Made to Break by D. Foy

Author:D. Foy [D. Foy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781937512170
Publisher: Two Dollar Radio

AUGUST IN THE CAPAY VALLEY IS STRAIGHT-UP death. What water doesn’t touch, the sun destroys, the nut trees droop under coats of dust, and the hillsides big with jim brush and sage fret with the shadows of buzzards, and hiding sparrows, and mice. And yet, even so, from a ruin of drought you can walk into corn so dense it might be a wall of scrumptious hair. With dusk the heat resolves—if only faintly, the sky’s on you still—until at last night emerges and sleep becomes something you think could be real. That’s the rattler’s hour, then, time of the skunk, time of the owl, some Achemon sphinx with wings of blood-stained eyes.

For the month since I returned from Portland I’ve been trucking crops most days and nights to outfits down in Sacto and the Bay, Oaktown mostly, and the veggie quarter south of Frisco. I live in a trailer on cinderblocks, now, with one pair of boots, a pair of cutoffs and two of socks, and an old wool sweater nabbed from Sally-Alley. And save the nip here and there I take with Thomas the Tattooed Whiskey Man, I’ve quit with the drinking and smoking both. As for the folks who roust me some nights, when the bongos beat and the jug goes round the flames, well, they say I talk in my sleep about a girl by the name of Avey.

It’s hard to believe I lived that other life. Not that this one’s all that different. I’ve got nothing to my name but the letters it’s made of, them and my rags and the copy of Fear and Loathing I stashed in my ruck the day Super got us to the lake. A host of black birds ten thousand strong will rise from a field like a cloud from myth, and it’s no more to me than dishes in my sink. I hit the peak of a rise on the road to look down windrows gold as my mother’s gold ring, wider and farther than I can tell, and if I don’t feel bewildered, it’s because I’m numb.

Any boob with sense can see me for what I am. I could care less. Yet when I think on that night, up at Dinky’s cabin, waiting for Super to return while Lucille told Hickory I was Satan in the guise of a drunk, how I’d always wanted Lucille for myself but couldn’t, not, she said, because I never tried but because she wouldn’t have me, how her scorn made me do things no human should have done to a person they called friend, how if Hickory knew what was good she’d get as far from me as her legs could go—when I think of that night from here in the endless quiet heat, I feel I’ve drunk a bucket of blood. Where Lucille got that stuff, I will never know. Not a snatch of it was true, not the parts that mattered. And besides, what difference did it make, so

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