A Boy Named Merle

Fate isn’t talked about much around these parts. Maybe it’s something that is more felt than expressed - you spend long enough seeing all these rich people and their mega-cottages and their boats come and go, you start to feel like your path was decided for you. To me, it’s more luck than anything else. Some people are just born on third base. But even saying that, I wonder… I wonder about something bigger, about a grand design with a plan in mind and the means to accomplish it because fate is resourceful. See, this story is about a boy and that boy meets a man one night. You might say it was chance that they met - you might say that it was fate. I’ll let you be the judge. 

*

Neil Walker stands in the country laundromat and sips a PBR. A newspaper is spread in front of him and he scoffs, thinking there ain’t a damn good thing happening in the world worth mentioning, only the bad stuff. He’s got enough of the bad stuff in his own life - his divorce is fresh, a product of years of strife and a pair of mismatched souls. 

The gentle hum of the washers and dryers is calming to him as he takes another sip. His attention is caught by a boy standing in front of a washing machine. He is small and wears a threadbare Willie Nelson t-shirt that is too big for him and sags around his shoulders. Staring into the swirling soap, it is as if he is looking into a portal to another dimension. Neil studies him for a moment as Tammy, the proprietor of the laundromat, walks in. 

‘Hey, Tam, who’s the kid?’ 

‘Oh, that’s one of the Dixon boys. Doesn’t talk much. Folks live around the corner in some beat-up shack that used to be a cottage. They send him around to get the laundry, though I usually spot him a few toonies.’ She makes a drinking motion with her hand. ‘Surprised any of those kids have made it, to be honest.’

*

The jingling of coins collected rings as Neil grabs his clothes from the dryer. He waves to Tammy, chucks his empty PBR in the trashcan and walks out to a warm dusk. He almost doesn’t see the boy sitting beside the door - he blends in with the shadows of the evening. Neil stops and looks at him: ‘You okay, kid?’ 

The boy's blue eyes shine in the night but he doesn’t reply. 

For a second, Neil thinks about leaving him - it’s not my business, anyway, he thinks. But there is a nagging feeling that tells him he needs to do something. ‘Well, you gotta get home, I suspect. You need a ride?’ 

Again, no reply. 

‘Alright, well I’m not gonna leave you here. Hop in the car and I’ll bring ya home.’ 

The boy doesn’t hesitate and walks with Neil to his old Buick. Gravel crunches as the car’s headlights illuminate the night and the trees around them are revealed. 

‘So, what’s your name?’ 

The boy shrugs and stares straight ahead. 

Neil chuckles to himself: What in the hell is wrong with this kid? 

‘Not much of a talker, are ya? Can you point to where I’m ‘sposed to go, at least?’ 

The boy does, and it is a turn that is barely 200 metres away. Neil turns sharply and exhales - the boy stares ahead into the night. 

*

More pointing and a few wrong turns and they arrive at what could only be described as squalor personified. The boy leaves the car and walks towards his home; the door is open and all is quiet except for the ambient buzzing and chirping of the forest’s inhabitants. 

Neil follows as the boy enters an inside that is worse than the outside. The stench is horrendous. It is a mixture of mould, vomit, shit, booze and cigarette smoke. And there is clearly nobody home. 

‘Any idea where your folks might be?’ Neil asks. The boy shrugs and goes upstairs, each step creaking. He comes down with a sketchpad and a pencil in his hand and stands still.

‘Well, not sure what to do here, bud. I don’t wanna leave you all alone… Any idea of where they might have gone off to?’ 

The boy opens the sketchpad, flips through pages of detailed drawings that Neil can’t quite make out. When he gets to a blank page, he writes: Uncle. Hawkesbury. 

Neil whistles - he’s heard of the place, and it’s past Ottawa. He pulls out his phone and checks on Google Maps. It’s a six hour drive. 

‘Shit, kid. That’s pretty damn far.’ Silence descends on them as Neil’s mind starts to figure. He knows what he should do and that is to drop the kid off at the closest OPP headquarters and let the police deal with it. But he also knows that the OPP are about as reliable as a baseball pitcher with no arms. All they seem to care about is busting teenagers drinking on the beach and people speeding on the way to the cottage, so then he starts thinking about the drive. If he were to drive the kid, and they could find his folks, would it be any better? 

Neil starts to pace, his restless thoughts taking over his body. Fate (or is it chance?) has a way of working in these moments, and Neil hears a squelch under his foot. He looks down to a full diaper with half of its remaining faecal matter on the bottom of his shoe. 

‘Tell you what. I’m not doing anything tomorrow. Could use a drive to clear my head anyway. I’ll drive you to your Uncle’s place. If that’s okay with you, obviously.’ 

The boy's eyes meet his and there isn’t scepticism or mistrust in them - they are neutral, cool and even. He simply nods his head and walks back out the front door. 

‘Well, there ya go,’ Neil says with a smile. 

*

After a stop at Neil’s for a charger, coffee and snacks, they hit the road. 

‘So, can you tell me - or uh, write out your answers if you don’t feel like talkin’? Gonna be a long drive if not.’

The boy shrugs. 

‘Well, can you tell me your name at least?’ 

The boy writes in a hand that is controlled, yet elegant: Merle. 

Neil can’t help but laugh: ‘Merle? Jesus, what a name! Like Merle Haggard? Goddamn, I remember listening to Merle and Willie when I was a kid. Sorry to laugh, kid. But you gotta admit it’s an unusual name.’ 

Merle shrugs again and writes: My folks like him, I guess. Named my brother Willie. 

‘Shit, of course they did. Just a couple country rebels, your folks are.’ He feels a little uneasy talking about Merle’s parents, so changes the subject. 

Ironically, he takes Merle’s new openness as a chance to talk about himself: how he met Allison, his wife (now ex-wife) when he built her a porch and how she was drop-dead gorgeous and he left a saw under the porch so that he could go back the next day when he would have enough courage to ask her out and he did and the rest was history. Until they realised she couldn’t have kids and they didn’t have the money for IVF or to adopt because Christ knows why it’s so damn hard to adopt a kid and how much money you need - he tries to explain IVF to Merle but stops, realising he isn’t entirely sure what it is, either. And how they grew bitter towards each other and started picking fights over little things, because having a kid was something he always wanted. So he could be a better dad than the one he had. And it wasn’t her fault that she couldn’t but just damn it all to hell that they couldn’t figure it out. 

By the time he is done with his history lesson, there are five hours remaining on their journey. Neil glances at Merle who has turned the sketchbook page to a fresh one and is starting to draw in the darkness. He is shading circles near the top of the page.

‘What else you got in that book? Seems like you are quite the artist, Merle.’ He can’t help but smile when he says the boy’s name as he turns on the dash light. The pages are flipped in reverse and Merle shows him a similar scene to the one he is working on currently: a table, this time with a woman laying on it. The lights are bright and accentuated by dark shading and there is a man in scrubs standing by the woman’s feet. Neil looks back to the road and then again to the drawing: her face is contorted in pain and the detail is astonishing. He can see her fist clenching the hospital bed. In the corner, a man is slumped against the wall. The whole scene is drawn with an almost ethereal glow, and as he flips through the other drawings, Neil notices that each one is of the same scene from different perspectives. 

‘So, why the same scene for your drawing?’ 

Merle flips back to where he has been writing: My brother. Willie. When he was born. I walked into the room because it was taking so long.

Neil reads the words in between glances at the road and feels his heart drop. 

‘Shit. I’m sorry, kid. Your brother… did he make it?’ 

Merle nods but there is a glint of steel in his eyes. 

‘Well, that’s good, then.’ 

Feeling like he’s asked enough questions, Neil turns the radio on, finds some classic rock (Welcome to the Jungle, funnily enough), and drives. Merle continues his drawing of the birth of his brother, Willie. 

*

The hours pass and Merle sleeps, his sketchbook clutched to his chest like a talisman of protection. Neil drives under the soft glow of the moon and lets his mind wander. He thinks about the boy beside him, and what kind of a life he was bringing him back to. It’s a goddamn cruel world for some people. And they don’t get a say in any of it. He shakes his head but can’t shake the feeling that he is doing something wrong. Surely he could have brought Merle back to his house and then called Child Protection Services in the morning? Or would that have been worse? He knew kids who went into the system when he was young - Jimmy Smith, for one. His folks died and he went into foster care. He can remember seeing him years later, a gaunt faced 20-something year old on the street, hustling, the ravages of heroin written over his body.

He thinks about turning around - finding the nearest exit and heading back to Muskoka. It’s like that old saying about the devil you know… he thinks, feeling paralysed with indecision. But he keeps driving. 

*

The sun rises and tinges the clouds with a crimson hue. Neil, fighting exhaustion, rouses himself for the final leg of their journey as Merle starts to slowly awake. Whatever happens, Neil thinks, it’s good to have a purpose. To do something. It’s all a man can do, really. He chuckles, figuring that the philosophising was a byproduct of his exhaustion. He sees Merle’s eyes open and looks down to check on his sketchbook before he sits up straight and yawns. 

By the time they get to Hawkesbury, the small town is awake and starting to move. They stop at a gas station and try to get a location, hoping that the uncle in question is a Dixon and not on the mother’s side. 

The gas station attendant laughs: ‘Shit, everyone ‘round here knows the Dixons. Bunch of em’ came in last night and got to the Beer Store before it closed - damn near cleared the place out. They’s just down the road there, turn left and then left again. You’ll hear em’ before you seem em’.’ 

Neil thanks the man, fills the tank and heads on. He looks at Merle who, as always, remains with a neutral look - is he scared? Angry? Who the hell knows with this kid.

As foretold, they can hear the Dixons before they see them. Two men sit shirtless on the porch beside an old pickup and there is a pile of beer cans on either side of them. Loud, twangy country music plays and one of the men staggers to the side of the porch where he unceremoniously relieves himself; Neil wants to cover Merle’s eyes, but is sure he has seen much worse.

They get out of the car and approach the porch - the one still sitting sees them first. 

‘And who the fuck are you comin’ on my property unannounced? We shoot trespassers on sight here.’ He pauses a moment and squints. ‘Is that my nephew?’ He hoots. ‘Goddamn. Look at that, Lyle. It’s your boy.’ 

The man peeing turns and his member turns with him, splashing the deck with urine. 

‘Well, shit! I knew we fergot somethin’.’ He laughs and it is a laugh of pure inebriation. ‘Who the hell you got with ya?’

He zips up and staggers towards Neil and Merle. 

‘Mr Dixon? I’m Neil Walker. I found your boy yesterday unattended and well, I thought I better bring him home. Wouldn’t have been safe to be left alone like that.’ 

Lyle’s eyes narrow: ‘You a cop? You gotta tell me if yer a cop. It’s the law.’ 

‘I’m not a cop. Just someone who was concerned.’ 

Lyle shrugs and cracks another beer: ‘Well shit, you drove all the way from Muskoka? You better not be one of those kiddie diddlers. Those fuckers should get the death penalty if ya ask me.’ A loud amen from Lyle’s uncle followed by a belch. 

Neil ignores the accusation and looks at Merle. 

‘Well, kid, guess you better get going.’ 

Merle shrugs and heads to the porch. 

‘Here, Mr Walken, sit yourself down and have a beer on the house. Me and the missus were havin’ a few pops and decided to come and visit this old coot and musta forgot about the kid.’ Merle stands beside him and his father musses up his hair. ‘It ain’t hard to forget a kid who don’t say much!’ He laughs again and his uncle laughs, adding: ‘Wouldn’t say boo to a goose, eh?’ 

‘I’m fine, thanks. I’ve gotta get going. But,’ he pauses, searching for the right words, ‘You’ve got a good kid here, Mr Dixon. You should look after him a bit better.’ 

Lyle’s pauses mid-swig and stares at Neil. ‘You tellin’ me how to raise my kids?’ His fists clench and he advances. Neil would like nothing more than to pound this excuse-of-a-man into the ground, to turn his face to a bloody pulp for pissing all over the gift of being able to bring life to this earth, for every kid, including himself, who had to deal with parents who couldn’t give a shit about them - but he doesn’t. He knows it isn’t worth it. 

‘I didn’t mean to offend. Just… look out for him, is all.’ 

Lyle smiles with pride and smacks Merle on the back. ‘Alright then. Go on inside and help your ma with breakfast. She passed out a while ago, so you’ll need to poke her.’ Again, that grating, dirty laugh.  

Merle does as he is told but the door opens before he gets to it; a smaller boy waddles out wearing nothing but a diaper that is full and sagging. His eyes are narrow, his nose is tiny and his head is misshapen. He trips over the door jam and falls on his face - both of the Dixon men laugh. 

‘Ah, there’s my other boy, Willie. He’s a bit special - you ain’t allowed to say retarted no more. All this woke bullshit.’ He picks the boy up and pushes him back inside. ‘Git inside now, Willie. Go on.’ Lyle sits back down and Neil walks back to his car, his guts burning with rage as he gets behind the wheel and squeezes it so hard that his hands turn white.

*

Neil drives back to Muskoka in silence. His rage fills the car, and he only makes it an hour before he pulls over and gets the number for Child Protective Services. He finally gets through to a human being and isn’t surprised at the response: Will need to do a home visit, can send someone out on Monday as we are short-staffed at the moment. He hangs up and clenches his jaw, feeling the anger of futility spread across him like a second skin.

By the time he gets home, he is exhausted but can’t sleep; he stares at his phone and the keys beside it, feeling like all it would take is one more drive, a few punches and those kids would be safe again. But he doesn’t. Not because he is a coward, but because he knows that isn’t his place in the world. He did his best to help and there was nothing left for him to do.

 He falls asleep in the afternoon and is awoken sometime in the wee hours of the morning. A wheezing engine coughs and splutters its way to his cottage and he sits up and runs to the door. 

Two small figures exit the truck and he opens the door to see Merle leading Willie by the hand; his other hand holds the sketchbook. 

‘Jesus, Merle. You coulda been killed. How’d you see over the wheel?’ 

He shrugs - Neil turns on the porch light and can see a stack of old newspapers on the driver’s seat. Willie laughs and it is a sweet laugh, one of relief. Neil feels tears rushing to his eyes as he hugs the boys close and can feel Merle’s chest softly heaving as a sob of relief leaves his lips.