Dust (8 page)

"Who's there?" he said.

"It's Robert Steelgate, sir."

The reverend blinked again, recognition lighting up his face. "Robert. Hello. It's ... it's good to see you."

"Why is it all for nothing?" Robert asked. "Did you see something in the mirror?"

The reverend's upper lip trembled. "You be a good boy," he whispered. "Stay close to your parents now. Remember your brother. Keep close and God will watch you. He will."

Reverend Gibbs stumbled past Robert and limped down the boardwalk, his feet thumping on the wood.

"Sometimes faith breaks," a gentle voice said. "It's always a pity."

Robert started and whipped around to find Abram standing there, watching the reverend head up the hill toward the rectory.

"You've caught my interest," the man told him.

"What?" Robert looked for his parents. Everyone seemed frozen and silent, as if they had been turned to pillars of salt.

"You represent something. I don't know exactly what." Abram leaned closer. He smelled of lemons. "I do have a very important scientific question to ask you. It would help immensely if you answered truthfully. You do want to help, don't you?"

Robert was confused. What could Abram possibly want to hear? He nodded solemnly.

"Good." Abram's eyes became the only thing Robert could see. Flecks of gold swirled through the man's pupils. "Tell me what you saw in the mirror today."

Robert's limbs froze. Only his lips moved.

"Nothing," he said, "just darkness."

Abram narrowed his eyes; a line creased his forehead. "Nothing? But I know everyone sees something; it's only human. That mirror is the ultimate development in the science of mesmerism. To look at its reflection is to look at your own desires. Your needs. But some can see farther. Into other places. Are you sure you didn't see even a shadow, perhaps? A man on a battlefield? A message from beyond?"

Robert closed his eyes. His heart was racing, his throat dry. It would be bad if Abram knew what had appeared in the mirror. It would make him feel like a traitor somehow. I can't tell him, Robert thought. I can't. I can't.

He swallowed. "Rain," he answered, spitting out the word as though he were dislodging a stone from his throat. "I saw rain in my father's fields. Falling really soft."

Abram stared for an eternity. Robert met his eyes, trying to look as honest as possible. Finally Abram nodded. His gloved hand rested on Robert's shoulder with the weight of a crow.

"You're a very curious young man, aren't you? And I say
man
because you're not really a boy any more. You're getting too tall, growing too old."

Robert didn't think he was old or tall.

"I feel sorry for you. One morning you will get up and your dreams will stay in your pillow." His hand tightened. "What if I told you that some individuals are born without a soul and have to wander for thousands and thousands of years searching for a way to fill that void? They become pharaohs, forcing slaves to build pyramids, or rise from peasant to emperor and command vast conquering armies, or compel tribes in the jungle to worship them. And still they feel empty. What if I told you that? Would you believe me?"

Robert looked into Abram's pale face, his all-knowing eyes. It had to be true. Those eyes had seen battles and wars and stars dying in the heavens. Robert believed. He felt it in the center of his heart, but he sensed he should never admit it. Better to hide that knowledge, the same way he had hidden his John Carter books.

"No," Robert said, trying to sound confident. "What you're saying isn't true. People don't live that long."

Abram smiled and released his grip. "You're right," he said, "you're right."

The crowd came to life, moving and talking again. A farmer looked startled to see Abram standing right in front of him. Abram smiled, extended his arm, and shook hands, calling the man by name.

Robert watched Abram work his way through the people, shaking more hands, patting shoulders, jesting. He even kissed one lady's proffered fingers.

The sun had baked the wheat golden brown, turning the stalks hollow and hard. The heads swayed in the wind, moving in waves. Even though Robert lived thousands of miles from the nearest ocean, he was sure the field looked like one. The patches of brown dirt could be islands.

The harvest would be soon; his dad had told him as much. In fact, his father had been telling him a lot these days, talking nonstop as they worked on the tractor.

"So I dove into the swimming hole," he babbled, "dog-paddled around, and jumped out crawling with leeches—clinging to my underarms, my chest, even my privates. My mother grabbed the cigarette out of the hired man's mouth and burnt them little monsters off, one by one. Yee-ouch!"

Robert shivered. He'd once had a creek leech on his elbow and it had inspired a week of nightmares. "Did you have any blood left?"

"I was pale as milk. Speaking of blood, that reminds me ..." And he launched into another tale, about a hockey game where the puck had banked off the rink boards, hit a wooden post, and smacked into a politician's forehead. His father laughed his guts out about that one.

Still chuckling, he undid a cap on the engine, and peered in. "Oh, for crying out loud!" he exclaimed. "The tractor needs more oil. We're gonna have to head to town. I was planning on going later anyway, might as well go now. You want to come along?"

"Sure. I'll tell mom."

His dad waved away the suggestion. "Let's surprise her. Bring back a licorice stick. She loves those."

Within a few minutes they were in the Roadster. Robert watched out the window as the land rolled by. He'd worked really hard over the last week, fetching tools, helping with the chores, and mending fences. They'd spent hours repairing the grain wagon, tightening every screw and plugging every hole so the wheat wouldn't drain out.

His parents had been in an extraordinarily good mood the whole time. They'd kept talking about the fun they'd had at the theatre. Robert felt sick when he remembered his experience. He wasn't sure if he'd ever go inside that building again. When he thought about Uncle Edmund appearing in the mirror and pointing at Abram, he actually got a brassy blood taste in his mouth, as though he had cut his finger and sucked on it.

He looked at the horizon. It was so far away. Everything was small in the distance. Easy to lose things here, he thought.

"Will they ever find Matthew?" Robert asked.

His dad didn't answer. He just squinted down the road, grinning as if he were seeing that puck hit the politician again.

"Do you think they'll find Matthew?" Robert repeated, struggling to make his voice louder.

His father pinched his lips together, as though he'd tasted something sour. "What? Matthew?" He paused. "Yes. They will. Saw that sergeant in town the other day. He said they're still working on it. I told him to do the best he could. It'll be fine, Robert. Don't you worry. Just think about what's behind the candy counter in town. I'll get your mom a licorice stick, but what do you want? No, don't tell. Surprise me."

Robert wanted to ask more about Matthew, but his mouth was watering. A black jaw-breaker would be good right now. Or a lemony-tasting sugar candy. He shook his head. There was something wrong with his mind, the way he kept daydreaming about things he wanted: candy and firecrackers and vanilla milkwhips. Every moment was filled with daydreams. Too many of them.

His dad turned sharply down Horshoe's access road, tires skidding. He let out a laugh. "This darling sure steers well."

Robert was silent as they crossed the tracks. On the west side of town he saw the school. In a few weeks he'd be back inside that single room, writing in his scribbler or memorizing multiplication tables. School started on a Monday. He wished he could remember what day it was right now. He'd looked at the Cypress Oil Company calendar that morning. It had been a day of rest, he remembered.

"Shouldn't we be going to church?"

"Your mom has baking to do, son," his dad said, quickly. "She's making apple pies. Just think of that. I can't remember the last time we had apple pie with cinnamon. And a big piece of cheddar cheese on the side."

Robert pictured the apple pie, steam rising from the hole in the center of the pastry, the sugary apples cooked to perfection inside. He wiped his mouth. He had to stop dwelling on these things.

He thought about his mom. She would be at home now, in the kitchen, baking the pies. Or washing dishes and setting the plates upside down in the cupboard, so they wouldn't catch the dust. Upside-down dishes. The image stuck in his head. Everything was becoming upside down. His parents should be sad now, wishing for Matthew to come home. Instead, they talked only nonsense and laughed too loud.

There were several cars and trucks on Main Street and a few wagons. People streamed in and out of the hotel, the pool hall, and the grocery store. Robert wondered if it hadn't been a field day or a parade day and they'd missed it. His dad steered around three men jabbering away in the middle of the road and parked in front of the bank. A line of people stood there, waiting in front of a table on the boardwalk.

Robert's dad snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes,
that's
why I wanted to come to town today. I need to sign up for that deal. Come on, son."

He jumped out of the Roadster, Robert followed him, and they joined a row of about fifteen men. There were unshaven cowboys from the Speirs Ranch in the Cypress Hills, hired hands from the Big Farm, sandhill sheep herders, even some hobos with blanket rolls slung over their shoulders. The lineup ended at a table where the war widows were handing out lemonade and cookies. Standing beside them, shaking each person's hand, was Mr. Samuelson.

The closer Robert got to the front of the line, the more uneasy he became. He didn't like the raucous, tumbling laughter that rolled out of Samuelson every time he shook a hand. There was no sign of Abram.

When they reached the very front, Robert knew what was worrying him the most. He wanted to grab his father's arm and pull him away, because signing your name was like putting a piece of yourself down on paper. It was a promise. For all eternity.

His father, grinning, reached for the pen and dipped it in ink.

Don't, Dad, Robert thought. He even lifted his arm to stop him, but it was too late. His father had scratched out his signature and immediately shook Samuelson's hand, as though they'd been buddies all their lives.

"You're a good man, Steelgate," Samuelson said, "great to have you aboard."

Robert had heard his father curse Samuelson a thousand times. Now they were shaking hands. Samuelson muttered a joke so Robert couldn't hear it. Robert's dad burst into laughter, then he steered Robert over to the lemonade and cookies.

"Hi, Robbie," Mrs. Juskin said. "Looking forward to having you back in class. You're a good student."

Robert silently clutched the cookie in his right hand and nodded to her, because it was better not to say anything. His father had already finished his lemonade and cookie and was wiping his mouth. He led Robert back to the Roadster, saying, "Let's go get that candy."

"I don't want any." Robert couldn't believe what he'd just heard himself say.

His father laughed. "All the more for me and Mom," he said, striding jauntily to the pool hall.

Robert poured the lemonade onto the dusty road and dropped the cookie behind the Roadster's back wheel. He watched as the line in front of the bank grew even longer.

Sky was the first god. Robert knew there was only one God and he had a Son who was also God, but there were gods who had vanished: the gods of thunder, of fire, of the wide oceans, of the earth. The ones God was talking about when He commanded, "You shall have no gods before me. No false idols."

Robert stood in a sparse wheat field of Uncle Alden's. The sky was cradled by the Cypress Hills on one side, and ahead lay the flat prairie. Storm clouds had gathered like an army in the distance, bolts of lightning displaying their strength. He had never seen clouds like this, as black as the hide on an Angus bull. The air was hot and humid, waiting to be split asunder.

"I'll be damned if there isn't hail in them clouds," Uncle Alden said. He stood a few feet away from Robert, sweat on his brow. He had been working on the plow, trying to sharpen shovels worn from being dragged endlessly through the soil and banged into rocks. He looked down at his nephew. "Sorry for the swearing, pal. I've got the addled brains of a peacock, some days."

Robert shrugged. He had to admit to himself that he enjoyed hearing the swear words—they were real, weighty. Old and powerful. They grabbed your attention. Of course, there was Someone's attention you wouldn't want to attract. "God might zap you with lightning," Robert warned.

Uncle Alden laughed. "I'll lie low next time," he promised. "Or carry a lightning rod. Maybe sell the electricity. Could be a new line of work." He grinned, then shook his head. "Guess, I shouldn't laugh too hard on a day like this. That storm's gonna make ol' Reverend Gibbs's funeral a real mess. Looks like it's heading for Horshoe."

Robert was at his uncle's farm because his parents were attending the funeral. His mother had given him a choice: come to the service or go to Uncle Alden's. It was an easy decision. He didn't want to see a dead person in a casket or hear the weeping and gnashing of teeth he'd read about in the Bible.

And what if it all started him to weeping and gnashing about Matthew? He might never stop. He felt sad every morning when he got up and saw that Matthew's bed was empty, the sheets straight and neat. Once he'd awakened and thought they were mussed up, but that was a long time ago and had to have been part of a dream.

His mom didn't mind Robert coming out here so much now. She had forgiven and forgotten all her brother's sins. She was not as ... what was the word?
Judgmental.
She didn't sit in judgment as often as before.

"We'd better lock the chickens up," Uncle Alden said. He was thin as a straight line, striding toward the barn. Robert followed. They chased chickens into the coop, running half stooped, stretching their arms out near the ground as though they were pretending to be airplanes.