Rounded propane tanks in white trash backyards, tilted clotheslines of rusty pipe, plastic toys in sandy dirt, Dobermans behind chain-link fence. Liquor store, no name market, Texaco gas station. The familiar hues and shades of the surrounding country: dark against light as the irregular shadows of clouds drifted, shifting, across low desert mountains.
Mark nodded his thanks to the man who'd dropped him off in front of the post office, watching him drive away before turning to survey the town. It was depressingly familiar after all these years, changed hardly at all. Past the bridge that spanned the town's namesake, huge cottonwoods lined the street, shading the buildings below. There were several bicycles parked in front of the small brick library, cars in front of the bar. Two barefoot boys walked toward the trailer park pool, carrying towels. The only noises in the still air were the competing mechanical hums of swamp coolers and air conditioners, and the occasional cry of a high-circling hawk.
Down the road to his left was a new subdivision that had not made it--six identical homes on a dead-end cul de-sac surrounded by several acres of cleared desert-- but other than that, everything seemed to be the same.
He started walking, moving past the diner, the tack and feed store, and an empty lot filled with enormous spools of telephone cable, until he could look east toward the ranches.
Sure enough, their house still towered over everything on the plain, its black bulk intimidating even from here.
Kristen.
His gaze swept immediately toward the cemetery on the opposite side of town. Should he go there first? Or should he seek out the mortuary?
No. He wanted to go home before anything. Wanted to see for himself what, if anything, had happened at the house. He hefted his backpack, slipped his arms through the straps, and started off toward Ranch Road.
He passed the high school on his way, saw boys in green and gold football uniforms skirmishing on the field. Saturday morning practice. He remembered it well.
He'd joined nearly every school activity imaginable in order to get away from the house, and although he'd been a piss-poor athlete, he'd made it onto all of the varsity sports teams because there wouldn't have been enough alternate players otherwise.
He walked away from town down theungraded road toward the hulking behemoth that had been his home.
It had a powerful effect on him even after all this time, and though it was still several miles away, the dark structure was clearly visible in the flat desert, and he found himself slowing down, not walking so fast, not wanting to reach the house before he had time to mentally prepare himself.
He wished he still had The Power.
There was a roaring, rumbling, clattering sound behind him, and Mark turned to see an old red pickup truck bumping along the road, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake. The operator of the vehicle seemed to be driving erratically, swerving from left to right in order to avoid known potholes and sections of washboard, and Mark moved to the edge of the road, trying to stay out of the truck's way.
With a sliding, dirt-churning stop, the pickup braked to a halt next to him. He waved the swirling dust away from his face, coughing, and saw through brown cloud that the driver was rolling down the passenger window.
Mark moved forward, squinting.
The man was wearing a stained tank top. His lined face was red, his hair thin and greased, combed back.
Classic Arizona alky.
Was it someone he knew? Hard to tell. The desert aged people, the sun and the hard scrabble lifestyle combining to add years not yet lived to younger features and faces, but he thought there was something familiar about the man.
'Where you going?' the driver asked.
'The McKinney ranch.'
'Kristen's place? Ain't no one out there. She passed on a few days ago.'
'I know. I'm her brother.'
The alky squinted. 'Mark? Is that you?' He laughed, shook his head. 'Didn't recognize you, boy.'
He knew now who the man was. Dave Bradshaw's older brother, Roy.
'Hop on in. I'll give you a lift.'
Mark opened the dented door and climbed into the pickup, pushing his backpack onto the seat between them. He nodded to the driver. 'Thanks, Roy. Much obliged.'
'Never expected to see you here again. Heard you hit the road and were never comin' back.'
'Yeah, well ...'
Roy shifted into gear and the truck, lurched forward.
'It's a shame about Kristen. A damn shame.'
Mark swallowed, took a deep breath. 'Is there going to be a funeral?'
'Already over. Nearly everyone showed up. Kristen was quite a popular gal 'round these parts. Not like your parents.' He glanced over at Mark. 'No offense.'
'None taken.' They drove in silence for a few moments, Mark listening to the clatter and roll of the truck on the rough road. 'Who found her, Roy? Who . . .
discovered that she was dead?'
'Guy who delivered bottled water. She didn't answer the door, he had a hunch and dialed 911. Course, by the time they got out there she was gone.'
'Was it--'
'Heart attack. Don't usually happen that way to someone so young, but . . .' He trailed off, shook his head. 'It's a damn shame.' He reached over Mark's leg, popped open the glove compartment, pulled out a half finished bottle of rye. 'Like a little drink?'
Mark shook his head.
Roy drove for a few seconds with his knees as he expertly opened the bottle, taking the wheel again with his left hand as he used his right to tilt the bottle to his lips. 'Aaaah!' he sighed, grinning.
'Dave still in town?' Mark asked.
'Hell, no. Moved to Phoenix after Mom passed on.
It's just me and the old man now.'
'How're things going here?'
'They're going.'
What he really wanted to ask about was Kristen, her funeral, the details of her death, but some of his parents'
reticence must have rubbed off on him, because he didn't feel comfortable discussing personal matters, family matters, in public. Especially not with someone like Roy.
Ahead, through the dirty windshield, to the right, the bulk of the house was growing ever bigger, ever closer.
Giant.
Roy took another swig from his bottle. 'You know,'
he said. 'I never did like your house. Never understood why Kristen stayed after your parents passed on. She could've sold it, moved somewhere else, somewhere nice.'
Mark didn't understand either, not really, and a slight chill caressed his spine. He licked his lips. 'Is Mr. Billings still there?'
Roy frowned. 'Billings? Never heard of 'im.'
'Hired man? Used to work for my father? Had a retarded daughter?' He tried to jog Roy's memory, but the other man just kept shaking his head.
'Don't ring no bell.'
That wasn't entirely surprising. As Roy said, his parents hadn't exactly socialized with their neighbors, and it had been a long time ago. Maybe his father had eventually fired Billings. Or laid him off. Or Billings had simply moved on.
