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Anna died the same way she lived – messy and sudden. OD’d in the grimy bathroom of that shitty Shell station near the docks, the one the broken ice machine. Luke was at work, busting his back for fifty bucks under the table. It wasn’t a cop who called, but Reggie, the guy who ran the night shift. Said he found her in the stall with her purse on the floor and her lips already blue. Voice shaking like Luke was supposed to give a fuck about how it made him feel
Said, “Man… I think she’s gone.”
Just like that. Fucking joke.
The funeral was closed casket. Didn’t make sense, she wasn’t torn up or anything. Luke still saw her sometimes in his sleep – eyes glazed, lips blue.
Back then, Luke worked two jobs and still came home to find her sprawled on the couch, smiling like nothing was wrong. She’d slur something like, “I made spaghetti,” even when the only things in the kitchen were orange peels and burnt spoons. JJ would be curled up beside her, knocked out or watching cartoons with the volume too low. Sometimes he ran up when Luke walked in, talking a mile a minute like he hadn’t spoken to anyone all day. Other times, he was already out cold, curled in weird places – under the table, across a pile of laundry, blanket dragged with him. Kid could pass out in a toolbox if it was quiet enough. Might’ve, once. Luke would carry him to bed, and pretend none of it was messed up.
She loved their boy. Luke knew that. But love didn’t count for shit when she left him asleep in a booth at a gas station Denny’s just so she could shoot up in the bathroom.
She hadn’t been much help when she was alive, but at least JJ had someone to soften the corners. She was the one who cleaned his scrapes, held him and kissed his head when he cried. After she was gone, there was no one left to do that shit but Luke.
He sucked at it. There were nights, though, when JJ would crawl up beside him on the couch – dragging his feet, hugging that ragged stuffed shark like it still had some magic left. Luke lifted his arm and let him settle. Flicked through static or late-night fishing shows, just laying there while his boy drifted off, warm against his chest. Small and trusting. He’d lie like that a while after, staring at the shadows on the ceiling, and tell himself he maybe didn't suck that bad.
Laying down rules was something he was better at – or so he thought. The first one that stuck was when JJ was four, “Don’t touch the stove”. The kid still had the burn mark on his wrist to remind him. Luke didn’t put his hand there, but he didn’t stop him either when JJ grinned at him and reached anyway. Wailing stopped eventually. Luke patched him up, kissed his head. It was rough, but it worked. Kid listened after that.
After it all went to hell, Luke didn’t get up for a while. Anna was gone, and the house felt gutted. He drank whatever was left in the cabinet, then hit the bars. Slept on the couch, then wherever he landed. Couldn’t keep track of the days or remember the last time JJ had been there. His momma took him for a bit, then passed him off to one of his sisters. Said, “He needs a bed and someone half-sober. You pull it together, then you come get ‘im.” Luke didn’t even ask which sister.
Days blurred, couldn’t say how long it lasted. One morning he woke up on the kitchen floor, mouth dry, something sticky under his cheek, and no idea how he’d ended up there. Looked around at the bottles, dishes, ash everywhere, and told himself that was it.
Man the fuck up.
It was all on him now – the boy, the bills, the mess Anna left behind. Ain't nobody else coming to fix it for him. There was only one thing he really gave a damn about anyway: keep his boy breathing and fed. Make sure he knew how to survive. Rest didn’t matter.
That’s when he started running for Barracuda Mike. Nothing new, really – Maybanks had been hauling whatever needed hauling for generations. Shrimp, gas, now blow. Luke didn’t see the difference. You stank anyway. Wasn’t crime, not the way he saw it. Just another job on the water. He’d drop JJ off at Norma‘s, take the skiff out late, swap coolers near the marsh line, drift back before sun-up with a pack of smokes and cash in his pocket. Kept the lights on. Got JJ a winter jacket, covered the bills when other jobs dried up. The work came with favors, though. Waiting around. Guys passing a bump to kill the time. He wasn't one to say no to that, never had been.
Things were still easy then. JJ sat when you told him to. Ate what you gave him, even if it was just crackers or something cold from the can. Looked up like you had all the answers. He thought maybe he could manage that parent crap. Show up, teach him things, keep the lights on.
JJ got sick that winter – sweating through his shirt, voice all hoarse and confused. Luke sat beside him all night, cold towel in one hand, a busted thermometer in the other, whispering “you’re fine, J” even when he wasn’t sure. Watched the boy finally knock out near dawn, curled in a damp T-shirt with that stupid shark clutched to his chest. Luke stayed there till he asked for toast the next morning, like none of it had happened.
It was fun teaching him stuff too – how to bait a hook, how to patch a tire, how to tell when the boat motor was about to flood. Once JJ patched a tire without asking and Luke acted like it was not a big deal, but told three guys about it the next day. Kid always tried hard – tongue out, questions nonstop. Proud of every damn thing, like tying a knot made him king of the world. One morning they pulled up a fat catfish. JJ scrambled back, then laughed so hard he nearly tipped off the edge. Luke smacked its head clean on the side of the cooler, and tossed it in. Dinner was secured.
“That’s how you do it,” he said, ruffling the kid’s hair. JJ kept talking about the fish for days after, like it was some kind of legendary catch. Drew it on a paper plate with a blue crayon. Luke tacked it to the wall above the sink and left it there for a year at least. He’d catch the kid looking at it sometimes, proud as hell, and for a minute, he'd think maybe they could be alright.
It wasn't all fun and games though. By eight, the kid started talking back. Stopped paying attention, like rules didn’t apply to him. Breaking shit, leaving tools out in the rain, snapping a cabinet hinge off messing around. Would shrug sometimes when told to do something, like he ran the damn place. Nothing big at first, but it piled up. Always with that look, like he was waiting to see what Luke would do.
Like hell was he about to lose control of his own son.
So he’d raise his voice. Yank the kid’s arm. One time he tore the toy out of his hands and chucked it through the screen door after it hit the wall again. Told him flat – if he didn’t wanna lose it, he shouldn’t’ve thrown it.
That's what parenting was. The kid had to learn. Didn't matter If he cried. Luke told him to knock it off more times than he could count – like a reflex. Boys don’t cry. Crying don’t fix shit. If you want something, get up and do something about it. Whining never helped nobody.
Back then, things made sense. You lay down the rules, the kid follows ‘em, you keep him out of trouble. That was the point. He didn’t know much else, but he knew that. The world didn’t give second chances and he sure as hell wasn’t about to either.
His old man believed in getting to the point. Didn't lecture much – just swung. Said it kept Luke out of jail, and maybe it did. He remembered the sound of the belt more than anything the man ever said – that snap when it came off, buckle cold. Leather worn smooth from use. Might’ve been passed down. Hell, maybe it worked.
And Luke never saw a reason to change what worked.
By the time JJ was ten, when he stepped out, Luke stepped in. If talking didn’t land, the belt followed. JJ used to fight it – kicked, screamed, tried to get away. After a while, he learned there was no point, so just shut up and took it. Cried, then did what he was told.
Luke told himself that meant it stuck. Still some nights, he couldn’t quite sell it to himself.
Teaching to punch had been something else. JJ focused when it came to that, took it very serious. Luke told him straight: no running your mouth if you can’t stand behind it, no swinging unless you meant to finish. Never let ‘em see you fold. They’d run the same drills over and over in the yard, sun high, arms sore, but the kid never slowed down. Grinned when he got it right. Luke’d clap his shoulder, tell him good. Kid was wiry, but fast, rough around the edges. “My boy’s got it,” he’d tell himself “Maybe this is something I can give him.“
That was a long time ago. When JJ was twelve, the boat runs got fewer. Mike said the water was hot, cops sniffing around. The money thinned.
Then Norma died, dropped in her sleep like she’d just had enough of this crap. No warning. One day she was cussing him out over the TV remote, next day he was picking out a coffin.
JJ shut down completely. Wouldn’t eat, wouldn’t talk. Sat on the porch steps for hours, arms wrapped tight around his knees. Luke would sit next to him sometimes, put an arm around his shoulder, mutter something like “She’s alright now,” or “We’re gonna be okay.”
It was all bulshit and he knew it…So he drank. For weeks. Woke up once in the yard, blood on his shirt and no clue if it was his or some poor bastard’s from the bar.
After that, things didn’t just get worse, they stopped pretending to be anything else.
By the time JJ hit his teen years, whatever Luke had been doing stopped feeling like parenting. Fights got louder. Meaner. There wasn’t much lesson in it anymore – more like trying to hold sand in a fist. The house was falling apart, bills stacked up. He couldn’t keep a job more than a week or two. Most mornings, he was already wired or strung out before noon.
The school kept calling. One more fight, they said, and they'd push it up. JJ came home whenever he felt like it, sometimes not at all. And even worse, the kid would wear that same grin Anna had, all crooked and knowing. Same damn eyes. Too much of her in him. And sometimes, when he was high on adrenaline, talking fast, bouncing out of his skin – Luke saw it. His own shit, looking back at him. He honestly couldn’t tell which one pissed him off more.
After JJ had been dumb enough to break a Kook’s nose in front of the whole school, DCS came sniffing more than once. First time, they showed up outta nowhere – some woman with a clipboard standing on his porch, poking around like she knew shit. Luke opened the door just wide enough to block the view inside and gave her his best “respectable citizen” lean. Figured he had about thirty seconds before the smell hit her. Whole place stank like booze and smoke.
There’d been a poker game the night before – Malcolm, Denny, some dock guys, and a quiet bastard nobody knew. Blow still on the table. Beer cans everywhere – floor, counters, couch cushions, ashtrays spilling over, one of them knocked sideways on the stove.
Inside, he heard JJ moving fast. Cabinets slamming, windows creaking open, footsteps across the kitchen tile. Then a dull thump like something got kicked out of sight. Voice steady, Luke kept talking at the door, even as his head thudded from whatever he’d snorted off the table that morning. Clipboard lady leaned to the side, trying to get a better look inside, then pushed past him.
JJ stood by the counter, hands twitching like he didn't know where to put them. She asked him to step outside with her. Probably asked if he felt safe at home, like he was some damn charity case they could fix with a pamphlet.
Luke wasn’t worried. At thirteen, JJ already knew better than to trust cops or clipboard bitches with fake smiles. His old man made sure of that. You stuck to family – that was the only thing that counted. The kid would lie through his teeth, momma’s boy through and through. Could play the part easy when he had to, and he damn well knew who had his back.
Those people didn’t give a fuck anyway. Just needed an excuse to put you in the dirt. They only showed up ‘cause JJ dropped some rich kid. One punch, wrong side of the island, and now they’re out here poking around, trying to haul your kid off to God knows where. So what if a boy liked to throw a punch? So what if his old man drank? That wasn’t a crime.
Nosy lady looked like she didn’t buy a word and left a card with a number JJ tossed before she even pulled out of the drive. Luke handed him a beer right after.
“What’d you tell her?"
“To fuck off, pretty much.”
A grin spread across JJ’s face as he cracked it open and chugged it like it wasn’t his first.
After that, they knew the drill. Clean up what they could, don't let them see much. JJ always stepped up, didn’t wait to be told. Had his stories ready, swapped out bruises for bike wrecks or wipeout scrapes while Luke lit one smoke after another outside, trying to look sober. Kid pulled it off so smooth, some days when he told Luke what he’d said, he almost bought it himself.
The hangovers kept getting worse. The coke didn't help, neither did whatever junk was floating around that week that he used to take the edge off. Some mornings Luke didn’t even know what he’d taken. Could’ve been a couple Ambien to sleep, maybe a line to wake up, maybe both. Sometimes JJ took care of him, when he’d gone under too hard or couldn’t get off the couch. Roll him over, clean him up a little, leave water where he could reach. Made sure Luke wouldn't choke in his puke, then let him be.
Until he didn't.
He’d woken up like that one day with his mouth like paper, body stiff. Still twitching from whatever mix had hit him that time. He opened one eye to see the boy near the couch, arms folded, staring down at him like he’d been holding that line in for days.
“You can’t keep doing this, Dad.” He whispered.
Without looking up, Luke reached for the glass on the coffee table. His head wouldn't stop spinning.
“Yeah? None of your damn business.”
The stare lingered and the boy’s face twisted up, like he wasn’t sure if he should say the next part or swallow it back.
“It is… ’Cause I’m the one checking if you’re still breathing every morning.”
The glass went flying before he even knew he'd grabbed it. Missed the kid’s head by an inch, slammed into the cabinet with a crack, and shattered. Water ran down the door. Bits of glass scattered across the floor.
His eyes lifted and stared – a look he knew would pin the boy in place. “Clean that shit up.”
Tensing, JJ dropped his gaze quick, then turned toward the mess. Took a step, like he meant to grab the rag, then paused. Hovered there for a bit, squared his shoulders, and walked out.
For a second, Luke thought about dragging him back and making him listen. But his body wouldn’t follow. He ended up saying nothing, and the next morning, there was a fresh glass on the table.
Some days, Luke would pull it off – smoked a joint, cracked a beer, picked at some engine till his hands stopped shaking. Other times, he felt like his head was gonna split right open. The light was burning his eyes, any sound was too fucking loud. And JJ in the kitchen, stomping around, slamming shit like it was his damn job to make everything worse.
He’d try his best. Most days, anyway. But then the kid would look at him wrong, and something in him would give.
Once, JJ dropped a bowl on the floor. That’s all it was. It hit tile, shattered, and a shard must’ve caught his foot when he stepped back, cause he let out a loud yelp.
Luke was in his face before he could think, fist slamming the counter, voice already rising. “You wanna make noise? Huh? Wanna scream? I’ll give you a damn reason.”
Breathing heavy, JJ stared at the bowl, eyes filling from… nothing, really. And that... something about that made Luke shove him against the fridge. ‘Cause what the fuck was he bawling about?
Later, after he’d sat back down and JJ knelt to wipe up the mess, he noticed the blood running off the kid’s bare foot, smearing across the tile and the edge of the broken bowl. Same floor he used to roll across laughing, back when Luke tickled him till they couldn’t breathe.
Then there were the times he was so fucked up he couldn’t even tell you how it started. The yard was one of those.
It was too damn late when JJ came in that night. Mud on his arms, shirt hanging off one shoulder. Talking fast about the marsh, the phone, something about slipping. Luke couldn’t make sense of it. His head was pounding. He’d been drinking since noon, snorted something after, and it was crawling up the back of his neck.
He remembered pointing outside. Told JJ to get in the yard. Could've shoved him. Might’ve grabbed him by the hair. Made him stand in the dirt. He remembered yelling. Not the words, just the noise.
After that, it all blurred. Cold air. Porch light buzzing. JJ’s face too still. Luke saying things he half-meant – telling him to stand right. To act like he gave a shit. Might’ve screamed something else. JJs voice, quiet, trying to talk him down. Didn't do shit. The yard went dim and too bright at the same time.
Then the first hit, and for the life of him, he couldn’t recall why. JJ stumbling sideways, arms over his face.
Next thing, Luke was down on one knee, hands in the dirt, breath catching like he’d ran a mile. His knuckles hurt. No idea how long it had gone on.
The kid was hunched by the busted grill, pulling his leg in tight, breathing all wrong. Face turned away, but Luke could see his eye already swelling. Trying not to cry, but it broke through anyway.
There was blood in the dirt, smeared on the kid’s clothes, streaked through his hair. On Luke’s hands.
Luke stumbled up, lit a cigarette, watched the flame dance too close to his fingers. Let it touch his thumb and held it there until the skin bubbled.
Then went inside. Didn’t speak or help JJ up. Told himself the boy had it coming, but that was bullshit, so he cracked a beer, downed half of it, and tried not to look at the blood drying on his sleeve.
JJ didn’t come inside that night and Luke didn’t go looking. He sat out back and drank until his head got quiet.
A couple days after, he hauled a busted dirt bike frame out from behind the fence at work. Back wheel bent, tank bashed in. Same kind JJ used to stare at excitedly when one flew past on the road. Used to say he’d fix one up someday, back when they still talked about shit like that.
He backed into the yard, swung the rear doors open, and knocked ash from his smoke.
“Get out here, J. Look what I dragged home for ya.“
The screen door opened after a few seconds and JJ stepped onto the porch, moving stiffly. Eyes on the bike – one eye, really, the other still swollen nearly shut. Kept staring for a while. Then his breathing hitched and he wiped his face, trying to play it cool.
"Figured you might wanna mess with this junker." Luke lit a joint off his cigarette and held it out, waiting patiently until JJ finally came down the steps and reached for it. Still moving slow, favoring one side.
“Shit,” he muttered, taking the joint with a grin that cracked his whole face open. “You serious right now?”
“Chain’s stuck. Rear wheel’s junk. We gotta start there.” Luke nodded toward the frame.
They crouched beside it and got to work. JJ tensed every time Luke shifted, but stayed put. Kept working, dragging a little. Kept rambling, too – said he’d paint it red, maybe slap some flames on it. Ride it through Figure 8 just to piss off the Kooks. Got going on mufflers, gear ratios, John B losing his shit when he'd see it.
The sun was dropping behind the trees when it was finally done. Luke said, “It’ll rattle like hell, but it’ll move. Better not crash it,” grabbed two beers, and set one down by the cooler. Took a while, but his kid picked it up.
“No promises.”
They drank while the yard went dark, JJ going on about engines and tearing down the beach road. Luke listened without saying much.
What was there to say, anyway.
Wasn’t just the blackouts and the hangovers, though. The kid really did push it. Wouldn’t listen no matter how many times you laid it out. Swore up and down he’d stop. Next night, he’d be back out, getting picked up or running his mouth or taking shit that wasn’t his. Lying straight to your face like it didn’t mean a thing.
Luke always showed up –not on time, not sober, but he did. Talked to the right people, called in favors, paid bail if it came to that. Whatever it took to get the kid off the hook. Then he made damn sure JJ knew exactly what he’d done. Didn’t let him forget it for a second. He’d get that look – all wide-eyed, like he hadn’t done a thing wrong. Sometimes he’d snap back, mouth off a little, but mostly just waited it out.
“Better you catch it from me than from some bastard with a badge.” Luke heard that from his old man more times than he could count. And he believed it. You shut it down before it grows into something worse. Ain’t nobody ever died from a backhand or two.
And maybe it was true, 'cause JJ was still standing. Still running around the island stirring up crap, acting tough like he didn’t give a damn.
Gave the poor fuckers who agreed to take him in hell too, the times when Luke was locked up. Broke stuff on purpose, got into fights over nothing. They’d argue over who’d take him, but someone always did. Maybanks stuck together, even when they couldn't stand each other.
Malcolm kicked him out once when he was fifteen, just two weeks in. He couldn’t blame the guy – his boy had a real gift for pissing people off. Got it honest. Luke had been in for a month, maybe more. Probation, resisting, whatever else they could stack.
JJ went right back to their place and stayed. No power, water shut off, fridge stinking like death.
Three weeks later, Luke got out, and there he was – still camped at the house, like he’d held the damn line till his old man came back. He'd found him sitting at the kitchen table eating peanut butter from the jar like this was the only place he ever meant to be. Beaming like having Luke back was winning the fucking lottery.
Problem was, it didn’t mean shit when the kid couldn't even look him in the eye. Spine going stiff when a hand got too close. Jumped out of his skin if Luke so much as scratched his own beard too fast.
Hell of a thing, watching your kid brace like that when you walk in the room.
Some nights when the house was dead quiet, Luke would sit in the kitchen, staring at the dent in the fridge from God knows when, and wondering if he’d always been like this. Or if something in him rotted out after Anna died. That’s when the guilt crawled in, got under his skin and stuck. With it came that damn voice in the back of his head, asking what the hell he was even doing. What kind of man turned his own son into something that twitchy?
After moments like that... sometimes things got better. A stretch of days, maybe a week. Once or twice, even a month or two. Long enough to trick himself into thinking they’d turned a corner.
They’d work side by side on the boat, JJ tossing out dumb jokes, a few even funny. Luke would catch himself laughing, for real. The boy had timing. Wit. He'd hand him a screwdriver or make some smart-ass crack and Luke would see it. His boy, with his mama’s grin and his old man’s hands, the one he still wanted to believe he hadn’t fucked up. He’d take JJ out fishing, even let him drive the truck down the road. Watch him ramble about surfing or some busted plan with the Pogues, and let it ride. He'd feel something settle then. Like maybe they could be okay.
But then the high wore off, or the beer ran out, or JJ broke something or mouthed off or slammed a door too hard, and it started again. Same heat behind the ribs, same fire up the neck. And Luke would snap. Because once the fuse lit, there was no stopping it. Just boom.
It kept happening. He’d ditch the stash, flush the pills, try joints and peppermint tea instead. Lasted six months once, right after the Ambien mess with JJ. Swore it’d be different. But it never was.
Later, he’d drop a sandwich on the table or toss the kid twenty bucks for groceries, and that was supposed to mean they were square. He didn’t say sorry. Opened his mouth sometimes, like that time he sat across from JJ, watching him eat cereal with a split lip and Luke couldn't even recall why.
Almost said something then. But it got stuck behind his teeth, so he pushed a ten across the table and walked out.
‘Cause sorry meant shit when you weren't fixing anything. And Luke sure wasn't. His temper was shot. Life was a wreck. His son? Luke was too fucked up to even try proper, and it was too late for that anyway.
But sometimes JJ flinched before Luke even moved, like his body remembered something that hadn’t happened yet. That’s when the voice came back louder – and stuck. Wouldn’t shut up for hours. He'd sit in the truck, engine off, shaking like a goddamn coward, knowing he’d fucked up something he couldn’t undo.
So he told himself his boy was tough. He’d be fine, he'd bounce back. Then started the truck, opened up a beer and rolled up to Barry's to shut that shit down.