Games We Play Read online

  Games We Play

  Ruthie Robinson

  More Than Skin Series

  An imprint of ARTWO Publishers, LLC

  Publishing Company

  ARTWO Publishers

  P. O. Box 171143

  Austin, TX 78717

  Copyright © 2013

  All rights reserved. Except for the use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying, and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without written permission of the publisher, ARTWO Publishers. For information write ARTWO Publishers, LLC., P.O.Box 171143, Austin, TX 78717.

  FoglihtenNo04 Font by gluk

  eBook and print editions by eBooks by Barb for booknook.biz

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  About the Author

  Dedication

  To the mothers in my life, Linda Marie, and Winnie Margaret, a huge thank you for showing me what it means to be a woman. Absolutely could not have gotten to this place without the two of you. Love you dearly.

  Acknowledgements

  Sonny Hinojosa and the folks at Capitol Bingo

  Austin Beer Tours. Bob Galligan, beer wrangler and guide.

  Austin Home Brew

  Cover Art - Rebecca Swift @ rebeccaswiftartworks.com

  The best beta readers in my world are Andrea, Jennie, and Lisa.

  One

  Summer 1993

  Stanley Proctor sat parked and waiting in the parking lot outside of Uncle Joe’s Catfish and Juke Joint. It was a one of those hot, muggy Texas summer nights, typical for around these parts of central Texas, just up the road from Austin, a little sideways and to the left of Houston.

  Uncle Joe’s was a square wood shack—part bar, part dancing, part nigger hook-up joint—and it was also home to some mighty fine catfish. It sat perched on a little knoll, free of grass, under a bunch of mesquite, back off the main road, just at the edge of the woods. It had those old-time screen doors, two of which stood sentry to keep out the multitude of flies that, like the patrons, had a heart for the slap-your-mama-good catfish served here. Falling off the bone, the smoking-hot catfish was covered in spicy yellow corn meal, the basket rounded out by two small round hushpuppies.

  It was a drinking-hooting-and-hollering kind of a Friday night, just the kind Stanley preferred. No one would notice or care if a nigger went missing. Loud music was playing from the speakers, that fight-the-powers-that-be rap bullshit they liked to call music.

  The screen door of the shack opened and out walked his target for the night. Stanley smiled. Yep, his nigger had arrived, and he was just as he preferred them to be, slight of build and drunk as a skunk. No, couldn’t be too big to fight back or too slight to withstand the rigors of the ass whipping coming his way.

  He watched as his nigger stood in the doorway, holding the screen doors open wide, like he was some king about to make a grand exit. He stood there for a minute, swaying back and forth like a blade of grass at the whims of the wind, before he built up enough steam to propel his body through the doors. This is funny as shit to watch, Stanley thought.

  He started off down the road in that stumbling, bumbling gait unique to the inebriated the world over, laughing and singing loudly into the dark. He was heading toward his car, parked off the side of the road that led away from this place. Stanley started up his truck and slowly rolled up behind, watching as his nigger turned around, too fast of a turn for tonight’s liquor quotient, and ended up flat out on his back on the ground, laughing at his predicament.

  Stanley sniggered and stepped out of his truck. What a sight, he thought, gazing at his nigger, lying on the ground, a smile on his face.

  “You gonna help a nigger up or what?” the man asked.

  “You bet,” Stanley said, smiling as he lifted the man up and kept on lifting him until he’d loaded him safely into the back of his truck. He’d already rolled back the bed’s topper and would close it after he successfully loaded his cargo. Prying eyes, Stanley had learned the hard way, had a habit of showing up when you least expected. He took the extra precaution of tying his nigger’s ankle to a small chain, which was in turn tied to a small horn that Stanley had installed into his truck’s bed. He chuckled at his mental picture of his nigger trying to escape. He slid behind the wheel of his truck, put it into gear, and drove off.

  #

  “Leave it alone, Coop,” Hank said from the passenger seat of Cooper’s new truck. Being rich and the son of Cooper Two—Senior to those who knew him personally—had its advantages. The most impressive to Hank’s fourteen-year-old self was this truck. Coop was the proud owner of this fine new vehicle, even though he was well under the legal age. Of course nobody dared say a word about it. The sheriff worked for the Coopers just like everyone else in town, and he knew when to look the other way.

  It was near three thirty in the morning, and Cooper and Hank were headed over to the Quarry golf course.

  “He told you not to come. He’ll be mad, and you know how he gets when he’s mad,” Hank said, staring at Cooper as he made a left turn onto Highway 1341. “Remember what happened last time? This will only make him madder. Why can’t you just leave it alone?”

  “I can’t,” Cooper said in that old stubborn way of his, just like his daddy. It was one thing they had in common.

  It was dark out, pitch black as they made their way to the golf course on Old Quarry Road. They passed Hank’s house on the way. All the shift supervisors lived off this road, and Hank’s dad, Hank Sr.—or the town drunk, as he was also known—had been promoted to shift supervisor. Hank Sr. didn’t show up for work much, but Senior let him keep his job anyway. Senior had told Hank Jr. that the house and job were payment for screwing his mother, and what a thing to say to a kid about his mother, was all Hank Jr. could think at the time.

  Cooper cut the lights on his truck when they arrived at the Quarry course, then pulled in and parked near the clubhouse. It’s dark out here, Hank thought. It was nothing but shadows, especially around the edges of the course. The state-park grounds lay behind the golf course, giving it the feeling of a forest.

  “This is a bad idea,” Hank said again.

  “You don’t have to come. This is between me and my father anyway,” Coop said.

  “I can’t let you go alone.”

  “Sure you can.”

  “No. I can’t.”

  #

  “Then come on if you’re coming.” Coop said, sliding out of his truck before quietly shutting the door. No need to alert his father before he had to. He was scared enough as it was, stomach-churning, loose-bowels kind of scared. He’d given up trying to talk himself out of coming. It was now or never, and he couldn’t live with the never anymore, scared or not.

  He took off at a run with Hank on his heels, following the golf-cart path, heading to hole twelve. It was always hole twelve. It was his daddy’s favorite spot, and who knew why. He’d given up trying to understand his daddy a long time ago. He’d given up trying to understand what made him so mean too. He only knew that he had to somehow put a stop to it.

&nb
sp; Cooper had already gone to the sheriff, and what a waste of time that had been. His daddy was a powerful man in these parts, with contacts across the state, as far up as the governor, so there wouldn’t be anyone to step in between him and his daddy. He knew he was on his own, always on his own. He’d adjusted to that fact early in life.

  They arrived at their destination. Cooper slowed down from a run to a walk, signaling for Hank to do the same. He could hear his daddy’s men, could hear the laughter from Hugo and Stanley, Senior’s favorite go-to men, and a few of his dad’s other cronies, those who got off on picking on men who couldn’t fight back. He could also hear moaning from the man who’d been selected for tonight’s entertainment through no fault of his own.

  Cooper could see him there, bloody and lying in the dirt, curled into a fetal position—a man’s last line of defense. He’d seen that before too. His daddy and his friends stood surrounding him, looking down at him, offering the occasional kick just to make sure he was still living. They didn’t intend to kill him. A beating was all they were after, a simple punishment for walking around being black.

  They were drinking, smoking, and talking shit, the usual. Their shit talking consisted of retelling stories of past beatings, of one nigger who had taken his beating particularly well compared to another. That and the drinking went on for a while. Lots and lots of drinking. You have to be drunk to do something like this, which should tell them something, Coop thought. His next thought was that he was glad the man had survived.

  “Stay here, Hank,” Coop said, and stepped out of the shadows, walking over to the group of men. He emerged erect, touching his hand to his front pocket, making sure his gun was within reach.

  #

  “Well, look who’s here, boys,” Senior said as he spotted his son walking toward him like he wanted to take him on. He could tell the boy was scared, shit-in-his-pants scared. He should be scared, Senior thought, as he looked over his poor excuse for a nigger-loving son. He was beyond disappointed in the boy, disappointed to the marrow of his bones. But what could you do? He could only make the best of a bad situation, which wasn’t working. His son was still a nigger and Mexican lover.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Senior asked.

  “I’m here to stop you,” Coop said.

  His daddy laughed, as if Cooper had turned into a comedian. He could hear the sniggers from some of the other men standing around watching.

  “You think you can stop me, boy?” he said, moving quietly, menacingly, over to his son. He was sick and tired of this mess of a momma’s boy. He stood in front of the kid, a sneer covering his face. The men he was with walked over and stood beside him. He pulled his arm back and slapped Cooper across the face as hard as he could. It was a thunderclap of sound, loud in the night, sobering to the men who’d thought they were a little tipsy. Even the black man’s moans had grown quiet.

  #

  Fuck was what Coop would have said if he could have formed any words. He found himself lying on the ground face up. At least the green cushioned my fall, he thought as he lay there, trying his damnedest to catch his breath. He could see stars swimming around the head of his father, who was bent over him, that same sneering expression covering his face. He felt his father’s hand on his chest, then felt himself being lifted by his shirt before he felt the sting of his father’s hand again, and then everything went black.

  #

  “Stop, Senior, or you’ll kill him,” Tom Baker said, pulling Senior away from his son a few minutes later. “Help me, boys,” Tom said, looking at Hugo.

  “Check to make sure I didn’t kill him,” Senior said, stepping away and shaking off the hands that were trying to hold him. He wiped his hands on a towel that someone had placed in his hand.

  “He’s breathing. Let’s get him to the doctor,” Tom said.

  “Leave him here,” Cooper Sr. said, back to giving out orders, back to expecting they’d be followed. “It’s what he deserves. Leave him here,” he said, scanning the other men’s faces to see if he’d gone too far. Even if he had, none of them would have the guts to stand up to him.

  “Hugo and Stanley. You two come back for Cooper later. Bring him home to me after you take this here nigger back to where you found him.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Guess we’ll call it a night, boys,” Cooper Sr. said, smiling as he looked at each of the men present before they turned away from him. They were disgusted by what he’d done, his own son, he could see that. He’d gone too far, but the boy had needed the lesson. Hell, he’d put it off longer that he should have.

  “Make sure you leave this place like you found it, boys. Clean. The course is open tomorrow morning,” he said, then walked away.

  #

  Hank stood in his place in the trees, an emotional mess, vacillating between watching, crying, and now waiting, too afraid to do anything else. Senior was the law in this town, or as near to it as a man came without having a badge. He was for sure the owner of Coopersville.

  Hank stayed hidden in the trees and watched as the men hauled the black man into Stanley’s truck. He watched as they surveyed the area, picking up beer cans they’d thrown as they drank themselves stupid. The scene was so quiet and subdued now that they were preparing to leave. They’d driven through the state park to get here, a procession of trucks traveling over the old dirt road that led to the back end of the course. Hank stepped from out of the shadows after he could no longer see the taillights of the men’s trucks.

  He didn’t imagine any of them would dare come back for a good long while, not after Senior had given them their marching orders. He didn’t doubt their desire to help the young man they’d watch grow up, but there was no crossing Senior.

  Hank waited a while longer, almost longer than he could stand, before running to his friend’s side. He looked down at Coop’s body lying on the ground and willed himself to pull it together.

  Coop was a mess of blood. It covered his face, blended into his hair, and ran down to the front of his shirt. Both of his eyes were starting to swell. Hank had to throw his friend over his back, which bothered him, but there was nothing else he could do. It was the most comfortable way to transport Coop’s otherwise too-heavy self. Hank settled him into position and took off in a cross between a run and a walk, trying to limit the amount of jostling his buddy had to endure.

  He finally arrived at Cooper’s truck, still parked where they’d left it, and laid Cooper on the ground. He reached a hand into his friend’s front pocket, searching for the truck’s key. He found a .22 instead. He was glad it had gone unused. Hank removed the gun and placed it in the front seat of Coop’s truck. He wasn’t sure if he’d be capable of using it, even if he needed to, but he felt better with it riding next to him. He found the keys in Coop’s other pocket. He slid them into his right front pocket, then removed Coop from the grass, and positioned him in the backseat as gently as he could. Now, where to take him? Hank thought.

  Home was out. Hank’s father would be there, and his father hated anything to do with Cooper. He couldn’t take him to the hospital, didn’t want to have to answer questions, and he was sure he couldn’t take him to the police. He’d heard the stories about people disappearing from the jails, plus Senior and the law were friends. He and the sheriff had a standing tee time on Sunday afternoons, and that was another reason to steer clear of the sheriff’s office. He wasn’t taking him to the Cooper mansion either, not when Senior might choose to pick up where he’d left off.

  He made a right turn out of the parking lot. His eyes were filled with tears from what he knew his friend had endured at the hands of his daddy. This wasn’t the first time, but it was by far the worst. Cooper and Hank were brothers in more ways than one; both had suffered at the hands of their daddies. Today he’d just stood by and watched, like some coward, like his father had stood by and watched his mother make a fool of him with Senior. Like father, like son, Hank thought. A bunch of weaklings the Ryder men were.

&
nbsp; He knew where to take Coop. Over to the Millers, a place Coop had been spending a lot of time lately. Mr. Miller was teaching him how to brew beer, he’d said. Hank bet Mr. Miller would know what to do. Five minutes later, he turned onto their street and parked on the corner. Three houses down from him was the Millers’ home. He scanned the street for signs of life. All good, all quiet and empty, he thought. He cut the truck’s engine but didn’t have to turn the lights off—he’d hadn’t even turned them on.

  He removed Cooper from the backseat and slowly made his way to the Millers’ house. He stepped onto the front porch and softly laid Cooper on the ground in front of the door, so you couldn’t miss him. He looked down at his friend, sad to be here, then glanced down the street. It was still quiet and empty. He pushed the doorbell and took off, running around to the left side of the house, lingering there.

  A few minutes later, Mr. Miller stepped out, looked down at the figure lying on his porch. He didn’t recognize him at first. “Oh, lord Jesus,” he said when he did.

  “What is it, George?” Mrs. Miller asked before she let out a moan, all sorrow. Hank had to fight back tears upon hearing it.

  “Bring him in,” she said, and Hank listened for a few minutes as they moved Cooper inside, or he assumed that was what all the shuffling of feet had been about. He stayed put until he heard the sound of the door closing. Then he was gone.

  Two

  Memorial Day weekend 2013

  Kendall turned up the music, her playlist filled with let’s-get-this-party-started-type music, a jump start to her day. She was done teaching for the semester, and all her grades had been calculated, turned in, and posted. She felt light and free and open to all of life’s possibilities, or at least all of the possibilities to be had in Coopersville, USA.

  Today was the Friday before the start of the Memorial Day weekend, and everything was moving forward according to plan. She’d left town at about eight this morning, wanting to make sure she was ahead of the crowds on this first official holiday of the summer. She was visiting her Aunt Myra, her mother’s one and only sister, for the first time in too many years to count. She only had memories of one summer spent with her aunt. She’d been ten at the time.