Return of the Trickster by Eden Robinson (inspirational books to read .TXT) 📕

on either of you. You’re more allies of convenience, both wanting Jared to get a goddamn grip before he gets himself killed.

Jared can fuck off to the Land of the Dead if he wants to go there so bad. You can’t stop him.

“Maggie,” the twitchy baby witch snaps at you, a warning to go easy.

Not many people snap at you. She has spunk, you’ll give her that.

“Imagine Sarah in that chair where David was,” you say to your son, and he goes so faint he’s almost gone.

“I don’t think this is helpful, Maggie,” Twitch says.

Mave. Justice. Kota. Hank. Neeka. Hank’s nephews, the fuckboy brothers, Pat and Sponge. Eliza, that little lighthouse of power.

Jared turns around as you think about all this and you feel his concern.

“You didn’t mean to make them targets, but they are,” you say.

“It’s not his fault,” Twitch says. And stop calling me Twitch.

Twitchy witch, I am going to teach you everything I know, once you learn basic weaponry.

Jared does not like that. Does not want Sarah in any deeper.

Twitch is trying to smother the hope and excitement surging through her.

Shit or get off the pot, you tell your son. She’s already in up to her neck. If you, precious sonny boy, aren’t going to fight for Twitch’s life, then I’m going to arm her so she can do some damage.

“No,” Jared croaks, voice raspy as he tries to rise out of bed. That got him back in his body.

“It’s not your call, sonny boy. You don’t own Twitch.”

“I would really appreciate it,” Twitch says, “if you stopped calling me that name. It’s denigrating.”

“Oh, Twitch knows all the fancy ways to say fuck right off, bitch,” you say. “But Twitch’s gonna take it, ’cause she wants to tap her juice so bad I can feel her thirst like a horndog seeing his first hooker.”

“Mother,” Jared says.

“Welcome back,” you say.

11

DAY DRINKING WITH MAGGIE AND JARED

Sarah had had enough of Pistols 101 with Richie and began posing like a Bond girl, singing the theme song as she hopped on and off furniture.

“Da da, da daaaaaaa,” Sarah sang, spinning around to aim at Jared.

“Don’t fucking point at people unless you want them dead!” Richie barked.

Sarah said, “See? No bullets.”

“I can’t work like this,” Richie said.

Maggie tossed him a bottle of Kokanee. He twisted off the top, glaring at Sarah, who tried to somersault off the bed and ended up whacking the wall.

Jared could hear all the TVs on in all the rooms around them. Cheap walls in a cheap motel.

Maggie held a Kokanee out to him. The sweat rolled off the bottle, moist from sitting in the ice bucket, the welcoming, yeasty glory of beer. Sarah was laughing herself silly on the floor, too stoned to get up. Or maybe it was E. E is for everything that aches. They’d started their party while Jared was still getting used to being a part of his physical body again, and he’d zoned a bit. He took the bottle. Twisted off the cap. Didn’t think too hard, hardly thinking, just drinking. Day drinking with Mom.

(Phil’s dead.)

There is not enough booze in the world, he thought, halfway through the bottle.

“You’re going to have to stop playing footsie with Sophia,” his mom said. “She’s not your nana anymore, or your friend.”

“I know,” he said.

“No calling her, no texting her, no letters.”

“Do you know how they killed him?” Hoping she’d lie. Hoping she’d tell him a comforting lie. Tell him it wasn’t his fault.

She watched Richie take the pistol from Sarah and pull her up off the floor.

“He’s dead,” Maggie said, avoiding Jared’s eyes. “Let’s leave it at that.”

(The hiss of a hand hitting the deep fryer.)

Tears in my beers running down my face, making my nose snotty. It’s a song, right? Something like that, Jared thought as he relaxed. The immediate ease. Instant gratification, the curse of the modern age. Whatever. Whatever.

He was crying now and it didn’t mean anything. Just killed the mood and made everyone uncomfortable, stuck as they were in one heavily air-freshened motel room with two double beds and a TV. No one looked at him.

Stop crying, he told himself.

How long do Tricksters live? He didn’t know how he was going to live with the guilt to the end of the day, much less his life.

“You can’t bring Phil back,” his mom said. “All you can do is protect the people you have left.”

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt and there was no relief, and he wanted Phil back more than anything.

Pop.

The ghost of Philip Martin turned slowly around the room. He wore a crisp white shirt and black slacks, his hair in a tidy fade.

“Okay,” Phil said. “Pretty sure this isn’t heaven.”

His mom sighed. “Jesus fucking Christ, Jared.”

“I’m sorry!” Jared said, falling to his knees. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

Someone banged on the other side of the motel wall. “Keep it down, assholes!”

His dad came towards him. Jared couldn’t look him in the eye, then felt his dad’s fingers lightly touching his shoulder.

“It’s gonna be okay, kiddo,” Phil said.

Jared lost it. He reached out and didn’t expect to feel his dad’s legs. When he did, he wrapped his arms around them and he howled.

“Don’t leave me,” he said. Tried to say. Burbled into Phil’s pant leg.

—

“Maggie,” Phil said.

“Phil.”

“So,” Phil said. “You really are a witch.”

“Yup.”

“Not sure what to make of all this.”

Jared held his dad’s hand. It was cold. His own hands were numb, as if he’d slept on them all night. The numbness was creeping up his arms. He was curled up on the bed, his dad sitting at the edge the way he used to do when Jared was little. Richie and Sarah had exited the scene sometime during his crying jag. He drifted, afraid that his dad would be gone when he woke up.

“You can’t stay,” his mom said to her ex-husband’s ghost.

“I have no intention of lingering on the mortal coil,” Phil said.

“Good.”

“I can’t really leave, though. I can’t