American rust (16 page)

I'm past all that, he thought, to the north it's just woods. The sun was bright, he could feel it on his skin, prickling like fingers running over him, he didn't want to let himself fall asleep, it felt so good. There were four men fishing on the opposite bank and there was something about them sitting there, even across the river, he dozed off. Fishers of men. He woke up in the shade, the sun had crossed over the river and was low over the western hills, the fishermen were gone. Second day you slept through. You could just get a bus ticket, he thought, sleep and be moving at the same time. Right—leave a trail saying just where you're headed. But in a railyard he would need to ask someone anyway, figure what lines ran south or west. It was better than buying a ticket. He checked his wallet and he still had twenty- two dollars, plus the nearly four thousand in the envelope in his cargo pants pocket.

Walking again, his legs had gotten stiff while he slept and he made slow progress. It was long after dark that he passed under the Mon City bridge, the train tracks ran through a long industrial zone with brightly lit warehouses and he walked the treeline, at the edge of the light, passing dozens of old shipping containers, a house sagging into the water, tractor trailers sitting with their tires flattened and their paint weathered away. Across the river were the towns of Mon City and New Eagle, brightly lit, he was happy to not be on that side of the river. Ahead of him was a long dark stretch through high forest, the polished railtops caught what little light there was from the stars, glowing faintly. As soon as he was in the darkness he felt safe again. A few owls hooted but otherwise it was silent except for his footsteps and the drumming of a passing towboat and its barges. He thought he should feel thirsty but for some reason he was not. He would have to get a container for water.

On the other side of the river an enormous plume of smoke and steam rose from the West Penn Power station, its stacks several hundred feet high and the steam plume bright against the night sky. Dark piles of coal next to it, they might have been minor pyramids, several dozen barges coming and going in the river next to the plant. A few miles later, again on the opposite side of the river, he passed the Elrama power plant, even larger, well lit by yellow sodium lights, the main stack maybe five hundred feet tall, the billow of steam blotting out an entire section of the sky, clean and white- looking. Except it's burning coal, he thought. It is definitely not clean. Shortly after that he passed through a dark mine complex with a railyard and big coal tipple, the ground was black with it, the coal crunched underfoot. There were endless railcars loaded with it sitting motionless on the tracks, empty barges tied to their landing cells. Later he came to a brightly lit industrial park and to avoid being seen he cut up the hill into the woods away from the river until he reached a dark road that ran parallel.

There was a small dark hamlet, a fire station, empty and closed for the night. A few houses with aboveground pools, a porch light here or there but otherwise it was pitch black. The road was quiet and he could make out the stars well. Farther along he came to a bonfire in a yard next to one of the houses, two dozen or so people, probably half the town, standing around drinking. Someone was about to jump into a swimming pool, he could see by how white they looked that they weren't wearing any clothes, though it was cold out. He kept his head down and tried to pass quickly but they noticed him.

“Hey,” someone shouted from near the fire. “Come on down and have a beer.”

He ignored them but they called out again. He waved and put his head down, hoping he would quickly be out of sight.

“Who the hell is that,” he heard someone shout to him. “Is that Brian Foote?”

Isaac waved again and kept walking.

Two blocks later at the edge of town he heard a bottle break in the street and turned to see a group of figures following him, silhouetted against the light. There were four of them. Instead of waiting to see what happened he began running immediately, holding his backpack tight against him, ignoring his ankle and the bruises in his thighs and the sharp pain in his ribs, he could hear people yelling things and his legs ached with each step and the pack slapped but he didn't slow down.

When the road curved he jumped off into the woods and waited in the pitch black to see if he'd been followed. No one came. Many explanations—they thought you were someone skipping out on their party. Or they wanted to give you a repeat of last night's treatment. Still… He relaxed. Chased by bandits the kid perseveres—this time without injury. Yet, knowing he is the most interesting part of their evening, he fears they'll come after him with a car. There was a drainage that led up the side of the valley away from the river and he followed it. The stream was rushing with a good amount of force and he had to spend a lot of time finding dry footing in the dark. It wound up between steep hills and he quickly lost all sense of direction, felt a sense of panic and then relaxed again. Figure it out in the morning. Be able to see when the sun comes up. Soon enough he came out into a large clearing where the grass had been recently mowed. No lights or houses in sight. It was very soft and he lay down at the edge of it under a few overhanging branches to catch the dew.

Tucked into his sleeping bag he closed his eyes and saw afterimages, of what he didn't know. It looked like people walking. He saw the road he'd walked on that morning and the people on it. He opened his eyes. His face was cool but the rest of him was warm. It was a cold clear night. He saw the Swede again, standing there by the stove, his face half in shadow now. This is normal, he thought. Lying in his sleeping bag he reached out to touch the soft grass again, it was cool and damp and soft. He watched the stars and tried to forget about the Swede.

Knew you shouldn't stay here this long. Knew something bad would come of it. Told yourself you were biding your time but you knew. I had nowhere to go. Neither did Lee—she made a place for herself. Mr. Painter offers to introduce you to his father, professor at Cornell. A pretty sure thing, he told you.

I was not ready to leave yet, he thought. Different for Lee—easy for people to like her. Her mother dies and she leaves the place, the scar erased. Tells you she only thinks about home
the way it used to be.
Never occurred to her that you did not have that luxury. Beginning of sophomore year, suddenly you're alone in the house with the old man. Meanwhile Lee had the whole family waiting on her. Our Daisy Flower. Quiet in the house if she was studying, a big deal over her report cards. Leave yours out for him but he never says a word.

If he were in your shoes he would have put you in a home. Asked him that once, what if I got hurt same as you. Wouldn't answer. Still you stayed. Because that is not how I am, even to people like him. No, he thought, that is not the only thing. You wanted his approval. Because you wanted him to admit he needed you. No, I stayed because it would have been wrong to leave him on his own. But still you left. After five years, he thought. That was not a rational decision. That was not a decision that made any sense.

He closed his eyes. I am doing fine for myself, he thought. Better than yesterday. Tomorrow will be better than today. It was dark and peaceful and after watching the stars for a minute he found the ones he knew and fell into a fitful sleep.

7. Grace

S
he called Harris four times that day from Steiner's shop, but each time got his voicemail. She was working faster than normal, forcing herself to concentrate; she could not let her mind wander. At one point, Steiner came by her bench, took note of her progress, and smiled at her. She nodded back grimly and put her head down. Billy had killed someone. It was obvious—the way he'd come home Friday, now Harris taking him in for questioning, holding him overnight. She had barely slept. Harris had decided he wouldn't take her calls. She could try him from the office line, he wouldn't recognize that number, but then someone might overhear. She would have to wait until she got home.

Sometime later she was aware of a touch at her shoulder—Steiner again.

“Closing time,” he said. “You look like you're in another world.” He seemed concerned but she couldn't bring herself to look at him. It was Steiner. You never knew. He'd slept with Barb and Lindsay Werner, she knew that much. But if somehow he could lend her money for a lawyer, save Billy—of course she would. Between her son and her dignity, it was no contest. It occurred to her suddenly that it was a luxury to not have to do those things.

“I'm alright,” she said. “Trying to get us caught up.” She smiled at him.

He smiled back at her and squeezed her shoulder and she got an uncomfortable feeling, disgusted with herself.

“See you tomorrow then,” she said.

Getting her things together, taking the freight elevator downstairs, walking up the hill to where she'd parked the car, she felt sick. It was not possible anyway that Billy had done that. And if he had—she would have to scrape herself together, keep her chin up. Once you lost your dignity, that was it. Dignity is life.

On the drive home her cellphone rang and it was Harris.

“I just let him go,” he said.

“This isn't about that thing from last year, is it?”

“Come on, Grace.”

“Will you come over?”

“I'm not sure that's a good idea.”

“We'll be alone.”

“Grace,” he said. “Grace Grace Grace.”

“I didn't mean it that way.”

“Okay,” he said.

She drove quickly, she wanted to take a shower before he got there. Maybe she did mean it that way. Except they couldn't—it would be a dirty thing now. She felt herself tear up and blinked her eyes to clear them. Come on, nothing is fair. Don't get in a wreck. Eyes on the prize.

    — — —

Twenty minutes later she was home, but no Billy. She undressed and tried to coax the shower into the position where it wasn't scalding and wasn't cold. Two years working at a hardware store, but Billy hadn't learned, or hadn't cared, to fix the faucet. Don't be mad at him now, she thought. But she was. She couldn't help it. Father's son, she thought. Your old mistakes setting up shop. Always knew it would be this way.

She soaped and rinsed quickly with no special attention. She appreciated her life, all the little things. Went out of her way to help others. That was all you were supposed to do—God was supposed to look after the rest. It had all seemed like it would work, Billy had been so close to leaving, so close to being away at college, a new life it would be hard to screw up too badly, but he had chosen to stay. Maybe that meant he had never been close at all. But still it had never made sense to her, he had loved the game, had a chance to keep playing it. Because he wouldn't have been the star, she thought. Because he knew he wouldn't be the big fish. It had to be more complicated than that. Football had given him a direction, something she'd never seen in him, it had made him question and push himself, but as soon as high school ended he was content to return to the way things had been since he was a child. Satisfied with things, satisfied with being taken care of. The same at twenty as he'd been at thirteen. Maybe she had always known.

Even as a toddler he'd been too brave, she could tell the difference between him and the other kids, by the time he was eleven or twelve she was sure of it, she'd come around the side of the house just in time to see him on his bike, barreling full speed down the hill in their yard, going faster and faster heading for the berm by the stream. At first she thought he was out of control but it quickly became clear he was doing it on purpose—the speed carried him up and over the berm and then high into the air over the stream, impossibly high, he let go of the bike midair and she closed her eyes. When she opened them, Billy was on his feet on the opposite side of the water, taking note of his torn shirt, collecting his bike and carefully straightening the handlebars. He crossed back over the stream, carrying the bike now, looking pleased with himself. Please God, she remembered thinking. Please God, look after my son. Meanwhile, Virgil didn't even want to take Billy's bike away. He wanted Billy to like him.

Now she managed to change into a skirt and put her hair up and get a little makeup on. A deep breath and she looked herself over carefully, deciding that with the fading light she looked more like herself. Had she really thought for a second about George Steiner? She took a deep breath. There was no point in giving up yet. Not on her son, anyway.

    — — —

When Harris pulled up next to the house she watched him, the way he jumped down from the tall truck, he was over fifty but he moved like a much younger man, the sight of him was comforting.

She went out to the porch.

“Hi,” she said.

She was hoping he might come up and kiss her but he made no move to. He stood at the bottom of the steps. He seemed preoccupied.

“I was hoping to save you some worry,” he said, “getting Billy before the DA got to him.”

“And …”

“It's not good news, Grace, though something tells me you already know it.”

“He came home the other night hurt pretty bad.”

He shook his head. “The other guy got it a lot worse.”

“The homeless man.” She knew it didn't matter if the man was homeless or not, but somehow it felt like it might.

He nodded, looked beyond the trailer at something far in the distance.

“I've always tried to protect him. You know that.”

“Well you can tell them I did it. They can take me instead.”

“Grace. Poor Grace.” He seemed to want to come up the stairs, but didn't.

She crossed her arms, she could feel herself choking up. “I'm serious,” she said.

He finally came up onto the porch; unsure how to comfort her, he stood there. After a short time he opened his arms to hug her but she pushed him in the chest, suddenly she was very angry at him, his awkwardness, she didn't know why but she was.

“I've always done what I can,” he repeated.

“What about Isaac English? He was there with Billy.”

“He's not a suspect and it's better for now if the DA doesn't know about him. I'm going over tomorrow to talk to him.”

“Is Billy being charged?”

“They don't have his name yet, but they will.”

She felt herself fading away from him, like she was receding inside herself, like she was a stranger looking out through her own eyes.

“Like I said—”

“This isn't about you,” she told him.

“Alright, Grace.”

It felt like a pressure building up, she knew she shouldn't say anything but she had to let it out: “Putting in a word with the judge, your fishing buddy, isn't exactly bending over backwards—”

Suddenly he was angry as well. “It was a lot more than a goddamn word. He could have gone up for six, eight years for what he did to that other boy.”

“That boy had a goddamn bayonet, Bud. Off an M16.”

“That boy was on his knees, Grace.”

She glared at him, still didn't know if she was angry or just wanted to seem angry, but he was done with her. He brushed past her and went down the steps and back to his pickup.

“Wait,” she called after him. “I'm sorry.”

He shook his head and got into the truck.

She ran down after him as he closed the door.

“I'm sorry, Bud. I've been going crazy about this all day.”

He seemed not to hear her. After a few seconds he said, “It confuses me sometimes, why I do things for you.”

“I'm sorry.”

“You really have no idea.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I don't mean to be hard to deal with.”

“You know six or seven years ago, right after you and Virgil broke up the umpteenth time, I caught him blowing through a stoplight with Billy in the passenger seat and two big spools of copper wire in the bed that he'd stolen off a job site. Not even under a tarp or anything, just sitting out in the open, four- hundred- pound spools of wire. This is back when they were putting in that industrial park up in Monessen.” He shook his head. “Didn't even bother to put a goddamn tarp over it. So you can imagine what kind of position that put me in.”

“Bud,” she said quietly.

“I'll bet Virgil never told you about that, did he? And of course in hindsight, it might have turned out better for Billy if I'd locked his daddy up right in front of him.”

“I know I made a mistake.”

“That was when I started making phone calls to try to find you something somewhere else.” He looked at her. “That job offer in Philadelphia. Put my neck out and gave you and Billy a chance and you threw it in my face.”

“That wasn't what I was doing.”

He was on the verge of saying something more and she stood there, bracing herself. Instead he started the truck. “Well,” he said. “That's probably enough for tonight.” She stepped up onto the running board and reached through the open window and put her arm over his.

“I didn't want it to go here,” she said. “This isn't why I wanted you to come over.”

“I know Virgil's back.” He seemed frozen in the seat, looking straight ahead out the windshield.

“He's out. He's gone, it didn't even last a day. It's over for good.”

Harris was quiet.

“I want us to go back to the way it was.”

“Not possible,” said Harris.

“We could just try being friends again.”

“Grace.”

“I know how it looks. I don't care.”

“You're definitely right about how it looks.”

“I'll call you.”

He shook his head and lifted her hand off his arm and she stepped off the running board. He turned his truck around and she watched as he disappeared slowly down the road.