip, and whatever other shit he had thought of that Marcel hadn’t. He kept himself busy through writing a long letter explaining everything to Mrs. Abel, though technically it was meant for Silas’s father as well. He only addressed it to the latter.
When the thick night sky blanketed Rocheport, they were ready. Silas had packed their bags as Marcel expected. They left the note for Silas’s parents inside his room and picked up their bags. Both of the Abels were asleep, chances were Mr. Abel was in the room that reeked of the cigarettes the man smoked, snoring, and poor Mrs. Abel wouldn’t be able to hear them leaving over that racket even if she had wanted to.
Marcel constantly sympathized with that poor lady.
The stairs and floorboards were an enemy to both boys, even with their light footsteps despite the weight on their backs. The walk to the door seemed like an eternity, and when they reached it finally, Marcel didn’t know why Silas stopped.
“What is it? Why did you stop?” Marcel whispered.
“Marcie,” Silas started. On lord, Marcel could already tell he was not going to like this. “The car would be faster.”
Not this again. Marcel bit back a groan and opened the door, shuffling past Silas. Cigarette smoke hit his face. The effect it had on Marcel was the equivalent of a tranquilizer, and Silas’s reaction was no different. They stood on the porch, front door still wide open. There was Mr. Abel. The rocking chair he sat in creaked, going back and forth.
He had a lit cigarette hanging out of his mouth, the soft amber glow illuminating his face. Mr. Abel had harsh features, similar to Silas at times, except his eyebrows were constantly scrunched in dissatisfaction.
“Now, do you boys mean to tell me…” He huffed out a cloud of smoke. “Why my keys are missin’. And why you’re sneaking out of the house like two queers waitin’ to get caught.”
Marcel looked down by Mr. Abel’s rocking chair. The smooth wood of his hunting rifle glowed nicely against the light of the cigarette.
I wrote this for a short story assignment in my creative writing class, but the overarching story is something that I've been working on for a long time now. It was a struggle to get these six pages out. But, it was an experience I enjoyed, and I felt satisfied with it by the end.