Shifty's Boys Read online

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  The Good Brother

  Out of the Woods

  No Heroes: A Memoir of Coming Home

  My Father, the Pornographer

  Country Dark

  The Killing Hills

  SHIFTY’S BOYS

  A MICK HARDIN NOVEL

  CHRIS OFFUTT

  Grove Press

  New York

  Copyright © 2022 by Chris Offutt

  Jacket design by Gretchen Mergenthaler

  Jacket photograph: Backroad, Appalachia © Nicholas Bell; truck © stocksy.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

  FIRST EDITION

  Published simultaneously in Canada

  First Grove Atlantic edition: June 2022

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

  ISBN 978-0-8021-5998-4

  eISBN 978-0-8021-5999-1

  Grove Press

  an imprint of Grove Atlantic

  154 West 14th Street

  New York, NY 10011

  Distributed by Publishers Group West

  groveatlantic.com

  For Sam Offutt

  These hills don’t change.

  —Cesare Pavese

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  At age eight, Albin decided to be a race-car driver when he grew up. He assembled model cars, cobbling together pieces from various kits to make his own hot rod—number eleven, painted in green and white. He imagined himself as the youngest winner of the Brickyard 400, with enough money for ice cream every meal. It never occurred to him that at twenty-two years old he’d be driving a cab in his hometown of Rocksalt, Kentucky.

  Half the job was sitting in the car waiting for dispatch to call. The rest was driving roads he’d traveled thousands of times in the past eight years—blacktop, dirt, and gravel. A county map was imprinted on the inside of his skull. All he had to do was mentally glance at it to know the best route. He had a few regular fares, severely inebriated men leaving the only two bars in town. The bulk of his customers needed a ride to a doctor’s office or home from the hospital. He relied on them for income and felt momentarily disappointed when they recovered, which he knew said something awful about himself.

  For the past six hours he’d been on duty with no calls. He cruised the small college campus, worthless at night, but he was bored and getting desperate. Main Street was deserted. He drove by the new jail, another waste of time because nobody got released after dark. The bars were just getting active, and it’d be several hours before the drunks started leaving. He called dispatch to double-check that his cell phone was working and got chewed out for tying up the line.

  Rocksalt had a few places that were suitable to waiting for a fare. A drugstore parking lot in the middle of town was best, but twice he’d been stiffed by pillbillies who’d spent all their money on legally prescribed opiates. It was time to find an isolated spot, take two hits off a joint, and enter his long-term fantasy of being a race-car driver. All it took was a big-shot promoter passing through to hire his cab and recognize Albin’s skill at the wheel.

  He’d bought his first go-cart at Western Auto, a company that went out of business several years ago. Albin had loved entering the store from the rear and descending the steps to the sales floor. It was the only indoor vista in the county, one he’d marveled at as a teenager. Now the asphalt parking lot behind the store was pocked with holes, some deep enough to damage his car’s suspension. Fast-food bags littered the surface along with empty pop bottles. He carefully steered to his favorite place, snugged against the old door, its glass replaced by a sheet of plywood. The roof cast a shadow that would conceal his cab. An odd shape lay in a corner of the lot, and Albin flicked on his brights. Somebody was sleeping against the dilapidated fence, somebody who could use a ride home.

  Albin left the car, something no cabbie liked to do, and walked toward the man, who lay on his back. One arm was twisted beneath him, the other outstretched as if reaching toward Albin. Dark splotches marred his clothing. Albin thought it was mud until getting closer and recognizing dried blood. He stumbled to his car and called 911. Then he hid the half joint in the cell phone charging slot built into the dashboard, glad he hadn’t smoked before the cops arrived.

  Chapter Two

  Mick Hardin awoke from a dream in which he lay in his childhood bed and couldn’t move. His eyelids felt weighted, and he wondered if he was already dead and someone had placed pennies over his eyes. The coins were supposed to hold eyelids shut and serve as payment to the ferryman who transported the dead across the River Styx. Mick lay awake remembering the IED attack that had sent him to an army hospital for three weeks. He’d been released and ordered to rehabilitate his leg, a grueling and painful ordeal. From bed he’d moved to a wheelchair, then shifted to crutches for three months. He’d graduated to a cane that embarrassed him in public.

  His commanding officer, Colonel Whitaker, presented him with a special cane intended for soldiers. The lightweight aluminum was painted black, with a slogan down one side: “This We’ll Defend.” Because the words were printed vertically, the apostrophe was a tiny pip, and the motto appeared at first glance to be “This Well Defend.” Every time Mick used it, he remembered the old well at his grandfather’s cabin in the woods, the water cold enough to numb his gums. He rehabbed his leg until he could limp around the base on his own, then asked to go home for the rest of his medically mandated leave. His wife would look after him and could drive him to the nearest VA hospital, eighty miles away in Lexington. The colonel agreed and ordered Mick to keep his cell phone on and return all calls. Mick nodded and flew home.

  Now he opened his eyes. He was in his mother’s house, not the cabin where he’d spent his formative years. He felt fatigued, his limbs heavy, a product of the pain medication. He’d gone from fentanyl on the battlefield to morphine in the hospital to Percocet upon discharge. He was still taking it, although the pain no longer required that level of management.

  He’d lied to Colonel Whitaker. There was no wife to provide Mick’s care. They’d separated a year ago. The divorce papers were in Mick’s luggage, unsigned, along with his cell phone, sw
itched off. He was waiting for a reason to complete the documents and sever himself from sixteen years of marriage. Despite the circumstances, it didn’t feel right. Neither did sleeping at his mother’s house in a spare room. Mick’s sister, Linda, had inherited the house when their mother died. Linda was at work. She was county sheriff, running for election, and he didn’t see her much.

  The bedside clock said ten thirty, and Mick knew she’d be home for lunch soon. He had enough time to walk his daily two miles for the reward of Percocet. He left the ranch house at the deadend of Lyons Avenue and set a strong pace. In several neighboring yards were clumps of forsythia that glowed yellow, cheerful in the spring sun, their fronds already tinged green along the edges. Jonquils were blooming. On the hill overlooking the street, he could see the haze of redbud and a few pink dogwoods. The hills were gorgeous in all seasons, especially spring, when the land offered such promise and hope. Its beauty plowed him under. Mick’s life had come undone to a great degree, and here he was licking his wounds under his dead mother’s roof, tended to by his tough sister. The absurdity of the situation cheered him momentarily.

  A neighbor woman waved from her flower bed. Two dogs trotted around another house, the entire back half of their bodies wiggling a greeting. He gave them a walking scratch, reluctant to break his stride. His leg hurt, but it felt good to put his limbs to work. He was mostly healed. Daily exercise was the final stage of rehab, intended to rebuild the muscle mass he’d lost from lying for weeks in grim hospital beds. Across the street was Miller, the mail carrier, a man Mick knew from high school. His was one of the few federal jobs in the county, and more than four hundred people had applied. Everybody wondered how Miller had gotten the position.

  Mick silently cursed his bad timing—now he’d have to chat with every person on the street who was retrieving their mail. Sure enough, Old Man Boyle lingered by his box, watching Mick approach. He wore creased trousers, tan loafers, and a shirt buttoned to the collar, as if he’d dressed for the occasion of leaving the house. Bull Boyle had served in Vietnam and lost a son in Iraq. He maintained a certain sympathy for Mick, wrapped in a shroud of resentment that Mick had come home more or less intact. Above each of Boyle’s ears was a large crescent-shaped hearing aid of a vague tan color. Mick recognized them as old-school VA issue.

  “How’s the wheel?” Boyle said, pointing to Mick’s leg.

  Mick slowed to an amble out of respect.

  “Getting stronger every day,” he said. “Any good mail?”

  “Yeah, I won two thousand dollars. Got to go to the Chevy dealer to collect. They’ll give me a sales pitch, then a pair of earbuds. What the hell am I going to do with them? Side of my head’ll look like a hardware store with all manner of equipment hanging off it.”

  Mick chuckled.

  “Your sister all right?” Boyle said.

  “Yeah, she’s running me ragged. Only reason I do my walks is to get her off my ass.”

  “She’s a good lawman-woman,” Boyle said. “I’ll vote for her.”

  “Linda said it’ll be close.”

  “That other feller’s no good. Thinks he’s shit on a stick and would be if he had a peg leg.” He glanced again at Mick’s leg. “Didn’t mean nothing by that.”

  “I know it, Mr. Boyle. I got to get on before it stiffens up on me.”

  “Good man,” he said. “Catch you on the flip-flop.”

  Mick increased his pace, listening for the faintly audible pop of his knee or the imaginary creak in his hip. As the crow flies, it was a quarter mile from his sister’s house to the first cross street, but Lyons Avenue followed a meandering creek off the hills and the route was ultimately a full mile. Twice he crossed the street to avoid people.

  Their father died young, and Linda had stayed with their mother. From age eight, Mick had lived with his grandfather and great-grandfather in the woods twelve miles east. He’d never liked town. It wasn’t Rocksalt specifically but clusters of people in general. Town required a social patina he was no good at, an exoskeleton of politesse. People said one thing and meant another. They became offended if you dared to be honest and direct. It was as if saying what you thought was forbidden. He preferred the forthrightness of country people and army life.

  Lyons Avenue ended at Second Street, a name that always amused Mick due to its lack of imagination. In big cities, such designations made sense because of multiple cross streets, but Rocksalt had only three: Main Street, First Street, and Second Street. Mick made his turn and walked back toward his sister’s house. Two cars passed, and he waved without looking. Sweat skimmed his back and legs. He was breathing easily enough to escalate his pace to a forced march, eyes straight ahead and alert to the periphery. His sister’s house came into view, and he double-timed it, counting cadence in his head, one hundred and eighty steps per minute, until he made it to the driveway.

  Panting like a dog, he leaned against the exterior wall and drank from the garden hose, pleased with his progress. He was nearly strong enough to return to duty. His wife of sixteen years was living in another town with another man and their child. At best he considered it collateral damage from prolonged deployments overseas. At worst, he’d failed as a husband.

  Chapter Three

  Sheriff Linda Hardin drove the county vehicle home for lunch with her brother. She loved Lyons Avenue, where she’d grown up. She’d learned to ride a bicycle here, gone door-to-door selling Christmas candles to raise money for her grade school, and later sneaked out for furtive cigarettes with a neighbor girl. Linda knew all the neighbors, none of whom would have predicted that she’d be the first female sheriff in county history. A natural lead foot, she always drove slowly on her own street so everyone could see the big SUV with the official decal emblazoned on the doors and a light bar across the top.

  She’d had a busy morning that amounted to nothing—an empty car parked on a dirt road off Big Brushy, unintelligible graffiti on a barn, and four wild dogs chasing a loose cow. She had a court appearance in the afternoon. Not a bad life for a single woman with a good paycheck. The only drawback was her brother, who seemed to be recovered from the IED attack in Afghanistan but was still taking pills and rarely leaving the house. His presence was a palpable force, as if he filled the entire space with his wounded psyche. She loved him but preferred living alone.

  She drove into her driveway and saw him leaning against the clapboards, spraying the back of his head with the hose. Water formed a cone around his face like a veil. It was as close to a bath as he’d had for days.

  “Hey, Mick,” she said. “Glad to see you’re cleaning up some.”

  He nodded, making the fan of water shiver like a shower curtain. She went into the house for a towel, noting with a grimace that they were all clean and folded, as they had been for a week. She took it outside.

  “I don’t want you dripping in the house,” she said.

  He turned off the hose and nodded his thanks.

  “Been meaning to ask,” she said, “how come you quit taking showers? Your leg?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Well, it’s getting on my last nerve.”

  “Wish you’d told me that three or four nerves ago.”

  She chuckled.

  “Well,” she said, “why not?”

  “I took a shower every day in the army, sometimes twice. Part of it was dust in the desert. But the real reason was never knowing when I’d have access to plumbing again.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You’ve always got running water. Knowing I can take a shower anytime means I don’t have to.”

  “That doesn’t make a lot of sense, Big Bro.”

  “No, I guess not,” he said. “Not much does anymore.”

  “That’s your pills talking. Why’re you still on them anyway?”

  “Because I’m stuck here living with you instead of my wife. And it’s better than drinking whiskey.”

  “Maybe it’s time to go back.”

  “To whiskey?” r />
  “No, to Germany and the base. The life you like.”

  “Not yet,” he said.

  He walked away, rubbing the towel briskly over his head. Linda watched him go. She worried about him, but he was a big boy, and she was more concerned with her career. Several years ago, Linda had become a dispatcher for the sheriff’s office. To her surprise, she liked being part of something bigger than herself, something that was good for the county. When a deputy resigned under a sexual harassment scandal, she was offered the position. The county politicians thought the first female deputy would help offset the negative publicity. Linda reluctantly agreed, mainly for the bump in pay. The sheriff died suddenly, and she was promoted past the senior deputy, a lazy and incompetent nitwit who worked part-time at a landfill, where he’d managed to wreck three dump trucks, no easy task. He quit the force, and Linda appointed Johnny Boy Tolliver as deputy and learned the job.

  She’d never intended to run for sheriff. Her plan had been to fill the post until the election, then ask the winner for reassignment back to dispatch, but a sexist moron had thrown his hat in the ring. Keeping him out of the job was crucial to her. If he won the election, it would vindicate all the men who thought a woman shouldn’t have authority.

  Most important, she was good at the job. Everyone knew her family history—father a drunk, mother a shut-in, brother with personal problems and hard to get along with. In Eldridge County this public information made her trustworthy. She believed she could win the election as long as her brother didn’t cause social friction. On the surface he was calm and calculating, but she knew he was capable of sudden action based on intuition. Nobody could control him. Maybe she should confiscate opiates from a dealer and make sure Mick had plenty. Drugged, he wouldn’t be at risk of interfering in the election. Ideally she’d arrest him for possession and ship him back to base. Grinning to herself, she went inside.

  Mick had made lunch—turkey and Swiss sandwiches with potato chips and pop. A slight tension tinged their silence. He ate as if in a mess hall, arms protecting his plate, eyes on the food. Linda searched her mind for a subject to ease things, difficult because so many crucial topics were forbidden—his wife, his wounds, the drugs, now even his damn hygiene.