DON’T EVER LOOK BACK
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wipe up the splatter, I couldn’t stand back up, and I had to use the remote control button to call for the staff to come help me. I was better than I had been, but I was still weak. I couldn’t really even swing the axe properly. My shoulder wouldn’t rotate. My body wouldn’t twist right. My legs were weak. I’d managed to hack off one of the rockers and an armrest and gouge at the seat a little bit, but when I was done, I was glazed in sweat and breathing ragged, and the goddamn thing still looked like a chair. Six months ago, I could have smashed it to kindling. I considered the fact that Vivienne Wyatt knew all of this, and I undraped my arm from the chair and stuck my hands in the pockets of my windbreaker. Regardless of the various indignities I’d endured, I couldn’t find common cause with Dwayne Connor. I hated everything about my one-legged redneck neighbor. The man’s skin had the same texture as a pair of boxer shorts left to dry and crust up in the sun after spending a hard three-day ride wedged in a cowboy’s ass crack. And his personality matched his looks. “Why did you feel the need to destroy Mr. Connor’s rocking chair with an axe, Buck?” “My friend Crazy Mack came to visit. Mack is—” I paused. “Mack is like you.” Ms. Wyatt arched one eyebrow. “You mean he’s black?” “Yes. And Connor has some problems with that.” Connor had called Mack several different names; shouted the kinds of words that make my grandson flinch, even when there’s no colored people around to overhear. But when I explained this to Ms. Wyatt, all she said was: “You can’t go smashing people’s chairs up with axes. Why do you even have an axe?” “For situations like this one,” I said. “When stuff needs smashing. Aren’t you people supposed to get more upset when folks like Connor say stuff like that?”
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