“Wait till you get home.”
“He touched me right on the skin.”
“Wait till you’re home,” Isaac repeated. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else. “That water won’t clean it anyway.”
The rain was turning into sleet and Poe was wearing only his T-shirt. Soon he’ll be hypothermic, Isaac thought. Neither of you are thinking straight, but he’s in worse shape—give him your coat.
He took off his coat and handed it over to Poe. After hesitating, Poe tried to put it on, though it was too small. He handed it back.
Isaac heard himself say: “We should run so you can get warm.”
They jogged for a while but it was too slippery. Poe went down twice in the mud, he was in bad shape, and they decided to walk again. Isaac could not stop thinking about the man lying there, it had looked like blood coming down his face but it could have been the light, or anything. All I did was knock him out, he told himself, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t true.
“We need to get to a phone so we can call 911 for that guy. There’s one at the Sheetz station.”
Poe didn’t say anything.
“It’s a payphone,” said Isaac. “They won’t know it was us.”
“That’s not a good idea,” said Poe.
“We can’t just leave him.”
“Isaac, there was blood coming out of his eyes and the way he was moving around it was just reflexes. If you hit a deer in the spine it does the same thing.”
“We’re talking about a person, though.”
“We call an ambulance, the cops will be right behind them.”
Isaac could feel his throat get tight. He thought again about how the Swede had gone over. He’d made no effort to stop his fall, and then the way his arms and legs kept moving afterward. A person knocked out didn’t move at all.
“We should have gotten out of there when those guys showed up.”
“I know that,” said Poe.
“Your mom is friends with Bud Harris.”
“Except technically the guy you hit wasn’t doing anything. It was the guy holding me.”
“It’s a little more complicated than that,” said Isaac.
“I dunno,” Poe told him. “I can’t really think right now.”
Isaac began to walk faster.
“Isaac,” Poe called. “Don’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t tell anyone. You don’t have to worry.”
“Hold up a second.” Poe grabbed him by the shoulder. “You did the right thing, we both know that.”
Isaac was quiet.
Poe nodded up the road. “Anyway I need to cut off here to take the back way to the house.”
“I’ll walk you.”
“We need to split up.”
Isaac must have had a look on his face, because then Poe said: “You can go back to the old man’s for one night; it won’t kill you.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You did the right thing,” Poe repeated. “In the morning when our heads are straight we can figure this all out.”
“We need to be figuring it out right now.”
Poe shook his head. “I’ll meet you at your place in the morning.”
Isaac watched as he turned away and made his way up the dark road toward his mother’s house. He paused once and waved. Once Poe was out of sight, Isaac continued down the tracks in the darkness, alone.
2. Poe
He went up the muddy road toward his mother’s trailer. He’d tried to keep his head on in front of Isaac, the last thing Isaac needed to see was Poe going batshit. But it was a definite possibility. At least it was dark, it was comforting, there was no one to see him like this, he thought about the way the knife had felt to his neck and the man’s hand on him. The rain had picked up again, back into sleet and then flurries. He was extremely cold, he’d left his jacket at the machine shop where the big one named Otto was lying dead. He was so cold he would have given anything for a jacket or even the shittiest hat you could even imagine, he would give a gallon of blood for just a shit wool hat and good Christ anything for a coat, a plastic garbage bag, even. He thought he ought to run to get warm but he could barely manage a walk. He thought he would make it to the house. It occurred to him he had not split any of the wood for the stoves, as always he’d left it to the last minute then gone off with Isaac and the house would be freezing, out of wood and the electric heaters costing thirty a day, his mother would never turn them on and with her hands all rheumatoid she couldn’t swing the axe.
He hoped his mother wasn’t too cold for having a shit son like him. Sitting in that doublewide with her hands all clawed up from the arthritis you are a shit a genuine shit who cannot even keep your own mother warm, a fucking chickenshit punk can’t even keep his hours at a goddamn hardware store. He wondered what Isaac had thrown at that prick, something heavy, a big rock, it had smashed his face in he’d seen it. Pushed his forehead back into his skull. Puke if you remember it too much. Big fucking rock it must have been. Isaac and Otto, a match from heaven. Thanking Christ for his arm like that. Saving my life. Getting cockhandled by those bums and pissing your pants the cherry on top.
Now the one night he needed the house to be warm it would be freezing, needed that heat for being an accessory to murder, really self-defense only it was murder now, walked away from the body but good Christ if anyone thought he would call the cops on those fucks with that dead one Otto a smile on his face wide as a goddamn stadium walking toward me, walking toward me while I had a knife to my neck and someone’s hand crushing my nuts, not much question on what he was thinking about. Yes he thought this is what girls must feel like when a stranger puts hands on them. Not a feeling that goes away in a hurry.
The thought of Otto lying there rotting a goddamn coyote eating his face it made Poe feel almost warmer, if you’d asked him that morning he’d never hated anyone but now by Jesus he hated the dead one Otto the way he smiled seeing Poe getting held literally by his balls and even more he hated the one with the beard who’d cut his neck and held him like that and as for the third one, the older one, he had not meant to kick him so hard. He couldn’t remember his name, the older one who had tried to keep the fight from starting, the older one who smelled so bad. He wished he hadn’t kicked him so hard. Yeah he was the good one. The one you hit hardest.
It was not murder but what they were doing it did not look good. He knew he had started it. He knew when Isaac went out to piss he wasn’t really pissing. It was the old Billy Poe fire going and it was not the first time it had caused a predicament. He’d wanted to lay hands on those fucks. Thought I’ll take all three of them, thought that will be fucking something I’ll take all three, only they’d nearly killed him and it was little Isaac English who ended up on top, literally killing and not even just hurting that big Swede. With the stone and not the sword, as they said. Christ he thought they will give you the goddamn chair. Don’t give a shit, wish it was both of those fucks dead, the one Otto and the bearded Mexican who cut my neck and goddamn cockhandled me, felt his fingers on my penis. He touched himself between his legs, it was very tender and even jostling it sent waves up into his stomach and he had to stand still a second. He would clean himself with soap. Soap and hot water. Hot bath and soap. It was a big fucking knife but Jesus it was a serious knife. You’re alright now. He saw the lights of the trailer up ahead. He thought he would make it.
He got closer and saw his mother’s shape watching for him in the window and he realized he would have to tell her what happened, how his pants got reeking like piss and his neck cut and his walking in a snowstorm nearly frozen to death in a T-shirt. He moved slowly off the road into the trees at the edge of the yard, he would wait until she went to bed, can’t tell her those things. She’d tell his father though Christ this town he’ll hear anyhow. He thought his mother might be letting that old bastard move back in. Seeing him out with that fucking math teacher,
