grass. We were both steaming and smoking in the night air. In between coughing fits that produced bitter black phlegm, I could hear sirens approaching in the distance. Since the nearest fire station was in town proper, I figured my neighbors must have called them at least fifteen minutes ago.
The steel toolbox that had started life a glossy gray was now a brownish sandpapery gray, thanks to the patina of rust covering it. It was over two feet long and probably weighed twenty pounds empty. I had long since taken out the metal tray of tools inside of it, so now it contained only a few old cigar boxes and a long bundle wrapped in cloth.
“What the hell is wrong with you, running into the fire like that? Are you crazy? You ran
“If that was supposed to be first aid, you’re doing it wrong.” I took out a wooden cigar box with a picture of a matronly Cuban woman smoking a fat cheroot on the top. As soon as I picked it up, I could tell it was empty. I handed it to Anne. She opened the lid and then tossed it back to me. “You risked your life for an empty cigar box. Great. Good job.”
“Yesterday it had a piece of metal in it, just like Patrick’s.”
“You think those men came here to get it, exactly like at the nursing home, don’t you?”
“Except for the arson, yeah.” I took the box back and ran my fingers across the gently bumpy surface of the bottom and sides, as if to check the validity of what my eyes were telling me. The box stayed empty. The things that did this know who I am, and they wanted to hurt me. And they did. But I’ll bet you my last dollar that none of them stuck around after setting that fire. Like I said, they know who I am.
We sat on the lawn as gleaming county vehicles began to surround the house, reflecting the blaze in their chrome and glass. The inevitable flashing lights added hints of blue and actinic white to the mix. It didn’t take long to be surrounded by a swarm of determined and polite people going about their tasks in a controlled frenzy for the second time in one night.
After a quick checkout from the EMTs, we ended up sitting on a rough wool blanket well back from the house, supplied with bottles of water and instructions not to go anywhere.
After sixty years of silence, things were once again in motion. Everything in my sight was transformed. Flames from the inferno reflected off of the black glass surface of the lake behind the house, making it look like a hole full of fire.
The trees and grass had a macabre aspect in the blood red light. Even the hazy night sky bled and pulsed. Who could have guessed that the end of the world would start with a nursing home murder and a house fire?
I pulled myself to my feet and picked up the box. “Come on, I want to get this into your trunk before we become the center of attention.”
She wrinkled her nose. “Why are we keeping that? It smells awful, and they already got the thing out of it.”
“I guess because as of now this box is everything I own in the world, so I’m keeping it.”
“I’m sorry, Abe. Of course.”
The box went into the trunk. By dawn the fire was out, leaving the house a soggy, charred skeleton. Statements had been given, and paperwork had been filled out. Anne was sitting on the ground, leaning against her car and dozing while the swarm of vehicles drifted away in the pale morning light like bees returning to the hive. The dew in the grass shone like tiny diamonds, uncaring. I shook Anne gently and her eyes blinked open.
“Hey, we can go now.”
She yawned and stretched. “‘kay.”
“I’m pretty beat. Would you mind driving me up to the motel in town? I might be homeless, but I still have my wallet.”
“Sure, Abe. Not a problem.” She took a deep breath and rubbed her eyes. There were circles under them, and it wasn’t all because of a sleepless night. Neither one of us had been granted the time to feel the full weight of Patrick’s death, but it bore down on us nonetheless.
She followed my directions in a tired but companionable silence all the way to the shabby splendor of the Sweet Pastures Inn. Built in the fifties, it had served America’s glory days of highway travel, when the summer months were filled with family sedans packed with kids and luggage on their way to see the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls and stopping at motels and roadside attractions along the way. It was far past its prime, but still managed to be clean and to mostly avoid the “hourly rental” crowd that seemed to claim so many older motels.
We pulled up into one of the many vacant spaces in front of the lobby. White painted wooden railings ran along the front of the single-story building in an attempt to give the narrow walkway in front of the battered doors a homey, porch-like feel. It might have worked if not for the crude epithets scratched into the dingy white paint along the rough-cut two-by-fours.
“Thanks for the ride,” I said, as we rolled to a stop. She didn’t reply. “Listen, I want to come to Patrick’s funeral. I don’t have a phone number or even an address now. But there’s a number I can give you for a friend of mine. Will you call me and let me know when to come?”
“Is this friend another one of your war buddies?” She was looking straight ahead out of the windshield as she spoke.
“Yes. I’m going to visit Henry Monroe, maybe stay with him for a while until I figure out what to do about my farm.” There was no sense in rebuilding as far as I could see, but it also didn’t feel right to leave it the way it was. I needed to think about it. Afterwards.
“Henry. That’s the Professor, right?” I nodded. “My grandfather kept a picture of you guys in the living room, and he used to tell me stories the whole time I was growing up. I must have heard about that time he ran you over with a jeep to keep you from getting shot by a sniper a hundred times.”
“We never did find his mystery sniper, if there was one.” I had to smile. Everybody had heard the crack of the rifle, but that didn’t stop us from riding Patty about it anyway. Shad spent an entire week diving out of the way every time Patty started a vehicle.
“Henry has one of those pieces of metal, doesn’t he?”
“He might, if he kept it all these years.”
“He has one of those goddamn pieces of metal, and he knows what’s going on just like you do. The both of you know all about these bait things or whatever, and you know why my grandfather was killed, don’t you? And you’re just going to sit there like an asshole and not tell me, is that it? So long, Anne! Thanks a lot for the ride!”
“Anne-”
“Hey, fuck you, okay? I’m not going to get a pat on the head and then drive home to be by myself in my apartment worried about smelling some smell that isn’t there, or if crazy men are going to kick my door down and stab me to death! I’m scared and I’m not …” She pressed her face into her hands. “I’m not going to be sent away to just hide in my apartment and not know what’s going on.”
I guess I’m kind of thick sometimes. It had honestly not occurred to me that she was involved with this beyond the death of her grandfather. What was happening, and what had to be done felt private, part of a time and place that should have been long forgotten, just like those of us that had been there.
The idea that she was part of it now didn’t sit well with me. Call it an offended sense that she was intruding on something personal, or even shame if you want, but I just wanted to get out of the car without another word. Part of it, too, was that she seemed so young and untouched by the world, that the last thing I wanted to do was destroy that innocence.
I looked at her, sitting defiant and scared with her hands clenched together in her lap, and I realized that she didn’t want to be involved any more than I wanted her to be. I could see in her face that this was really about getting away from it. She needed to know that it was over, and not lingering over her forever, always waiting for something unknown to jump out around the next corner.
How did I tell her that she was better off only knowing about the bags without exposing her to the fact that there was more to fear out there?
“I’m coming with you to see Henry. Besides, you don’t even have a car, your truck is trashed.”
“I can rent a car.”
