King Hell Bastards
by Henry Hietala
The boys are crying up a winter storm warning. Probably missing their dad, the king hell bastard. The air freshener swings from the rearview, a clock ticking out the seconds, counting the time we’ve been stuck in this cul-de-sac. I put the Volvo in reverse and gun it. The wheels spin in place. Mick and Will keep crying. They’ve been crying for ages, ever since I turned around and shushed them and rammed this shitty old car into a snowbank. They’ve been crying ever since I carried them out of the house on Langley. I turn off the engine. I could call him. I deleted his contact earlier, after he cut up my driver’s license, but I have the number memorized. If my phone wasn’t busted I would call him and hear his latest version of the apology. Too bad he had to throw it against the wall. If he was here right now he would tow us out of this snowbank. He would do anything to make things right. And he didn’t hurt me that bad this time, just a couple nicks on the arm, even if he forgot to shut the door. I should have reminded him. No, it was his fault for letting the boys see, his fault for picking up the power strip, his fucking fault for making me take Mick and Will away. I can’t talk to him tonight. Even if he drives every street in the goddamn valley and finds us in this cul-de-sac, I can’t talk to him. But where can I go? I don’t have the money for a motel. The drive to Helena would be suicide in this storm. It has to be Min’s place. She’s out of town but left a key under the mat, at least I think she did. That doesn’t change the fact that we’re stuck in a snowbank. We’re in the shit. I don’t have a shovel, let alone cardboard to stick under the wheels. I don’t want to drain the battery, but maybe I could run it at twenty-minute intervals—long enough to heat the inside but not so long the gas runs out. That’s an idea. I turn the key. The engine sputters. The fucking Volvo won’t start, the battery is dead, and the boys will be soon, and I’ll freeze to death with them, the mom who couldn’t leave their king hell bastard of a father without fucking everything up. I hit the steering wheel. The boys keep up their crying, like they understand the shit we’re in. I bounce Mick in my arms until he goes quiet and I do the same for Will. Then I grab the blanket from the trunk and drape it over them. Snow collects on the windshield, the wipers stuck in mid-swipe. I touch the air freshener and breathe. I should have replaced the battery, packed a shovel, picked a different night. But my boys are better off out here in a blizzard than in there with him. They’ve conked out below the blanket. The Volvo is dark now, the snow layering the windshield. We’re in a fucking snowbank. It’s funny how you get used to a bad situation, you draw a bit of comfort from it, and you learn to love it because it’s yours and no one else’s, and it’s the most intimate thing you’ve ever shared.
Fuck that. I don’t love it when he hurts me, when he screams at me and picks up the power strip, or maybe I do, I can’t tell sitting here in this cul-de-sac, the king hell bastard has my thoughts in a vice-grip. He wraps his arms around me. Our boys’ snores don’t tear me out of it, the air freshener doesn’t tear me out of it, the snow on the windshield doesn’t tear me out of it—nothing can tear me out of it except sleep. A drink would help, though with my luck I’d probably get booked for a DUI. It’s a shame they didn’t crack down earlier on sipping and steering, then that king hell bastard would be up in Deer Lodge for his fifth offense. I’m stuck on him. Good thing my phone is fucked, otherwise I’d call him and tell him to take me back for a little while longer, which usually means another six months if our history is anything to go on. His arms close around me. I throw them off. Our history doesn’t mean shit, he soiled it long ago. Fuck that king hell bastard and everything he’s ever said or done or touched, everything except Mick and Will, they’re the only good thing to ever come out of that man and he’s never done a damn thing for them, all he ever does is watch me take care of them. He doesn’t do anything for the boys unless he’s in one of his sorry moods, when he acts like he’s the best fucking dad in the whole fucking world, but I see right through it, I know that no matter how many weeks he spends riding high, it’s only a matter of time before he gets hammered and hides my shit, before he picks up the power strip, before he tells me he’ll kill me if I leave. Fucking king hell bastard. My anger wanes and my longing too until I only feel tired.
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I lean my head back. The air freshener swings back and forth, and I close my eyes. A knock on the window. Shit. I sit up and see the orange gloves. I lock the doors, I duck below the window. It doesn’t matter if he’s sorry, I can’t let him in. He knocks again. Fucking go away. He can kiss me or kill me, but I won’t let him hurt my boys. He starts talking. I listen close and make out the words jump and tow. He doesn’t sound right. I wipe a hole in the fog and see corduroys he’d never wear. I brace myself, I unlock the door, I get out of the car.
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Hell of a night for a joyride.
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It’s not him, it’s an old man. He has a jumpbox at his feet and a truck parked down the way.
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Need a jump or tow? he asks.
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I look at him hard. I can’t help doing that with men, reading and re-reading every face-line like they’re goddamn Bible verses.
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What are you charging? I ask.
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I’m not, he says.
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I don’t believe him. My mom always says the good towmen overcharge while the bad ones rape and murder you. This man seems a little past his prime, as far as raping and murdering go. Still. I reach inside my coat and start counting bills—one, two, three, the twenties I jacked from his wallet while he slept.
Seriously, it’s no trouble, he says.
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I nod at him.
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The towman stares at me and starts sniffing the air.
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I’m sober, I say.
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He doesn’t reply. I can’t take his cold judgment. The arms coil around me. I reach inside the car and pop the hood. The towman hooks up the jump box. We wait for the charge. Then I sit down and turn the key. The engine roars. The towman walks down the cul-de-sac, leaving the glow of one streetlight for another, the snow coming down in reams. It’s a beautiful fucking night. And best of all, I’m getting towed out of this snowbank free of charge.
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The towman comes back. His face has changed and not for the better. He wipes snow off the back windows and looks in. Mick and Will. They’re awake and crying.
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You need to call someone, the towman says, holding out a phone.
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I shake my head. We’re fine.
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It’s seven degrees out. Those boys could catch hypothermia.
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I can take care of my sons just fine.
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How long you been out here?
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I go quiet. He’s pissing me off, this geriatric stranger who doesn’t know a damn thing about me or my boys. He doesn’t give a shit, he’ll never see us again. So I tell him. I tell the towman why I drove my boys into the blizzard. His face changes. This time it’s different, like he understands me, more than my mom or Min he understands me, and it makes no fucking sense because my mom and Min have each had their own king hell bastards and left them after years and years of pain, if anyone should be able to understand me it’s my mom and Min, and I know they do, they just don’t show it on their faces like the towman. But he doesn’t really get it. He doesn’t know what it’s like to spend five years with a king hell bastard before packing up your boys and driving away, resolving never to return even though every fucking fiber of your body is telling you to grab the old man’s phone and call him. The towman doesn’t know how many snuffed tears, broken locks, and tins of cover-up it takes to reach the point of no return. The towman is faking sympathy. That or I’m imagining things, altering his face to make it match my own. The towman says things will get better. I want to believe him, I really do, except deep down I know I’m fucked.
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The boys stop crying. The Volvo picks up where they left off, the engine rasping at the night.
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Where are you going then? the towman asks.
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My friend has a place on the northside.
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You sure you don’t want to call her?
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She’s out of town. She left me a key.
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He nods. I’m happy to tow you there. It’s no trouble.
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We’ll be okay. Thanks.
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He walks away. What if there isn’t a key? With Min out of town, the towman is our best bet. I try to think of how to phrase the question, what combination of words will bring the towman back to my side.
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He pulls up in his truck. I roll down the window. He hooks up the rope and tows us out of the snowbank. He gets out of the truck again. I leave the window down, watching him unhook the rope, orange gloves flashing in the headlights.
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Hey, I say.
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He walks over. I lean out the window.
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Thanks for the tow, I say.
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He shrugs. It’s no skin off my back.
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He drives away in his truck. I hit the wheel. I fucked it up. That’s all I’m good for. I wouldn’t be in this mess if I could make a fucking decision and stick to it. I hit the wheel again, pissed that I’m pissed, pissed that I’m pissed that I’m pissed, my mind doubling back on itself, driving circles through the snow. I finally did it, left the house on Langley, got Mick and Will out, but I don’t feel free, I only feel dread. His arm fills the rearview. I pull out of the cul-de-sac. I head down the street and turn left on Wilson. I have to go back. I got nothing to my name, just a piece of shit car and two boys I can’t handle. There’s no key under the mat. I’m fucked without his credit card, the health insurance, the house on Langley. His arm flexes in the rearview. My heart rate shifts up a gear, telling me to go back, to leave, to crash the car, to kill myself and Mick and Will and save us from this shitstorm life. But they’re snoring. I don’t know how they did it. It’s fucking miraculous, how Mick and Will can fall asleep like that. I flip a U-turn. If my boys can sleep through this terrible night, they can sleep through anything. They can sleep at Min’s place, and they can sleep in the car if it comes to it. The key will be there or it won’t—either way I will keep them warm. It’s only one night. They snore on in the car seats while I drive north, the lights of downtown playing through the trees. I pass fancy old houses, streets and cul-de-sacs, dead ends with no way out. I don’t turn down any of them. I touch the air freshener. I check the rearview and see my boys. I drive on through the storm. I drive on.
About the Author
Henry Hietala grew up in Montana. His writings have appeared in Salt Hill, Ruminate, Rain Taxi, and the Cleveland Review of Books. He is pursuing an MFA in Fiction at the University of Michigan.