Carter Clay by Elizabeth Evans Page A

to die—Carter’s father, Duncan, tossed every item from their little rental house onto the broken curb, alongside a large sign that read FREE! ALL MY WORLDLY GOODS!
    In fact, not all of those goods had belonged to Duncan Clay. The heap included the family furniture, cigarette-burned and battle-scarred though it was; the rosebud dishes Betty Clay had received from her own mother and would surely have left to Cheryl Lynn; an old RCA Victor TV; the childhood dolls that Cheryl Lynn had meant to save for her children; a little suitcase record player and all of Carter and Cheryl Lynn’s record albums.
    A part of the group photo on the cover of R.E.’s album was missing—torn away by a piece of tape or a large price tag, but enough remained that Carter marveled over the appearance of the band members: swags of bangs, bad skin, absurdly skinny legs in striped trousers. And he had wanted to look like them, once upon a time!
    Out of a sense of charity, Carter asked his old friend, “How much you want for it, R.E.? I mean, I don’t have a record player, but—”
    R.E. looked up from fiddling with the wheels of the grocery cart and made a face. “It’s a present , man. Jesus. You want me to get down on my knees and beg you to take it? And if you’re not going to drink that rub-a-dub, pass it here.”
    â€œWell, thanks, R.E. You know?” After another moment’s hesitation, Carter unscrewed the cap on the rub-a-dub. An eye-watering smell. He set his tongue as a dam across the lip, tipped the bottle, pretended to drink. Maybe taking the Demerol had been stupid, but at least he was not going to drink.
    â€œNow you’re talking, man!” R.E. grabbed the bottle and raised it for a hit. “Okay! And, hey, you got the dough for something better than this shit, we can get properly fucked up! Have a high time while you haul me and my shit down to Solana in your van.”
    â€œOh,” Carter said. For a moment, the world looked a little too green. Things were bubbling away from him. Yes, he still held onto some notion that he should not buy alcohol, but even this notion was shrinking to a notion that he should not be seen buying alcohol. He needed to buy some time. He asked, “How’d you know I had a van, R.E.?”
    â€œHey, Clay”—R.E. grinned, revealing the unfamiliar and unnerving gaps of gum and tongue once more—“you went to Recovery House, man, not Witness Protection!”
    Carter tried to laugh. “Well, it’s over by the 7–11.”
    â€œAll right!” R.E. began to work the shopping cart out through the hedge. “Good place to buy us a bottle, too!”
    How about I just give you a ride? This was what Carter wanted to say, but how could he, without appearing to insult or deny R.E.? Well, he could not, and so he found himself taking out his wallet and handing R.E. two ten-dollar bills. “Here.” He looked back into the wallet, stalling. “You go pick out what you like. I’ll catch up with you in a second.”
    R.E. hawked and spit on the alley’s hot dust but did not move, and, finally, Carter had no choice but to look up again.
    â€œYou ashamed to be seen with me and my cart?” R.E. asked with a grin. He sounded as if he were teasing, but Carter felt guilty all the same, and so he started off down the alley, saying, “Hey, I’m coming, man. I’ll even wait with your damned cart while you go in and pick us out something good.”

    In the shade of a clump of oleanders, while he waited for R.E.’s return, Carter gave the shopping cart little pushes and pulls, back and forth, as if it were a stroller that held somebody’s baby.
    â€œHush-a-bye,” he crooned. Then laughed, and crooned some more, “Something something pretty horses.”
    In the swirl of baseball cap and flannel shirt and plastic bags heaped on top of the cart, the Florida sunlight reflected