Isaac stood up but Poe didn’t move. “This ain’t anyone’s spot,” Poe said.
“No,” said the man. “This one is ours.”
“Dunno if you’ve been outside recently,” said Poe, looking at the puddles the men were making on the floor, “but we ain’t moving.”
“We can go,” said Isaac. He was thinking about the money in his pocket and he looked away from the newcomers. He thought the big blond lumberjack one might say something more but he didn’t.
“Who gives a shit,” said another of the men. “Least they got the fire going.” He took off his pack. He was the smallest and also the oldest, somewhere in his forties, a week’s stubble, a thin nose that was very crooked, it had been broken and never reset. Isaac remembered that Poe had been messing around at practice once without his helmet, taken a hard hit that broke his nose, but he’d just grabbed it and straightened it himself, right there on the field.
The three men looked like they’d been on the road a long time. The older one wrung out his watch cap and set it near the fire and his wet pants clung to his thin legs. He told them his name was Murray and they could smell him.
“Do I know you?” he said to Poe.
“Probably not.”
“How would I know you?”
Poe shrugged.
“He used to play ball,” said Isaac. “He was tight end for the Buell Eagles.”
Poe gave Isaac a look.
The man noticed Poe’s football jacket draped near the stove. He said: “I remember that. I used to change oil at Jones Chevy and we’d watch the games after work. Thought you’d be outta here. College ball or somethin.”
“Nah,” Poe said.
“You were good,” Murray said. “That wasn’t that long ago.”
Poe didn’t say anything.
“It’s alright. Otto over there was Golden Gloves in his younger days. Coulda gone pro but—”
“I was in the army,” said Otto. He was the tall Swede. Most of the people in the Valley were ethnic in some way or other: Poles, Swedes, Serbs, Germans, Irish. Except for Isaac’s people, who were Scottish, and Poe’s, who had been here so long no one knew what they were.
“Otto is on leave from the VA.” Murray tapped his head.
“Fuckin Murray,” Otto said.
Isaac glanced over but Otto had gone quiet and was staring at the ground. As for the other man, he was dark and Hispanic- looking and a little smaller than Poe, he had a tattoo on his neck that said jesus in bubble letters. All three of the men were much larger than Isaac; the Swede, it now appeared, was close to seven feet.
“You’re lucky it was us come in,” said the Hispanic one. “They got some real lunatics around here.”
“Jesus,” said Murray. “Stop being such a fuckin Mexican.”
“Murray might want to shut his mouth,” said Jesus.
Otto, the Swede, added: “Pretty soon it’s a fuckin convention in here.”
“These two ain’t like that, they’re locals.”
The room seemed dark and small and the Swede picked up a long piece of lumber and rammed the end noisily into the stove. Isaac wondered how he’d get Poe to leave. The embers popped and shot across the floor and by the shadows on the wall all five men looked like sitting apes. This won’t get any better, Isaac thought. Jesus jerked something from his pocket and Isaac flinched and Jesus burst out laughing. It was just a bottle of whiskey.
“I gotta take a piss,” Isaac said. He didn’t have to piss; he wanted to leave and he looked at Poe but Poe didn’t get it.
“Go on,” Poe said.
“Those two usually piss together,” said Jesus.
Isaac waited but Poe stayed where he was, staring at both Jesus and the Swede, he noticed Poe’s jacket sitting there on the floor along with his backpack. Poe was in a definite mood, thinking he was indestructible. Isaac picked up the backpack, he could not afford to lose anything inside it, he held it by a strap and felt everyone watching him. He didn’t know how to tell Poe to bring his coat. Finally he went out alone.
It was nearly dark and the storm had broken temporarily, though more clouds were coming in—across the meadow he could see the trees swaying by the river. He wondered again how he’d get Poe to come out. Thinks it’s still school. No consequences. As for the field, it was full of scrap metal, tall grass grown up around piles of train parts, huge engine blocks, wheels, driveshafts and gears. A handful of bats were cutting and darting over the piles of rusted steel.
There was a patch of high clouds in the bloodorange light and he watched until the sun faded completely. He didn’t know whether to go back and get Poe or if Poe would come out on his own. Poe was always doing these things. He’d nearly gone to jail for beating up a kid from Donora, he was still on probation for it. He can’t resist a fight, not something you understand. Probably it’s not his fault. Probably you can’t be as big as him without having some kind of robot mentality.
Suddenly there were raised voices from inside the building, then shouting and banging around. Isaac tightened the straps on his pack and picked an escape route across the field and waited for Poe to come running. But Poe did not appear. Keep waiting, he told himself, just sit tight. The shouting and noises stopped. Isaac waited a while longer. Maybe it’s okay. No, something is wrong. You have to go back in.
His hands were shaking but he took the money from his pocket and stuffed it deep inside his backpack and then quickly hid the pack under a piece of sheet metal. This is fine. The kid’s got this under control. Don’t go in empty- handed. He saw a short length of iron pipe but it would just get taken away from him. Underneath the other scrap—he reached his hand carefully through the stack of rusted metal to where a dozen or so industrial ball bearings were scattered in the dirt. He picked one up. It was the size of a baseball, or larger, cold and very heavy. Maybe too heavy. He wondered if there was something else. No, there’s no time. Get in there. Don’t use that same door.
After coming quietly through the back door he could see what was happening. Murray was laid out on the ground. The Mexican was standing behind Poe holding something to Poe’s neck; his other hand was down Poe’s crotch. Poe had both hands in the air like he was telling the man to calm down. They were standing in the light from the fire with their backs to him. Isaac was in the dark, invisible to others.
“Otto,” the Mexican shouted. “I ain’t got all fuckin day.”
“Your little buddy ain’t outside,” said a voice. “He must of already took off.”
The Swede came back from the other side of the building with his face shining in the firelight, grinning at Poe like he was happy to see him. Isaac found his grip on the bearing, felt how heavy it was, five pounds, six pounds, he rocked to his back leg and threw as hard as he could; he threw so hard he felt the muscles in his shoulder tear. The bearing disappeared in the darkness and there was a loud crack as it hit the Swede in the center of the head, just at the top of his nose. The Swede seemed frozen in place and then his knees went loose and he seemed to fall straight down, a building collapsing on itself.
Poe broke loose and went running out the door; Isaac stood frozen for a second, watching the man he’d hit, the hands and feet were twitching slightly. Go, he thought. Murray was still lying on the ground but Jesus was now kneeling over the Swede, talking to him, touching his face, though Isaac already knew—knew from how heavy the bearing was, knew from how hard he’d thrown it.
They could barely make out the train tracks in the darkness. It was raining again. Isaac’s hands and face were slick with mud and his shoes were heavy with it and he was soaked through but from sweat or rain he didn’t know.
You need your pack, he thought. No, you can’t go back there. How bad is that guy hurt? That thing was really heavy, your arm hurts just from throwing it. You shouldn’t have hit him in the face.
Up ahead, they could see the lights from Buell; they were getting close. Poe turned suddenly and began to make his way through the brush toward the river.
“I need to wash myself,” he told Isaac.
