* * *
Russell followed Hector out to the middle of the immense yard, where a rusted barbeque pit coughed up smoke through a disintegrating stove pipe. Dry St. Augustine grass crinkled like cellophane under Russell’s blue Sketchers as he tramped size eleven footprints around dog turds and ant hills.
"They’re thinking about enacting a burn ban pretty soon, like last year," Russell remarked. "I’d hate to see it happen, but it would make sense. I can’t remember the last time it rained."
"It’s been…two…months," Hector got out between coughs. Lifting the lid to the smoker, he stabbed the sizzling beef with a two-pronged meat fork, moved it around. "I’ll tell you what, though—if they do go through with it, I’m still barbequing." He grinned slyly. "How’re they gonna know? I’m way the hell out here in the boonies."
Russell reached into his left hip pocket, took out his key chain, and absently twirled it around his index finger. "That’s true, but isn’t Sheriff Price still keeping an eye on you? As I recall, you and him aren’t exactly buddies. Besides, I think it’s mostly kids they’re worried about, starting brush fires with firecrackers and whatnot."
"You’re a kid, too."
"Yeah, but I don’t mess around with fireworks. You do. So try not to burn up the whole goddamn county. Can you do me that one favor?"
"Hey, I only shoot ’em off to relieve stress."
Russell half snorted, half chuckled. The only stress in Hector Graham’s life lay in deciding which all-you-can-eat buffet to gorge at. Russell didn’t know anybody who avoided stress and dodged responsibility more.
Russell shoved the keys into his pocket and said, "How much longer we got on that slab of meat?"
"Oh, it’s done, Cap’n, but I forgot the fuckin’ plate. HEY PETE, CAN YA BRING ME A PLATE!! MAKE IT A BIG ONE!"
Thirty yards away, Pete stood from where he had squatted to play with Lola’s ears and pulled open the screen door. As it crashed shut behind him, Mike’s spindly leg shot up over the trellis.
"I’d wish you’d go easier on him, Hec," Russell said. "You know he’s just trying to impress you."
"Who? O’Brien?"
Russell sighed. "No, I’m pretty sure Mike’s only here for the ride. I’m talking about Pete. What’s the deal with making him take his shirt off?"
"Oh, that? Today’s Bareback Friday. We all have our shirts off. You should have your shirt off, too." As he said "you," Hector gently yet firmly pressed the tines of the meat fork against Russell’s chest, just below his left nipple.
Without flinching, Russell stepped back and locked eyes with Hector. A faint grin played at the corners of his mouth. The grin widened to a smile when Hector lowered the fork and looked away.
"There you go," Russell said coolly. "You’ll poke somebody’s eye out with that thing if you’re not careful."
Hector gazed at the ground, shook his head a couple of times, and grunted. Turning his attention back to the hissing brisket, he started to open his mouth, as if to say something smart, but closed it before words could escape.
Russell sauntered over to the shade of a huge pecan tree, the only tree in the yard. "You’ve got a hole under your fence," he said, sitting down on a gnarled root. "You might want to think about filling it up." He doubted Hector had heard him, even though he had said it loud enough, because Hector never heard anything.
Overhead, a cicada began its crescendo of a mating call in the branches. Russell glanced at Hector’s sweaty brown back, then shot his eyes to the porch. The angle wasn’t right to see Mike through the trellis, but he knew that he was over there somewhere, either singing or talking to himself. O’Brien wasn’t crazy or dumb—no one was dumb compared to Hector—but he was definitely something. Pete, meanwhile, was no doubt in the kitchen scurrying for a plate large enough to satisfy Hector’s needs. He was probably panicking, mentally cursing the person who had dispatched him on such a stressful mission.
Russell’s eyes returned to Hector. Hector, with his fat, sweet potato tits and military-style crewcut had just done something not unusual for him: he had intimated violence. What was unusual was that this time the threat had been made against him, Russell. Bareback Friday? Russell thought. Give me a fuckin’ break.
The cicada’s whine was close to deafening now.
Russell sighed and waited for the insect to cease its chattering. In the interim, he brought his knees to his chest and rested his chin on the caps. As he was doing this, the back door creaked, and Pete came running out with a large porcelain serving dish cradled in his arms. Russell watched hopelessly, and with sadness, as Pete sprinted across the barren yard and kicked through one of Lola’s ashy turds.
Why does he put up with Hector’s shit?
The answer came as quickly as the thought: Because he is afraid. He will always be afraid. Even after he graduates and gets the hell out of Alabama, he’ll still rush to appease someone he feels inferior to.
The cicada began its decrescendo.
Thank God.
Russell watched Hector reprimand Pete for getting to him late, telling him how he had singlehandedly ruined the brisket. For his sake, Pete defended himself as he always did: with a barrage of fancy-sounding SAT vocabulary words and meaningless scientific posturing.
Give him hell, Pete, ya pussy.
Russell stood up and looked over to the deck. O’Brien emerged from the shade, crab walked around the trellis and down the three steps to the lawn. From there, the crustacean made a beeline for the barbeque pit.
Russell ran his hand over his lower back. His shirt was damp with sweat. He had been outside less than five minutes.