American Rust

  She wasn't ready to go upstairs and face her brother and decided she would sleep on the couch. Cheating had always seemed a male thing to do. She wondered why she'd slept with Poe. Maybe because she owed him, she'd made him some silent promise, the sort of promise you made with your body and she had broken it. Not so much by getting married as by not telling him. Or maybe she wanted this marriage to be over sooner rather than later, and was trying to speed up the process. No, that was not what she wanted but still, married at twenty- three, it was a little ridiculous. She had done it to show Simon she forgave him, it seemed as good a reason as any. Still there were days when he wouldn't get out of bed, barely acknowledged her existence. He was going through a hard time but maybe he had always been like that. He was going through a hard time but he'd grown up on an estate in Darien, Connecticut. He was a little bit spoiled.

  Also, she still loved Poe, in a hopeless sort of way, in a way she would never love anyone else because she knew it could never go anywhere— Poe was a boy from the Valley, Poe loved the Valley, Poe had not read a book since graduating from high school.

  She didn't feel sorry yet but that was probably still the endorphins. Or maybe not—Simon he'd cheated how many times, three girls she knew about and then how many others she didn't? She wondered if the statute of limitations had expired on those things. She wondered what she would do about Simon. He was already getting testy, she'd only been away two days but he wasn't doing well on his own, he'd gone to stay with his parents in Darien. From Darien it was only an hour train ride into New York, he had maybe fifty friends in the city but he didn't feel like leaving the house. It was depression but it was also a habit. It was his habit of acting helpless. To say he was a little spoiled—it was a gross understatement. If his supply of money were to somehow run out… he wouldn't make it. Maybe half of her Yale friends would make it. Most of them worked very hard, but none had any idea what it was to want something they wouldn't get. A specific lover, maybe. You're being defensive, she thought. This is better than you ever thought it could be. You are happier than anyone you know.

  She still had principles—there was no longer any real reason to go to law school but she was still going. Simon was trying to talk her out of it, he wanted to do some extended traveling—there was a family house in Provence that was barely used. Only it was too cliché, blue- collar girl marries into rich family, benefits accrue. When she thought about that it made her sick. She would not take their money. Except they're happy to have you, you'll be the most well- adjusted person in their family—a scary thought. Obviously they had more money than she could reasonably expect to make in her entire life, even if she got a job at a Big Firm, which she would not do, she'd end up doing something for humanity, work for the Department of Justice or something, civil rights law. That is what everyone tells herself, she thought: I'm going to Harvard Law so I can be a public defender. Was it Harvard? She had gotten into Stanford and Columbia as well, all she had to do was pick. Actually she knew. Harvard, obviously. She couldn't help smiling. Christ you're a snobby bitch. That was alright. As long as you don't let anyone know. You just tell them you're going to school in Boston, and then if they ask further … but under no circumstances offer the information otherwise. It just sounded too snotty—Harvard. It was the same as Yale but worse. What about your brother, she thought. What is your brother going to do?

  She wondered if she and Poe had been loud, she wondered if Isaac was a virgin and he'd heard her having sex with Poe. It would be horrible. She was not sure how much she knew him anymore. Part of her worried he was headed for serious trouble. She couldn't sleep. She opened her eyes and sat up.

  She made a mental inventory of all that was wrong with the house— roof, paint and plaster on the inside, the trim around the windows was rotted, the bricks needed repointing—those were just the things her father had told her. It was a gorgeous house but it would likely cost more to fix those things than they'd get out of selling the place as is.

  Because that was what was going to happen. Isaac was not going to stay here any longer, and she was not coming back, and Henry would have to accept that. He was willing to sacrifice Isaac, but she was not. Except you did, she thought. You let this go on way too long.

  She wondered what they'd get for the house. In Boston or Greenwich it would sell for two million, but in the southern Mon Valley it might go for forty thousand. The neighbor's house had been empty twelve years, even the For Sale sign had faded and rotted away. The state had built a brand- new highway running north to Pittsburgh but there were never any cars on it, it was hard to imagine that in any other place, an enormous highway that no one used, the central artery, empty. Driving around New York or Philadelphia, the entire I-95 corridor, you wouldn't believe a place like this existed, and only a few hours away.

  To help her get to sleep she decided to read in front of a fire. She opened the flue and piled some logs on the grate and put newspaper under them and lit the paper but after the paper burned out the logs were just smoldering, no real heat or flame. The smell of smoke filled the house and she opened the windows so the smoke detectors wouldn't go off. She was an idiot, really, how she'd managed to grow up in a town like this and still be such a girl. She did not know how to start a fire, shoot a gun, anything like that, she'd never had any interest though she'd grown up in Pennsyltucky for Christ's sake, it was embarrassing. Maybe before she left she would ask her father to do that, teach her how to shoot one of his handguns, tin cans in the backyard or something. That was something he'd be happy to do.

  Looking through the books she'd brought, she picked up Ulysses, but couldn't figure out where she'd stopped. She wondered if it was really such a great book if you could never remember what you'd just read. She liked Bloom but Stephen Dedalus bored the crap out of her. And Molly, she'd skipped ahead to read that part. Racy for then, pages and pages of masturbating. At least she would not have to do that tonight. That was a relief. It had gotten to be a chore, really. Here she was, a young hot piece of ass and no one to give her what for, only her own hand to depend on. She shouldn't be so hard on Simon, really. It was only because she worried about him. He had hurt that girl, it had not even been his car, it was John Bolton's car, it was John Bolton that should have been driving. John Bolton had been nearly sober but he liked to encourage Simon, the bad part of Simon. John Bolton was one friend she wished Simon didn't have. Actually, there were several others. Anyway there was the black ice on the road. That was what the investigators had determined. There was no point in even thinking about it. She had forgiven him. You did not forgive people and then change your mind later. Simon hadn't forgiven himself and that seemed like enough punishment. She wanted them to have a normal life again, it didn't have to be crazy googly eyes or anything, just back to the way it was. Except there was Poe who is so warm you want to wrap yourself around him, you see him and you cannot stop touching him. You would not be happy with Poe, she reminded herself. Poe who gets in bar fights. Poe will never leave the Valley no matter how all the blood rushes down there and everything so sensitive and wanting pressure even thinking about it now she closed her legs together very hard Poe Poe Poe she squeezed her legs harder she thought about his flat stomach and the muscles on his chest she listened her father was still asleep she slipped her hand under her skirt, no she thought, there's no need for that. She took her hand back.

  She picked up Ulysses. Hands are for turning pages, she decided. Leopold Bloom was having lunch. She wanted to fall asleep. She wondered if she had any Henry James. Except right there on the side table was her old copy of Being and Nothingness. Sartre—that was an equally good choice, good as Ambien. What should she pick? It was a very tough decision her life was full of them. She decided to stick with Joyce, she would get as far as she could. After a few more pages she was dozing happily.

  9. Isaac

  There was a noise and he woke up; he hoped it was morning but there was just the blue black of night, bright stars. The TV is on, he thought,
but it was not the TV It was from the porch. Poe and Lee talking. You know why. After a time he heard Poe say he loved her and she repeated it back to him and then it got quiet, he could feel the skin on his neck tingle like he was drunk. It's all of them, he thought. Lying right to your face.

  They were on the porch, where his father had hung his workclothes so as not to get the dust in the house. He remembered grabbing his father's legs but his father, wearing dirty long johns, pushing him away until he dressed. Is that a real memory, he wondered. Or just something you think might have happened.

  He listened a while longer, heard his sister suddenly whimper. All of them, their human condition. Even your own mother waded out to sink. Pocketful of rocks. Final eyeblink, saw her whole life in it. Wonder did it make her feel good or bad.

  He needed something to rinse his throat. Keep this up, he thought. Keep this up and it's back to the river in no time. He got up and stood near the open window in the cold breeze his head was swimming, he had a feeling his room was enormous, looking around in the dark it seemed the walls stretched on forever like a fever dream, he remembered his mother holding iced towels to his neck. Taught fourth and fifth grade because she couldn't handle the older ones. Old man tells everyone she was pushed. Coverup, he says, uninvestigated murder. Can't go to heaven if you kill yourself.

  Even her—she lived only for herself. Got tired and checked out. Easy to be generous when it doesn't matter but when the hard decisions come you see what they all choose. It doesn't matter doing right when it's easy. Her, Poe, Lee, the old man. As if they're the only ones alive on earth. Meanwhile you're always expecting different. It is your own fault expecting things.

  You are the one who let her go—watched her walking down the driveway, last you saw of her. Maybe the last anyone saw of her. Maybe she saw someone along the way. Wish she did and wish she didn't. That was the happiest you'd seen her in a while. Went up to your room and then saw her walking. Seemed out of place but didn't know what. A nice day, she was going for a walk. Back to your reading. Time magazine. I was reading Time magazine when my mother died. If I had chased her down, he thought. Why would you have—there was no reason. Nice day for a walk. What no one knows about you. I didn't know, he thought. Alright alright alright. Put it out of your mind.

  He stood in the dark listening. The voices started again, giggling, then the porch door opened and closed. He watched them walk out into the driveway holding hands, kissing their good- byes. Maybe you only care because they're happy, he thought. But he didn't think that was true. Poe was walking alone across the dark lawn, down the hill toward the road, Isaac watched him and the strange way he had of bouncing on his toes. Poe turned again and waved to Lee. That's all, you're being petty. Angry because they are happy. Then he thought no, it has nothing to do with that. It's because of what they have inside. But somehow you've turned out worst of all of them.

  He reached for the light but it was too late, there was a loose fluttery feeling in his chest, his heart was beating faster than it ever had and his legs went loose and he sat down. There was a warm feeling like he was pissing himself. Faulty wiring. He took deep breaths but it was beating too fast, fluttering too fast to pump blood. Like the kid who died at soccer. Didn't confess. Please God, he thought. He sat against the wall and he couldn't get enough air and he was distantly aware of being cold again and wet everywhere. He tried to call out for his sister but he couldn't and then the feeling began to pass. He felt embarrassed.

  You need to get out of here, he felt more than thought. On shaky legs he got himself up and turned on the light, examined himself, his thin naked body, there was almost no substance to it. He was still shaking and wanted to sit back down but he made himself stand until his legs felt strong again. He was clammy with sweat but that was all. Get up and get moving. Get. Out. Of here. He wiped himself off with a shirt and grimaced. Look at you—when it comes down to it you think Lord God come and save me. Confession get my pardons. Christ, he thought. He felt embarrassed though of course there was no one to be embarrassed in front of. Go on and pay a visit to St. James. Dear old Father Anthony, moral guide and choirboy fondler. Ten Hail Marys and a blowjob. Jerry what's- his- name, the kid from Lee's year, had a breakdown. Meanwhile half the town still goes—easier to believe that young Jerry was a liar. Diddle our sons but you can't shake our faith.

  He knew it wasn't true about his sister. She was not a bad person. Their mother dying, it had driven Lee away, she'd gone off to college right after. He didn't think she'd chosen another life, not exactly, but a different path had been offered and eventually she'd decided to take it. How can you blame her? You made one visit to New Haven and knew it was right for her. Probably right for you, too, but too late for that. No, he thought, that's just your pride.

  Most of what he needed was in the backpack he'd left by the machine shop. That was the first order of business. It was a crime scene but so what. He couldn't believe they'd been so stupid today, just walked through the field. It would have been easy to stake the place out and make sure no one was watching. Lessons of hindsight. You are not playing by the same rules as last week, even. No more stupid mistakes. He found a spare set of thermals and began dressing, his heavy cargo pants, a heavy flannel shirt, wool sweater. Get your fishing knife, you might need it.

  He bent the sheath loop backwards so it would sit inside his waistband and still clip to his belt. He looked at himself in the mirror, a knife in his belt, and felt ridiculous. Go down and talk to your sister. No, it's too late for that. It was stupid but there seemed to be no way around it. You're going to die alone, he thought. This isn't kid's stuff anymore.

  You didn't have to leave this way. Only now you do. Took the car the other day up to Charleroi and then you were on 70 West and you kept going, just to see what it felt like, nearly ran out of gas and got home after dark, he was waiting for you. Sitting on the porch, just waiting for you in the dark. Meanwhile you are twenty years old.

  I had an appointment with Terry Hart that I missed.

  Why didn't you ask him to pick you up?

  You know I don't like to do that.

  Alright, you told him. I'm sorry.

  It's my car, he told you. Don't borrow it again unless you tell me where you're going and when you'll be back.

  Knew he was pushing you—the car was your only freedom. But that is his way. Could have lent you the money to buy a car but didn't. When you got that job in the Carnegie Library—two hours each way on the bus—he got sick all of a sudden. Four visits to the doctor in a week. Wanted you home but wouldn't say it. That was his way of telling you. And you gave in. Some part of you was happy to give in. The same part of you that has kept you here waiting two years now.

  The air in his room suddenly felt thin and he had an urge to get outside as quickly as possible but he took a final look around and made himself think. There was the ceramic bank his mother had given him, he hadn't wanted to break it before, it was in the shape of a schoolhouse and it had been full for years but now he cracked it on the edge of the dresser, took the dollars and the quarters, counted it, thirty- two fifty, left the rest of the change on the bed. Rifling his desk for anything else he needed to bring, Social Security card, anything, but he'd packed so carefully the last time that there was nothing. Everything—the money, his journals, everything else—was in his surplus Alice pack sitting under that pile of scrap metal in the field. Unless someone found it. Unlikely, he decided. They had no reason to search the field, everything they needed was in that building. He glanced briefly at the picture of his mother over his desk but it didn't inspire any sort of feeling. It is because of her checking out that you lost Lee and now you've lost Poe as well. Or maybe that happened a long time ago. Either way it's better that you know it.

  He got his spare schoolbag and put a blanket and extra socks in it just in case. In case nothing. You need to get the other pack. After a final inventory he went softly down the stairs, found his sister asleep on the couch, her foot tucked in a
hole in the torn plaid cover. He watched her as he laced up his boots. Cheats on her husband, falls fast asleep. Miraculous conscience. Deleted at birth. These are just things you are saying to yourself, he thought.

  She opened her eyes, groggy, not sure who was there. He walked past her toward the door.

  “Isaac?” she said. “Where are you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “Wait a second, then.”

  “I heard you and Poe.”

  She looked confused and then she was more awake, she looked again at his backpack, his coat and hat and hiking boots. She untangled herself and stood up quickly. “Hold on,” she said. “It isn't how it sounded. It isn't anything. It's an old thing but now it's over.”

  “You told him you loved him, Lee.”

  “Isaac.”

  “I believe you. I know that somehow in your mind, both of those things can be true.”

  “Just hear me out.”

  She took another step toward him and bumped a pile of ancient books, which fell heavily to the floor, startling her. For a second he seemed to see her clearly, her hair disheveled, hollows under her eyes, the grand old living room now filled with junk, so different from the way their mother had kept things. The house literally falling apart around her. She didn't know how to handle any of it. The only thing she knew how to do was leave.

  “Soon we'll both be out of here,” she said. “We're really close.”

  “It doesn't matter anymore.”