American Rust

  “You finally get that ’Vette?”

  “Nah,” said Frank. “It's just a four- wheeler. But a 660 Yamaha, four-wheel drive, automatic, snowplow, winch, the works. Cart that hooks up behind it.”

  “Probably cost more than your truck,” Riley added.

  “There's skateboards that cost more than my truck,” said Harris. He nodded to Frank. “Company looking after you?”

  “Yep. Got us on this profit- sharing plan, stock's up a hundred percent. We just hired Benny Garnic's son, matter of fact.”

  “I thought he was a computer programmer.”

  “Shipped his job to India,” said Riley. “Kid goes to school so he wouldn't get laid off like his dad did, but then …”

  Harris shook his head.

  “It does make you feel better about things,” said Frank, “in a purely cynical way. Those kinds of people didn't have much sympathy for us twenty years ago, I can remember it was asshole after asshole going on TV and saying it was our faults not going to college.”

  “Benny Garnic's son probably doesn't feel better.”

  “I got him started at nineteen- sixty an hour,” said Frank. “He won't lose his house the way we all did.”

  The owner's wife reappeared with a tray of drinks. “These are from Fat Stan. On the house.” From the other side of the bar, Fat Stan waved and Harris waved back. Fat Stan's wife set a glass of beer and a shot of whiskey in front of each of them but only glanced briefly at Harris. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Sheriff.”

  “I'm just a policeman,” said Harris. “And I'm off the clock.”

  “Well, nice to meet you anyway.” She smiled but then walked away quickly.

  “Mista Sheriff,” said Riley “you're not going to use those handcuffs on me, are you? I been so bad …”

  Harris looked into his whiskey and tried to remember. Had he ever arrested her? It could have been a brother or something. Or her father, or her boyfriend, really, it could have been anything. Some people were just nervous around cops.

  “Careful if you drink that. Fat boy over there probably needs help collecting money.”

  “Or he's got a growroom in the basement.”

  Harris sipped the drink. “Least he knows I don't come cheap.”

  “Quality costs.”

  “Tell by his wife.”

  “Word is she came mail- order.”

  “No. Serious?” The woman was dark- haired but Harris hadn't noticed an accent. She might have been eastern European, but so was half the Valley.

  Riley burst out laughing.

  “She's from goddamn Uniontown,” Chester said, “she used to dance at that place he had over there.”

  “Speaking of,” said Riley, “how's your squeeze, Johnny Law?”

  “Which one?”

  “Grace Poe. Or just plain Grace, if that's now how she goes.”

  “No idea,” said Harris. “That fizzled out a long time ago.”

  The table was quiet for a few seconds and all four men looked in different directions.

  Chester turned his glass in his hands. “Well, you know we all sympathize with what happened to her son.”

  “Get your waders on. It's about to rain horseshit.”

  “Be serious a minute, Riley,” said Frank.

  “I am being serious. If we brought all those boys back from the sandbox, gave them blue uniforms and let them keep their M16's, pretty soon we'd have a crime- free society. Stop wasting money on Arabs and put it to work right here.”

  “What are you talking about,” said Chester.

  “We could walk three blocks in any direction and score whatever we wanted. That's what I'm talking about. No offense to Johnny Law, he'd need about three hundred guys to get this place under control. So you can't expect kids to grow up here and not do dumb- ass shit.”

  “We aren't quite there yet. It isn't quite anarchy yet, is it, Bud?” said Chester.

  “No,” said Harris. “Far from.”

  “Well, there's a lot of loose talk about what it would mean if a person was literally allowed to get away with murder.”

  “I have no idea about that.” But he was thinking about the jacket.

  “The rumor mill is in high gear right now, is what Chester's getting at.”

  “I don't give a fuck, Bud,” said Riley “Just for the record.”

  “This could still be a good place. It's just that the laws have to be enforced and people are worried about that you know, crime stats get up too high, no one wants to move here, gets hard to attract business, et cetera.”

  “Chester,” said Riley, “that kid isn't even a goddamn blip on the kind of radar you're talking about. It was a goddamn derelict, even if he did do it and it wasn't self- defense or something. Probably the same piece of shit that stole the camper shell off my truck.”

  “I don't know about that,” said Chester.

  “Well you do know there was ten, fifteen smaller plants that closed around here just in the past year or so. I mean, you can't smell it from your place in Seven Springs, but it's still happening. Our time might have been the big bloodbath, but they're still shooting the survivors. There's gonna be fallout to it, just like there was in our time and hangin some kid out to dry doesn't do shit for anyone.”

  “Aside from all the HUD people,” said Chester, “this is still a good place to live.”

  “I need a drink,” said Riley.

  Harris pushed his untouched beer over.

  “Listen, Bud, we all know it seemed like the right thing to do when you got Billy a slap on the wrist last year.”

  “Only now,” said Frank, “from certain people's point of view, I'm not saying my own, but from certain people's viewpoint, Billy Poe should have been locked up and then this other thing wouldn't have happened.”

  “None of us knows what happened there,” said Harris. “There's no one who knows.”

  “Well, we all hear he's not talking. Which might make him smart, but it doesn't make him innocent.”

  “I'm not involved.”

  Riley was halfway through Harris's beer. Fat Stan and his wife were both watching from the bar. Harris wondered how much they could hear.

  “There's people out there who want you to be involved,” said Chester. “It would make them happier than pigs in shit if they were to hear you're still messing around in Billy Poe's business.”

  “That's right.”

  “There are people who think that boy is a bad seed, and that the reason he was on the loose is you.”

  Harris shifted in his chair. He could feel that his ears were warm. Well, he thought, what did you expect. Better to know it.

  “Keep your sails trimmed,” said Chester, “that's all we're saying.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Riley. He glanced at Harris. “What I hear, they're looking to hang you on the cross along with Cunko.” He tossed down the rest of the beer. “Think of it as a reward for a lifetime of service.”

  “Who is it?” said Harris. Then he said: “Actually you guys don't have to answer that.”

  “It's a lot of people, Bud.”

  Riley smirked. “It ain't that many. It's Howard Peele of Peele Supply and Tony DiPietro. And Joey Roskins along with them. Basically your whole cocaine- snorting, wife- swapping chamber of commerce.”

  Chester gave Riley a look.

  “Fuck those people,” said Riley.

  “It's not just them.”

  “Buddy,” said Riley. He leaned in close to Harris. “I know for a fact that Howie Peele gets his nose powder dropped off once a week by a guy from Clairton. You get in a jam, you got that in your back pocket.”

  Chester's face had become very stiff and Harris was feeling worse and worse. He'd let Howie Peele off for a DUI a year ago, made him call his wife for a ride home. Wrong message, he thought. It had seemed like a mistake at the time, but he hadn't known why. No, he thought, that's the wrong way to think about things. He wondered if he should talk to Glen Patacki again. He needed to get somewhere he co
uld think about this.

  Riley interrupted: “I can see you too, Chester. I ain't afraid of that prick and I don't care who you tell.”

  “Settle down,” said Harris.

  “A murder is a serious thing,” Frank said quietly. “No one would deny that.”

  “That depends,” said Riley, coming back to the conversation.

  “People are worried it might be time for new blood.”

  “Well,” said Harris. “They're probably right.”

  5. Isaac

  Ahead of him were the lights and signs of a Wal- Mart. He was walking very slowly; it took forever just to cross the parking lot and when he got inside he stood in the doorway in the blast of hot air until the greeter motioned him forward. Salvation Army type—looking you over. Probably call security.

  Bright in here, he thought. I just want to sleep. Find a quiet corner. No, eat first. Do not leave without eating. Taco Bell right there and a Pizza Hut, you can spend two dollars. He made his way to the line for the Taco Bell and looked at the menu overhead. What has the most calories? Two bean burritos and a taco. Balanced meal. The body a temple.

  After his food came he took a glass of water and sat slowly eating. Almost too tired to eat. Give it a few minutes. No, your head is clearing already—coming up from under water. Blood sugar rising. Close the eyes, just a minute.

  “Young man? Young man?”

  He opened his eyes. An old lady at the next table was looking to him. “You fell asleep,” she said.

  He nodded. Alright wake up. Look at her—satisfied—acting like she saved you from something. Find another place to rest. No that is not a real option; the store will close eventually, you'll be right back where you started. I could find a shelter, he thought. Except that is the first place they'll come looking for you. A vagrant felon. Anyone else would have skipped town. Except I don't have a coat and I don't know where I am, he thought. He looked out over the store. Fine. Fine, I'll do it.

  There was music playing in the store, easy listening, as he pushed his shopping cart down the aisle. The other customers stared intently at their merchandise until he passed. Embarrassed to look at you. Who wouldn't be? Except the kid does not care. Possessed of a higher mission— self- improvement. Resource gathering. Like the original man— starts from scratch. A new society. Beginning in Men's Outerwear. All those coats. Never know how much you value a coat. Took months to make in the old days. Now you just go to a store. Don't be nervous, she's looking at you.

  An employee in a smock passed by, giving him a long look. Isaac de-toured around to the other side of the store, the pharmacy aisles, found a razor and a travel- sized soap and shaving cream. Perhaps some deodorant. Plan for the future. In another section of the store he picked up a handful of energy bars. Same ones Lee eats. Kid gives his highest endorsement. Don't take more than you can carry, though. Now sporting goods—wall full of hunting knives. Put one in the cart. Four inches. The kid knows the truth: man without a knife is not a man.

  Back in clothing he found a clean pair of pants, button- down shirt, socks, underwear, a pack of T-shirts. Fresh new smell. A few aisles away he took the thickest coat they sold, blanket- lined heavy canvas. Practically a sleeping bag, this coat. Get another fleece as well. The kid appreciates quality. Now a hat and maybe a second one. Sleep like a king in two hats. The kid, he is concerned with his future. A maker of preparations. Here comes a meddler.

  A different employee, a short thin woman in her late sixties, came over and asked if he wanted to try anything on.

  “No ma'am,” he said. “I know my sizes.” He smiled at her.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. She stood there. Thinks she sees through the kid. Suspects him of plans. Meanwhile he could be her grandson, but she doesn't care—her loyalty is to the company. Company over humanity. Head to the checkout. Act like you're buying.

  He waited at the cash register, listening to a man ahead of him talking on a cellphone. The store is busy, he thought, and the kid is small and unthreatening. He sends out vibrations—a hundred ten pounds of love. No reason for suspicion. Plenty else to look at.

  The queue was moving slowly and finally the employee watching him went and did something else. Isaac broke out of line and pushed his cart toward the dressing rooms. Hope they're unlocked. Get in quick. There's one.

  Piling all the loose items onto the coat, he carried everything into the small room, locked the door, then stripped off all his clothes. He began to put on the new pants. Hold on, change your underwear. Small dignities. He undressed fully and paused in front of the mirror—the sickly kid, his hair filthy, a week's scraggle on his face. Your standard refugee. Any skinnier and the wind will take him to Kansas.

  He dressed himself in the new clothes, then put his old clothes back on overtop of them. Look about the same. Maybe lumpier. Knife in your belt, soap and razor in your pants pocket, energy bars in your jacket. Ready for combat. Handsome Charlie. Hang the coat on your shoulder like you own it. The kid can be slowed but not stopped. Those above would prefer he froze—their money, his life. But they have not walked in his shoes and he holds no hard feelings. Truly a generous kid.

  He checked both ways as he left the dressing room, then walked quickly toward the exit, already beginning to sweat from the extra clothing. Beating them at their own game, he stares at the linoleum, not nervous. Long lines of people wasting money. Exit right. Thirty seconds. Uh- oh. Here's trouble. Time to put on the coat.

  “Sir,” a woman's voice was calling. “Sir you need to pay for that.”

  Don't turn around. Act like you don't hear. Get that coat on. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he approached the doors, keep walking, he thought, keep walking you are nearly there Sir, he heard, sir we need to speak to you, and then people were yelling and something came over the loudspeaker, all employees report for a code seventy- six.

  Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone running and then he started to run himself. The only thing between him and the door was the old man in his blue vest, the store greeter, they locked eyes, Isaac was running at him full speed and finally the man stepped out of his way.

  He stumbled against the doors and lost ground but then he was out into the parking lot, it was wide open, what is the shortest distance go right. They're behind you. Pull that cart to slow them. No, don't. He was running all-out toward the wooded area at the edge of the lot. Past idling cars, past people with shopping carts, he heard footsteps just behind him. He felt his muscles burning and he saw every step he would take. Reach the woods and you're safe. Just get to the woods. Something brushed against his coat, a person's hand, but he heard them stumble and fall behind. Still there's someone else.

  At the very edge of the parking lot he heard the footfalls slow and cease and he jumped the high curb without slowing, plunging into the grass and running downhill, you're going to fall, he thought, but he kept his footing. Then he was into the woods, safely into the darkness, still running.

  6. Henry English

  His daughter had gone to sleep and Henry was sitting in the wheelchair in his bedroom, trying to get the nerve to get into bed. It had been the den, a spare bedroom, maybe the nanny's or the maid's.

  There was a handrail at the head of the bed but still. Usually the boy gave him a boost. Now it was a gap he had to make, grab the rail with one arm and try to heave himself over, legs dragging along behind him. He'd made it the last five nights but only barely. If he fell, he'd spend the night on the floor. Freeze to death, probably. He had not wanted Lee to help him. Better to manage on his own. It would cost.

  He was worse off than he thought, the boy being gone forced him to admit that. Even if he made it onto the bed it would take him forty- five minutes to get undressed, planning his strategy and levering himself, move the first leg a few degrees, then the other leg, bend the knee so much, then the other knee, hope the first knee doesn't pop back while you're doing the second. He was weaker and stiffer, like having rigor mortis. I'll sleep in the chair, he thought. B
ut that was not a real option. He wouldn't be able to keep it from her much longer, the truth of his condition. He needed a bath, he hadn't had one since the boy left, he knew she could tell. The way she looked at him when she said good night, like kissing a baby. That was bad enough. Put you in a home. Isaac wouldn't, it had never crossed Isaac's mind, but his daughter was practical. Her heart ran a couple degrees colder.

  It is the boy distracting you. Gone six days. Bums must have got him. Then he thought: No, he's tougher than he looks. Not to mention your four thousand dollars in his pocket, slim motivation to come home. Christ, he thought. He felt the pressure come up inside him, he needed to hit something, he punched the arm of the chair, he punched the mattress, he squeezed his jaw as tight as he could make it, he would break his teeth. Then he caught a look at himself in the mirror, face twisted and red, a tantrum.

  Calm down. Read some. He rolled his chair to the other side of the room, under the lamp where he couldn't see the mirror. He picked up the TV Guide. It was his own fault, the mattress was too soft and he couldn't get a purchase, the bed was older than both his children. Wedding bed. He could feel the springs in his back as he slept but he would never get rid of it. It was Mary's last bed, it would be his too, there were times she still came to him in the night.

  Truth was he was close. He was stealing his days. An old pine, weak in the roots, its own weight pulls it over. Everything inside him was going on strike, kidneys, liver, and pancreas, they were yanking out parts of his guts, appendix, gall bladder, there was nothing he was allowed to eat. No alcohols or fats. No salts. Lee's lunch yesterday, all the cheese and dairy, he'd spent half the day on the throne. Shitting your guts out. She'd wanted to take him to the movies, but he'd had to pretend to be tired. Didn't tell her the real reason. Got her out of the house to make your movements in peace.

  You could go on forever if they ate you in small enough bites—he used to think that was beautiful, triumph of human spirit, wanting to go on no matter what. It was Shackleton going up mountains, a normal person could not endure it. Reason to hold the head up. The problem being it was only an outlook, a way of thinking that did not change reality. Reality being he was meat in a slow rot. A head hooked up to old meat, barely get your own pants off. Any other animal they'd put you down, lying in your own slops.