Still, some of Mr. Freemont’s personality stayed trapped inside his guitar after I inherited it. The wood seemed incapable of offering a bright tune. Everything I wrote with that guitar was solemn and bittersweet. Of course, that could have just been purging the pain of my childhood. I’d believe that explanation if I hadn’t written a few happy songs during those years on Angela’s guitar. That instrument felt as kind and generous as her whenever I touched it.
I don’t feel anything in the Takamine on my lap. I suspect it’s been too pent up. Unloved and unexperienced. Never seen the road or a barroom gig. Just a pretty thing without use, like everything else in this house. I hang it back on the wall thinking the guitar must be disappointed our session is over, wishing to prolong the moment like a homely man experiencing a night with a beautiful woman. I remind myself it’s only a guitar and go see about Caroline.
As soon as I step into the hall, I notice the disarray. The grandfather clock has indeed been turned over. It lies on its side, glass door shattered and the exposed face motionless. The hands are frozen on eleven fifteen. The far wall of the dining room is full of deep holes in the drywall, the wooden supports visible. Some openings are the size of cannonballs, others made by fists or boot heels. Beer cans are scattered across the floor. Cigarette butts extinguished on the hardwood.
I find them in the kitchen. Someone thought it would be amusing to discharge the fire extinguisher under the sink. Now the floor is coated in white chemical snow. Caroline holds a bowling ball overhead while Russell stands behind her watching. I can see she’s sober now. Clear-eyed and aware, which makes me wonder just how long I’ve been upstairs playing. I’m relieved to see she’s better, but disturbed to see she’s taken part in the mayhem. I almost wish she was still high. At least then she’d have an excuse. Caroline throws the ball at the far wall, where it cracks the tile over the sink and clatters into the steel basin.
“No, no, no,” Russell says. “You gotta throw it with your chest.”
He plucks the ball from the sink and throws it hard with one arm. More tiles shatter. Rosita and Victor watch from the small kitchen table. Four places are set, but the dishes and platters are all broken, the silver candelabra on its side with the white candles snapped into thirds. Victor is spinning his pistol, performing tricks for the others’ pleasure. Tossing the gun high in the air and catching it behind his back, twirling the polished steel until it’s a gleaming blur.
The destruction doesn’t surprise me, but I can’t help wondering why primitive appetites always win out in times of strife. What sends me to the guitar, seeking escape in a fabricated world when others are busy tearing reality down? Does it feel that much better to watch a bowl shatter and know you’ve kept it from ever being whole again? To look at a broken wall and feel reassured your fist can achieve that result? If that’s the greatest pleasure a healthy body can bring, maybe I’m better off.
“We’re vandals now?” I ask.
“My father’s the vandal,” Russell says. He waves his arms around the mess. “This is just some payback.”
“I doubt the law will see it that way,” I say.
Victor never stops twirling the gun. It rolls over his finger, rotating like an extension of his body.
“Isn’t that thing loaded?” I say.
“Wouldn’t be impressive if it wasn’t,” he says. He aims the gun at me, then spins on his heel, the entire room locked in his sights as he revolves around and around. When he finally stops, he gives a dizzy giggle and goes back to his tricks. Caroline applauds these antics, but I can see she’s finally sober enough to reason with.
“You stay if you like, but I need to get home,” I tell her. The money isn’t worth it. I’ll take the guitar and walk if necessary. “I’m not taking the fall for all this.”
“What we need is something real,” Victor says. “A confession.” The gun is finally motionless in his hand.
“How so?” Russell asks.
“I mean making your father renounce what he’s done. Exposing him for what he is.”
“And how would we do that?”
“We put a camera on him and make him admit everything.”
Russell smiles at the idea, but I can see he’s confused. “How do you make someone confess when they don’t think they’ve done anything wrong?”
“You make them feel remorse.”
Russell chuckles. “He’s incapable of feeling remorse. This shit is all he’s ever cared about.” Russell picks up the silver candelabra and throws it at the far wall.
“If they can’t feel remorse,” Victor says, “make them feel pain.”
I understand this logic. As a child, I waited for some equalizer, something that would square the books and force fairness into existence. The same is true for all the poor hillbillies I’ve known. Most outsiders who bother to consider us think we want equality, a chance to remove the unfair stereotypes and degradation, but we’ve never been that optimistic. We just want a sucker punch worthy of payback. A chance to make those who’ve laughed at us feel an inkling of our desperation. Despite all the speeches and zealot’s rhetoric, Victor doesn’t want to put Russell’s father under the gun to instruct him. He just wants revenge. I’m afraid if I listen long enough, I’ll want it, too. I can see it’s working on Russell. This carnage shows he’s already fallen in line more than I expected.
I turn to walk for the door, but Russell grabs my arm.
“Hear him out,” he says. “The man poisoned a whole state.”
“You’d be wise to shut this down,” I say. “Or just leave.”
“It’s my home,” Russell says.
“And that’s why it’s the perfect place to make him admit it,” Victor says. “We can cause some real change. So long as you’ve got the courage to go through with it.”
I shrug off Russell’s hand and move to the foyer. Behind me, the men are still sparking a revolution, but all I want is a bed. If this isn’t something I can escape, I’ll sleep through it.
* * *
• • •
Russell offers us a few different rooms for the night. Among them is the master bedroom that no one feels comfortable accepting, several spares and one filled with posters and rock memorabilia that obviously belonged to Russell in his youth. I bunk in one of the spare rooms where the walls are made entirely of mirrored panels. Even though I’m tempted, I don’t offer to share my bed with Caroline. By now, I believe she knows the invitation is open. I’ve almost convinced myself it’s better to be apart when she takes the room across the hall from Victor. Does such a strategic position mean she’s decided to spend the night with him? I close myself up in the mirrored room and try to dispel my worry with action.