Blood on the Field

This is an excerpt from one of the stories I am currently working on. It is a standalone novel that takes place in Arcadia a decade after Crimson Veil. When it will be finished is anyone’s guess, but in the meantime enjoy this teaser.

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Mama called just after sunrise. If I’d known it was her, I wouldn't have picked up.

Her voice was clipped; long breaths stretched between words—like she was trying to hold something back.

“Thomas?”

“Yes.”

“I need you to come home.”

“You alright?”

“Yes, honey… I’m fine.”

“And Dad?”

“We’re okay. It’s your brother.”

I stayed silent, letting the quiet stretch until she felt it.

“Look, I know Beau’s had his problems, but—”

“Problems?” I snapped. “Damn it, Mama, every time I turn around, he’s in trouble. Same story for twenty years.”

“Thomas, please.”

Her voice quivered, near tears. I could hear the strain in her throat, the fragile edges of her words. But I didn’t care. I was exhausted—tired of cleaning up after Beau, tired of watching him set fire to everything and walk away from the smoke.

“No, Mama. I can’t drop everything every time Beau messes up.” The word felt weak, inadequate. Anger surged through me, sharp and unfiltered. “The Navy isn’t going to let me take leave just because my brother’s a damn fool.”

The line went quiet. After some fumbling, another voice came on, low and calm.

“Thomas.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I know you're angry. I know there ain't much love lost between you and Beau. Hell, there's not much good I can say about him myself. But you best come home.”

I swallowed hard. “…Yes, sir.”

I hung up without another word.

It was Monday but the barracks were quiet—Sunday quiet—just gulls calling overhead and boots echoing down the breezeway. I sat motionless for a minute, staring at the wall like it might offer an answer. My uniform hung neatly pressed on the rack. Orders tucked in one pocket, a faded photograph of Mother and Father in the other.

I lit a cigarette, pretending my hand wasn’t trembling, and muttered softly to no one in particular, “Goddamn you, Beau.”

Then I stood, took a deep breath, and began packing. I filled my sea bag, but my mind was elsewhere.

The last time I was called home for Beau, it was winter. He’d wrapped his truck around a tree thirty miles outside Montgomery—drunk as hell and high as a kite. When I arrived at the county jail, Beau was asleep in the drunk tank, passed out on the cold concrete like it was the Ritz.

I stood outside his cell and watched him. I wanted to leave him there—to let him suffer. I had already decided what I’d tell Mama: that there was nothing I could do, that I’d tried my best but the law was set on keeping him. I even turned to walk out.

That’s when the sheriff came in.

“You must be the brother?”

“Unfortunately.”

He gave me a quick once-over and shifted the toothpick in his mouth. “I’ve seen a lot of accidents in my time. A lot of ’em just like his. I can’t for the life of me understand why it’s always the drunks and junkies who walk away without a scratch.”

“Maybe they’re too high to even know they should be dead.”

He looked at me like he wasn’t sure if he was supposed to laugh. “I don’t know. But it don’t sit right with me. Some poor son of a bitch working the graveyard shift at the tire plant hits a tree doing sixty, and we’re picking his teeth out of the dashboard and telling his wife she’s a widow. Then some hippie piece of trash high on God knows what does the same and he ain’t no worse for wear. Now you tell me how to make sense of that.”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. I guess I’m supposed to say life ain’t fair?”

“Well, it ain’t.”

The sheriff waved his hand, motioning for me to follow. I did. We walked back to his office, and I took a seat across from his desk. He took off his hat and sat down slowly.

“You come here to take him home?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You don’t seem too eager.”

“I’d be lying if I said I was.”

He nodded, looked me up and down. “You seem like a good kid. You in the service?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Army?”

“No, sir. Navy.”

“You don’t look like a sailor.”

“I’m a pilot.”

“What you fly?”

“F-4 Phantom.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You’re a real fighter pilot. You been to ’Nam?”

“Twice.”

“Ever been shot down?”

“Not yet.”

The sheriff laughed, leaned back in his chair, and put his boots on the desk. Hands folded over his stomach, he said, “I tell you what, son. I got a soft spot for you military boys. Got a cousin over there now. Course he ain’t flyin’ jets—he’s a mechanic or somethin’. But seeing as your brother didn’t hurt nobody but himself, I’m gonna let you take him home.”

“I guess I should say thank you.”

“Well, you just tell him to stay out of Butler County unless he’s sober as a Baptist on Sunday.”

The sheriff let me walk Beau out that night, said it was a waste of ink to even file the paperwork. Beau didn’t thank me. He just lit a cigarette with shaking hands and asked if Mama was mad.

I could still see him there, sitting with his head pressed against the glass, the red cherry of his cigarette resting between his lips. I swore that was the last time I bail him out.