American Rust

  “Alright,” he said to Dwayne. “I'm in.”

  Dwayne's face had no expression.

  “Whatever else, too. You want me to stab the guy, whatever. Sometimes it just takes me a while to think.”

  “I was the same way,” Dwayne said. “Took me a while to accept what was happening.”

  “You think Larry'll be good with me.”

  “He knows,” said Dwayne. “Don't think for a second he doesn't. We were all in the same spot as you when we came in. Especially bigmouth Clovis.” He walked over to the dirt by the fence and kicked his foot into it.

  There was something there and Poe picked it up, a sock full of D-cell batteries.

  “Separate it out,” said Dwayne. “Put the batteries in your pocket. When the detector goes off you show them what you have and they'll let you pass.”

  1. Isaac

  The cop hadn't pursued him and he could hear the sirens of a second and then a third car and he guessed they had caught the Baron. Back to the canal. Get the pack. Minute or two at most—he'll be trying to explain what he's doing with all that cash.

  He crossed a few residential streets without seeing anyone. It was quiet, early morning, the sun wasn't quite up. There's the park—the canal is in those trees. But where's that clearing? When he reached the treeline he hunkered down in the brush, trying to figure out where he was in relation to where he'd left his backpack. Sirens still coming. At least four cars now. Shouldn't have chased him in the open like that.

  You could have gotten him with the knife when you sat up but you grabbed his coat instead. That's stupid to think about. No, it was a choice. Don't pretend it wasn't. There was a car coming and he crouched lower in the brush, watching a police cruiser race up the road he'd just crossed, lights flashing. Closer than you thought. They do this for a living. Forget the pack.

  He didn't want to move. I'm well hidden, I can stay here until they leave. No, he thought, get up. Get further into those trees and get away from here. Stand up. Alright. I'm doing it. He stood up. Through the trees it was twenty yards to the canal and once he reached it, he began walking through the thin woods, away from the north end of the park, away from the road where he'd chased the Baron. Where did you leave the pack? Where is that clearing?

  On the other side of the canal was a broad public lawn, and up ahead, on his side, he could now see where the trees ended—a grassy common area behind a row of houses. The pack is behind you. Know where it is now. There were other sirens in the distance and the closest sirens had already stopped. How many cars is that, he thought. Six. Maybe seven. A man armed with a knife—that's you. You need to keep going, you don't have time for the pack.

  He felt a despair wash over him. Need to think a minute. No one can see me here. Alright, the pack is gone—accept that. Change the way you look, they saw a coat and black watch cap. Fine, he thought, it's progress. He stripped off his coat and hat and tossed them into the canal, along with the sheath for the knife. Better—brown sweater with a blue flannel shirt. Tuck in the shirt and pull the collar above the sweater. Schoolkid look. Christ it's even colder. Twenty- five degrees, maybe. Better that than arrested.

  He stood numbly for a few seconds, glancing at the houses up ahead and the blue lights flashing behind him at the edge of the park. Forget the pack, he told himself again. Best- case scenario is you get out of here without handcuffs. Get your head straight. Don't walk too fast.

  He crossed from the woods into the open area, fifty yards behind the row of single- family houses. Looking casual. Out for a stroll. Morning air clears the head. Hope no one's looking out a window. Christ you couldn't have done worse—big park on the other side. Half- mile visibility. Don't look nervous. Pray for late risers. He'll tell them you chased him with a knife, attempted murder. Who'll believe you? Shouldn't have brought it in the first place.

  You are stupid. He could feel tears welling up in him. You could have gotten away the first time you woke up, then you'd have the money and the notebooks and everything else. I was so tired, he thought. No, you were stupid. This is the second time. No more mistakes.

  On the other side there was a large public gazebo and two women jogging. Witnesses. Except the kid will make it. He refuses to do anything the easy way. Too far to see your face. More blue lights coming from the trailer park now—they're on your scent.

  He was near a large storage building, there were blue lights reflecting on the wall, he looked around behind him and on the other side of the park, a few hundred yards away, a cop car was driving slowly across the lawn, approaching the two joggers. Does he see you? No. Run or walk? Just keep going.

  He ducked behind the building and kept going along the canal but there were more houses on the other side, he could clearly see a man in his kitchen, standing at his counter drinking coffee in his boxer shorts. These early risers are going to fuck you. No he doesn't see you. Lost in his own worries.

  A few hundred yards later he crossed a train trestle over the canal, it was a broad railroad cut with half a dozen sets of tracks. Now you're south of the steelmill. You are going to be fine. Stick to the smaller streets and you'll be fine. See them before they see you.

  — — —

  He'd been walking maybe an hour when he came to a wide boulevard, there was a shopping mall ahead of him and heavy traffic, rush hour, it was an overcast day. Even worse than the Mon Valley. Middle of April and just like winter. Meanwhile here comes a bus. Crowd of people. That is your bus. Get across this street and you'll make it, where's your wallet?

  Jogging across the road, he arrived behind the idling bus and got in line with the others. A few people turned to look at him. No coat and the bruises on your face, up to no good, they can smell it. Shirt and sweater wrinkled and your pants filthy. Not to mention you're white. He made himself fixate on a stain on the curb and soon enough people stopped looking at him. In through the nose and out through the mouth. The Homicide Kid is headed south. The entire precinct after him, he gives them the slip. Day of the Jackal. Walks casually onto a bus.

  There were no seats left and he found a place in the middle and stood. Warm in here. Where do I get off? How much money do I have? He tried to think. Nine bucks after the bus fare. A few meals’ worth. Ride this till the end—put as much distance as possible. The bus went on forever, traffic was slow, he was drowsy. People got off and he found a seat. After a while he realized the bus hadn't moved for a long time. He opened his eyes and it was empty and the driver was looking at him in the big mirror. Isaac nodded and got off and looked around.

  How far did you come? Ten miles maybe. Different world here. It was very green and the houses were large with hedges or stone walls in front of their yards. He passed athletic fields, stone buildings, a school of some kind. A handful of boys, fourteen or sixteen years old and wearing blue blazers, were smoking between classes. He nodded to them and all but the oldest boy looked away. Prefer you didn't exist. That is their desire— stop making me uncomfortable.

  A block later he slowed to inspect himself in a car window. Surprise, you aren't any cleaner. Look like a street kid. Which you are.

  He kept his eye out for cops but nothing happened. Hungry again. Doesn't matter. He walked aimlessly, turning down streets at random, trying to guess the position of the sun in the overcast sky, always moving.

  — — —

  When night came he was on a large road, a state highway, it was near the end of the evening rush hour and there were no lights except for the cars, taillights and headlights, he could see all the people. Warm and happy. Picking their noses and singing to the radio. Don't see you. Cheap sweater you're wearing, wind cuts right through. He was numb with cold. If even one of them would switch with you … Inside and out, seems like a simple difference.

  This wind, he thought. Should have hung on to the coat and hat. Maybe I'm not really that cold, just hungry and tired. But you ate last night, that's enough calories. One day is nothing. Figure out your bearings. I am having trouble thinking. That
is my problem. Should have stopped to eat but didn't feel safe. This highway—ought to have boxes with food and blankets for people, like emergency call boxes. Flag one of these people down. Sir, I would like to rent your jacket. Or the backseat of your car—you've got the heater on anyway. Just until tomorrow. This is what it feels like to be crazy. Simple things don't make sense.

  Here by choice—you could have stopped him. When his hand was in your pocket you could have gotten him with the knife but instead you grabbed his coat. You'd still have the money and all your things, no loss to anyone. Fatal mistake, choose the hand over the knife. Nine dollars and no coat. Other guy's sleeping at the Hyatt. More money than he's seen in his life.

  Here is the truth: you are going to freeze to death. You've always been precocious, ahead of schedule on this as well, makes perfect sense. Universe wants equality. Let no man be warmer than the air. Let no man hoard his heat. Stole it from someone to begin with—no change in energy since the Big Bang. Temporary borrower. The heat of my expiring body will raise the temperature of the earth one- trillionth of one degree. Detectable with the finest instruments. Mildest way to go. They say drowning but that's impossible—choking on water—ask your mother. How long? You'll know when you start to feel warm. From warmth and back to it.

  He passed a strip mall but it was abandoned and empty. It would be out of the wind at least. No, keep moving. Lights up ahead. You're just hungry. Get some food and you'll see I'm right. Forty percent of calories transformed to waste heat. Fine, you talked me into it. I'll get some food and we'll see if you're right. Cold enough to snow but the air's too dry, small blessings. Won't matter. Plenty of lights up there, a mile, maybe. One foot forward. Judge your speed. Soon you'll have to make some decisions.

  2. Grace

  Billy had only been gone three days but everyone in town knew. At work they were polite but she heard them talking, Lynn Booth and Kyla Evans being the worst, though Grace's friend Jenna Herrin was no better, all three were from Buell and they'd all seen Billy play football. How hard he'd hit the other kids during the games—You could tell he liked it a little too much … You know if he'd just shot that guy or something, but… Busting someone's head in like that, it's like you'd have to put some thought into it… Grace kept her eyes down, trying not to listen, pushing the fabric through the machine, making very even stitches.

  In the Giant Eagle on the way back from work she'd run into Nessie Campbell, even fat old Nessie had pretended to be interested in frozen fish until Grace took her basket to the checkout, Nessie Campbell who'd chase you down in the street and sell you Amway products every chance she got.

  It was not any better at home. The day had been overcast and the house was cold. It would be fine, she would get under the covers. It was April 15 it should not be so cold. Taxes due, she thought. She hadn't finished them, started last week but then everything had happened. Still, how had she forgotten? She went to the table and opened the folder and began to look over the forms, but there was no chance. She couldn't think straight. Taxes were the least of her worries.

  Billy would be fine, he was a big man. He was a big man but that was not how she thought of him, she could see him compared to others that way but still, it was not how she saw him. Then for some reason she was thinking about her father, she hadn't spoken to him in eighteen years, he still called every Christmas and Easter. He'd left her mother twenty years ago. Her mother did not have a flexible personality, hadn't been able to bear what was happening to the Valley, her daughter and son- in- law living in the basement apartment, no one was making any money, the town seemed to change overnight, cars were getting broken into, empty houses with their lawns grown up into brush.

  It had changed her, she was constantly riding everyone, it had gone on until 1987 and then her father announced to everyone at dinner that he was leaving, that he needed a break from things. At first Grace hadn't blamed him and then she had, and then had forgiven him, and then she blamed him again. But in a way it had been a brave act. His children were all grown up, he'd left her mother plenty of money. She couldn't imagine anyone being happy with her mother. Her father had moved to East Texas and she had not returned his calls. He still called at Christmas and Easter but she wouldn't pick up. She felt all of that like a weight around her neck now. Most of her good memories involved her father, and all he had done was rescue himself. But he'd thrown a wrench into Grace's life, because the burden of looking after her mother's sanity had shifted onto her. That was the real reason she hadn't returned his phone calls, probably. Selfishness, she thought. Now that you need people, too, you can see that.

  There was Bud. She reminded herself of that, don't get your hopes up yet, but it seemed to be going somewhere. She would not be alone, she had someone to love her, someone she could love. The high she had felt last night and this morning, waking up to him and making love again, had faded, there was only this worry about Billy.

  She had a brother she could call, Roy he was a good man in his way, done a stint in Albion—and then she hadn't wanted him coming around, he was a likable guy same as Virgil and she was worried about Billy, her whole life she'd been surrounded by them, men who were good in their way. They'd caught Roy coming in from the woods with a bale of marijuana plants, harvesttime, claimed he'd been doing someone a favor. For a while his phones had been tapped. Now he was living outside Houston, he claimed he was on the straight and narrow, driving for a freight company, had moved in with an older woman who helped him keep his head clear. Virgil had never liked her brother and her brother had never liked Virgil, they were the same person is why. Each thought the other wasn't good enough for her. But they were the same, one thing on the surface but underneath entirely different. All his money gone on booze and girls and then—light bulb, Virgil remembers he has a wife who has a place he can live, a wife who would take care of him. At least she'd finally stood up to him. That, she could feel good about.

  She didn't want to be inside the house. She put on her coat and went and stood in the backyard, looking out over the rolling hills, the big barn in the distance, it was very green, cool and dry, it was not like summer, stifling and humid, it was still fresh. If Buddy Harris had a son, he would not be in jail right now. That is the one it should have been. Looked out for Billy more than Virgil ever did. Owed you nothing but still he helped you. She wondered if that was why she'd always taken him for granted. Virgil always had the eye for tail and women had the eye for him and it kept you scared, the fear of losing him owned you. For fifteen years. It was amazing how an idea could hold you like that, for that long.

  And now Billy is locked up and Virgil, well, who knew where he was. But Buddy Harris's son would not be in prison. One way or the other. They said Harris had killed people but she had always doubted it, she had been positive, really, that it wasn't true. Dopers, they said. It was just a rumor that Harris had let fly around for his own purposes, it made his job easier, but looking at him you knew it wasn't true, couldn't be. But what if it was? She wondered why she was thinking about these things. She wondered if it could be true that Harris had killed someone.

  She felt shaken and went back inside, sat in front of the TV She flipped through all the channels, nothing worth watching, she would have to get more channels, she would have to remind herself to do that. It didn't help—she couldn't stop thinking about it. At first it seemed possible and then she was sure of it. Something in Bud Harris could kill a person if he thought it was best. He'd been in Vietnam.

  You have to get out of this house, she thought. Harris had said he wouldn't come over tonight, that they should take it slow. She would have to be optimistic. It was just getting started, like Harris said. There was no way of knowing what would happen. And part of her was optimistic. Part of her thought it really was going to turn out fine. It was Friday night, a week now since Billy had come home half- frozen and all cut up. She would go to Rego's and have dinner. She called Ray and Rosalyn Parker but there was no answer, so she called Danny Welsh, who di
dn't answer either. She left messages for both—going to Rego's. She didn't know if she should be showing her face in public. But there was not much else to be done.

  When she got there, the place was busy but she spotted an empty stool at the end of the bar and made her way to it. There was a pause as she walked in, people taking note of her, extremely brief but she noticed it.

  Bessie Sheetz, the bartender, came over.

  “Beer and a shot, I bet.”

  “Just the shot,” said Grace.

  Bessie poured her drink.

  “How you holding up these days?”

  “I'm fine.”

  “You know you're among friends, don't you?” The woman slid the shot over and leaned on the bar. “I doubt you remember but I lost my son a ways back. You know I never stop thinking about him.”

  “How old was he?”

  “ Forty- six.”

  “Young.”

  “It was so quick. It might have been a year but it felt like bing bang boom. Of course he'd smoked since he was twelve years old, plus being in the war and all, that didn't help either.”

  “This one?”

  “No, the first one they had over there, in ’91.”

  “I'm sorry,” said Grace.

  “Wheel of life, that's what I tell myself.”

  “Ma'am, we're interested in some counter service as well,” called a man from the other end of the bar. He was joking. He winked at Grace.

  “You don't tip,” Bessie called back to him. “Wait till she gets to know you. She'll start tipping less, too.” “Yeah yeah, you spend five dollars in here. A dollar an hour.” “Don't let me keep you,” said Grace.