The Last Exit to Normal by Michael Harmon Page A

about
him.”
    “I told you Mr. Hinks is screwed up. He beat the crap out of him with a belt right at the back
door yesterday because I helped with the bricks.”
    “You’d better get your chores done.”
    I stared at him. “What?”
    “I’ll take care of it.”
    “Of what? Billy?”
    “Yes. I said I would take care of it, and I will.”
    I knew my dad too well. Ever since I was a little kid, he had to follow the proper rules and regulations,
and he never took anything else into consideration. Like Billy getting it double if the authorities were called. “If
you call the sheriff, he’ll beat the crap out of him again, Dad. You can’t.”
    Dad’s eyes sharpened. “I said I’ll take care of it.”
    I walked outside. I could hear Billy moving the bricks, and I stood by the garage for a few minutes,
listening. The kid had busted that cat like it was nothing. He’d killed it because it was there, and it slid off his
back easy as anything.
    I imagined him over there, spending another four hours working because of me, and I couldn’t
figure out if I felt sorry for him or not. I sat on the back-porch steps and lit a smoke, glancing over at the house every
few seconds. Why should I feel sorry for him? I didn’t really think you could call it murder, but that was the
closest thing to it that I could think of, and besides, it wasn’t any of my business anyway. Miss Mae was right. I
should
stay away. But I wouldn’t.
    I snuffed my butt out and walked over to the minivan, grabbed a bag from the backseat, and went next
door. Billy looked at me, dumped the wheelbarrow on the pile, and turned around, trundling over to the old pile. I set
the bag down on the bricks, calling to his back, “You can put it in our woodshed if you don’t want him
to know I gave it to you.” Then I walked back home.
    I decided to mow the lawn because first of all, the motor would drown out the sound of the damn bricks,
and second of all, I needed the wheelbarrow to dig postholes for the stupid fence, and I wasn’t about to go over
and get it. Twenty minutes into trying to get the mower started, I knew why people wore boots to work in. They were
good for kicking things that didn’t work right.
    I finally got the thing started and mowed like a madman, my arms aching from the day before and my
hands killing me. I had two hours before the hay date, and I wanted to take a shower before I walked down to
Kimberly’s house.
    The mower didn’t have a bag on it, so I had to rake, and by the time I got done with the backyard
and moved back to the front to rake, I saw the sheriff pulling up in his truck. My dad had called. Leave it to him to do
things properly.
    The sheriff got out, nodded to me, and walked down the Hinkses’ driveway. “Hey, Billy,
your daddy around?” he called.
    I listened from the yard, and Billy answered. “No, sir.”
    “Come on down here for a minute, huh?”
    Billy came down. The sheriff glanced at me, and I started raking. He turned to Billy. “How ya
doing, partner?”
    “Fine, sir.”
    The sheriff leaned down, his hands on his knees, and looked into Billy’s eyes. “Daddy
coming home soon?”
    “He said six.”
    The sheriff looked at his watch, then at Billy. “Your daddy whip you yesterday,
son?”
    Billy nodded.
    “On your bottom?”
    He shook his head. “No, sir.”
    “You just turn on around and let me take a peek, then.”
    Billy shook his head.
    The sheriff took off his sunglasses. “Turn around, Billy.” The sheriff twirled his finger
as he said this, and Billy did, turning around and looking over his shoulder. The sheriff hooked a finger under the shirt
and lifted it. I could see the welts from where I was. It almost hurt just looking at them. He studied the marks.
“You get in trouble?”
    “Yes, sir.”
    The sheriff lowered the shirt and turned him around. “For what?”
    “Bein’ bad.”
    “Like what kind of bad?”
    Billy glanced at me. “Not doing my work the way