Way Down I'll Go

With Old Woes New Wail

Jo coughed and wiped sweat out of his eyes before shoveling the last few piles of gravel into the wheelbarrow at his side.

Picking up the handles, he carted the load to the work site and emptied it, only then noticing that most of his coworkers had stopped for lunch. Jo grabbed a nearby rake and began to smooth out the gravel he'd just dumped, working past the tightness in his core telling him he should eat.

"Atwood!"

Squinting through the glaring sunlight, he saw the foreman striding toward him.

"You have a visitor in my office."

"Sir?"

The foreman shrugged as his confusion.

"No clue. Seems important though. Wanted to talk to you alone, so let me know when you're done."

Jo nodded, making his way over to the mobile office. He paused at the door of the trailer to wipe some of the grime from his hands onto his torn and dusty jeans, hoping to simultaneously assuage some of his apprehension. Though he'd never had a visitor at work before, he knew it could only mean bad news. Coughing again, he opened the creaky door and entered.

Rachel's father stood behind the foreman's desk.

It took Jo a full six seconds to shake himself from his frozen position in the doorway and close the door behind him. Even then, neither man spoke. They stared: Jo with shock and dread, and Mr. Marshall with annoyance and disdain.

"I'll get right to the point, Mr. Atwood," Rachel's father finally said, words icy as a Chicago street in December. "First, I want to offer an apology for how I acted last time we met. It was...out of character for me."

He held up his right hand which Jo now noticed bore a cast.

"Don't misunderstand me. I have absolutely no respect for you, but I wouldn't normally hit a dog I didn't like. So I apologize. However, that's not why I've come."

As he spoke, he moved to open a briefcase on the desk. Jo remained silent and still as he removed a small stack of paper.

"I've conducted some research on you, Mr. Atwood. I must say, what I found far exceeded my already high expectations."

The man flipped through the stack of papers while shaking his head, speaking as if to himself.

"I've known a few parasites in my life, but you really take the cake, boy. This," he held up the stack of papers and looked Jo dead in the eye, "is the most disgusting pile of shit I've ever laid eyes on."

He tossed the stack on the desk and it splayed out across the wooden surface. A polaroid photograph slipped off and landed on the floor by Jo's boot.

Jo surveyed the evidence of his past life. Police reports from foster home removals. Social work notes labeling him a troubled, at-risk youth. Pictures taken of him as souvenirs by his abusers displaying exploits that plagued his nightmares. He hadn't seen these photos before, but he remembered them being taken. Remembered being tired, scared, hurt. Alone.

He stared at the eyes of the little boy in the polaroid photo by his feet. At the bloodied face of the little boy being forced to do things he didn't fully understand. The little boy who'd resisted until they'd beaten and raped the life right out of him. Those eyes were dead. The gaze was empty, void. A well lit house with no one at home.

"From the reports, it sounds like you kept going after they took you out of that home. Servicing your dad's landlord on occasion. His dealer. Sounds like you were also pretty popular down at the police station. Several cops lost their jobs because of you."

Jo tensed further at the memories that came with each word Mr. Marshall spoke.

"But you finally got smart, didn't you? Decided to go for the big bucks. I have to hand it to you, boy. You had her completely fooled. But not me. I know I leech when I see one."

The boy in the polaroid stared back at him and for the first time, Jo realized how small he'd been.

"Look at me."

Jo's eyes snapped to the source of the despotic command.

"It's money you want. So it's money I've brought."

The man turned the open briefcase toward Jo, revealing stacks of crisp bills.

"50,000 dollars. It's not even a fraction of what you would have made off her, but it's better than nothing. Which is what you'll have with if I show her all of this. And I will, if you don't leave her. I'll show her everything, and you'll be left with nothing."

The threat hung in the air like smog. Suffocating. Toxic.

"I take it we have a deal, then."

Mr. Marshall began to gather the papers that remained on the desk.

"No."

The man's imposing gaze snapped to Jo's.

"Excuse me?"

"You can keep your money. I broke up with her a week ago."

Confusion danced across the patriarch's features swirling with another emotion that Jo could not discern. After a moment, the expression was replaced with one of cool indifference as the man gathered his things. He brushed by Jo toward the door.

"Before you leave," Jo blurted out with a sudden surge of anger, "I have a few things to say."

Mr. Marshall turned to face Jo, his face betraying a hint of curiosity behind a bored guise.

"I didn't break up with Rachel for you or me or anyone else. I did it for her. She's not a commodity to be bought, sold, or bargained for."

His voice shook.

"She has a quality of character unlike anyone I've ever known, and you degrade her by trying to buy me out."

His chest tightened as the words flew out of his mouth with increasing passion.

"I am many things, as you well know, but I'm not a bloodsucker. I know my place, and it isn't with her. I never pursued your daughter. The months we were together were a weakness on my part. But they were also the happiest months of my life. I have seen Rachel shine under pressure and stand up to difficulty with courage and resilience. Your daughter is breathtaking in every way, sir, and I love her."

His breath caught at the admission.

"I love her."

His eyes glistened, but he pushed forward.

"That's why I left her. I know I have no right to be with her. I know she deserves better. So think of me what you will. I'm so far from pure, I can't even spell it. But my intentions toward your daughter were never anything but genuine."

Jo took a breath, having spoken more that his yearly limit. A cough threatened to escape and he forced it down.

Mr. Marshall's face was completely illegible. He stared at Jo as if he were an unsolvable equation. Jo waited for his reply, waited to be verbally assaulted, or physically attacked again. But Mr. Marshall did neither. He blinked twice, tightened his grip on the briefcase, and left the trailer without a word.

Jo let out the breath he hadn't known he was holding, allowing a cough to rattle his ribcage. He suddenly felt tired, like he'd aged fifty years in five minutes.

Turning to survey the office one last time, he noticed the photograph that had been left behind on the floor. He stooped to retrieve it, but could not bare to look at it again. He folded it twice and shoved it into his back pocket, along with the four-letter word that had been convulsing in his brain.

Relics of the past.

As he left the office, he prayed he'd forget them both.