A Tree Born Crooked by Steph Post

James?”
    “No.”
    It was as if a tidal wave had risen and crashed into Rabbit’s heart. And James knew it. Rabbit blinked a few times, looked away, then back at James, then away again.  
    “You sure?”
    James’ voice softened. No more sarcasm. No more insults. He had nothing else to offer Rabbit but sincerity.  
    “I’m sure.”
    Rabbit twisted back in his seat and kept his head facing forward, his eyes now focused intently through the windshield on something only he could see. His voice cracked.  
    “Well, alright then. Delmore, let’s take him back.”

FIVE
    James watched the fan blades wobble above him. Something was off balance and it made a buzzing sound around every loop. The muted television flashed bursts of light onto the ceiling and brought the fan blades in and out of the darkness. He couldn’t see it now, but James knew that there was a brown water stain in the shape of California right above his head and that a long, thin crack, branching out into many plaster tributaries, edged its way out from the ceiling corner opposite the bed. He also knew that there was a small hole punched on the outside of the particleboard bathroom door that matched perfectly to the motel room doorknob. He knew that there was a slit in the bottom edge of the screen in the only window, that there were three cigarette burns on the carpet next to the nightstand, and that the framed painting of a bird dog with a pheasant in its mouth, hanging slightly crooked above the television set, was painted by someone named R. Warren. James had spent many, many hours staring around the room, trying to find answers in the smoke-stained walls and cracked ceiling.  
    He had come up with nothing. James wasn’t even sure what his questions were. Did he need to know if he should stay in Crystal Springs? Did he need to know if he should pick up his cell phone and call Rabbit? Should he argue with him again about the insanity of his plan? Did he care enough about Rabbit to show that he cared? The questions had only bred more questions, and every time James pushed himself up off the bed, it was to change the channel on the ancient TV, not to make a phone call. Every time he got as far as the door, he left it only to stand in the outdoor hallway and smoke a cigarette, listening to the drip of condensation from the back of the ice machine. He didn’t look out in the parking lot at his truck. He didn’t look at his cell phone, sitting on top of a crumpled washcloth next to the bathroom sink. He looked at the carpet, the ceiling, the walls. He turned off the lights. He watched the fan spin slowly above him in the shimmer of the television. He kept his eyes open.  
    The red numbers on the clock radio beside the bed glowed 4:23 a.m. when the call came. James wasn’t startled; he had been drifting in and out of sleep and the ringing of his cell phone caught him already half awake. He rolled over and sat up in bed, but let it ring. Five times, then silence. He waited for the beep that signaled a voicemail message, but it never came. Instead, his phone began ringing again. As before, he listened to it, but still didn’t move. He sat motionless, his hands resting on his knees, his body bent forward, an ache of filial loyalty and a desperate desire for autonomy straining against one another in his heart. Then, silence, and then more silence. James’ pulse was racing in his veins and his head suddenly got light as sensory memories flashed inside of him. This was the same hot, tingling, floating feeling he had felt the first time the ground separated from the wheels beneath him in an Aermacchi trainer plane. The same feeling he had when he had sped along back roads, being chased by the cops for drag racing in the middle of the night. The same as when he had walked in on someone he thought he loved in bed with someone he thought was a friend. James held his breath and waited.
    He snatched it up on the second ring. He didn’t say hello and didn’t