American rust (15 page)

“I didn't do it.”

“This isn't something I can get involved in.”

“Lee, I swear I didn't even touch that guy.”

“Let's go,” she said. “I'm sorry.”

“It was Isaac.”

She looked at him for a long time.

“It was Isaac,” he repeated.

“You're lying,” she said, though there was something about Poe's face. She believed him. It was quiet for a long time. Her scalp was tingling and she began to feel very cold, she was shivering, it might have been from the temperature, she didn't know, it felt like all the blood had run out of her.

Poe leaned forward onto his elbows and didn't look at her, he began to talk as if he were only telling himself what happened, or speaking to the river, he didn't leave any of the details out and after a time she leaned into him, half because she wanted comfort, half because she was so cold. It seemed she should be crying but she wasn't—the sensation of surprise had already passed.

He was telling her how he'd nearly frozen to death sitting in his yard because he couldn't face his mother after what had happened. Lee was still listening but the doors were opening in her mind, she was thinking they will both need lawyers but they are not on the same side anymore. You will have to pick a side it is simple. It is Isaac against Poe, it is Isaac and your father against Poe. Prisoner's Dilemma, Econ 102. If everyone cooperates, keeps their mouth shut, it turns out okay—Nash Equilibrium. Or was Nash Equilibrium when both sides didn't cooperate? That was the point of the exercise—people rarely cooperated. Poe was still talking but she could no longer pay attention. The checkbook was there in her purse, hers and Simon's names at the top, she had brought it home because she knew she would need it for the nurse, to fix things in the house, she could write a check just like that and get Poe a good lawyer, give him a chance to get out of this.

Except Poe having a good lawyer was not going to help Isaac. If anything it would be the opposite. He was still talking, telling her about his meeting with the police chief but it didn't matter, the things Poe thought mattered did not matter anymore. He would not be able to afford a lawyer, he lived in a trailer. If she got him a lawyer and Simon ever happened to look at the returned checks, that was unlikely but still, if Simon or Simon's father ever discovered she'd written a check for some ex-boyfriend's lawyer, her lover who was accused of killing someone, it would be over. As simple as that. Poe had stopped talking. He was sitting in his own world, looking out over the river. She couldn't believe how dark it was here.

“I'm not going to rat him out,” he said, misinterpreting her silence. “I hope you know that. I'd never do that to him or to you.”

“Don't worry about me.” She rubbed his shoulder.

“I think he went to Berkeley, that's what he always used to talk about.”

“Berkeley, California?”

“Yeah,” he said. “The college there.”

She shook her head—none of it made any sense. She tried to figure the probability that Poe was simply lying to her. She didn't think so but everything was different now, she probably shouldn't trust half of what he said.

“Is there anyone else who would know?”

“There was one of the old- timers at the library he used to talk to, but that's about it.”

“So what happened the other night was he figured out the one person he really needed to trust has been fucking his sister and lying to him about it.”

“Lee.”

“I guess I'm just confused about why we went out drinking when you guys had just nearly gotten arrested. If you wanted to call me, you could have just done it.”

“How could I fucking call you? I didn't even know you were in town.”

“We shouldn't have done that,” she said. “That was so stupid I can't even believe it. We're supposed to be the ones protecting him.”

He looked at her, incredulous. “You don't know anything about him.”

“He's my brother.”

“You've been gone a long time, Lee.”

“Well, now I'm back.” She stood up. “I'm going to take you home now.”

Poe didn't move. “About two months ago he went for a dive in the river. You probably didn't know that because he would never tell you and because when I called to talk to you about it, you never called me back. But basically I had to jump in after him and pull him out. It was about twenty degrees and I don't know how either of us even made it.”

She didn't say anything. She vaguely remembered getting a message from Poe, of course she hadn't called him back, she'd had no idea what it was about.

“It isn't some mystery, Lee. You just pretend everything will turn out fine until you're ready to deal with it.”

“Please stop.”

“What happened with that man is on me,” he said. “I know that. But I'm not the only reason.”

He looked at her for a long time and then he stood up.

“A couple years dicking me around and then you get married and don't tell me. Tomorrow I'm going to get locked up for your brother.”

“I don't think you really understand everything.”

“I understand you pretty well. You're not any different from anyone else.”

She was quiet. Her mind seemed to have shut down.

“Your brother was right,” he said. “About you, I mean. I don't know how I ever thought otherwise.”

He began walking toward the road. She watched him go and then she got up and ran after him.

“Do you have a lawyer?” she said, catching up.

“Harris said he knows a good public defender.”

“Stop. Please stop walking a second. Please?”

He did.

“Let's go back to the car,” she said. She took his hand and he looked at her but he didn't pull away. When they got in the car she turned it on and turned on the heater but left the lights off. She went to kiss him and he stopped her, he looked hurt, but then he kissed her back. Her mind was working on ten different levels, it was statistics, expected value: you had three people and one choice protected one of them and the other choice protected two of them, another part of her felt Poe's hand between her legs, it was obvious the choice she would make. She pushed against him harder and felt herself go blank, then something else happened and she seemed to surface and was thinking again. Poe would need a lawyer, it felt like there was a flood of words building, she would need to hold them back, you did not get the public defender in these cases, you got Johnnie Cochran. The public defender would fall asleep at your trial, the public defender was just so the state could claim you'd had a fair chance, after they'd put you away for life.

“What's wrong,” Poe said.

“Nothing.”

“Do you want to just lay here?”

“No.” She put his hand back.

    — — —

Afterward she laid her head in his lap, smelled herself on him, and tucked her legs up. He traced his hand along her legs to her hips and back down again. The hot air from the heater was on her face. She had a brief feeling of lightness, of weightlessness, like the instant you're above the diving board when gravity hasn't caught you. She thought: I will do anything to keep feeling like this.

Poe was asleep, the warm air blowing on them, the faint light from the dashboard, she ran her hands across his legs, her fingers through the hair between them, then she touched the car window, the cold glass, outside it was very cold. She knew her decision. It was not like Romeo and Juliet. The floating feeling was gone and there was only the sensation of falling, she had to sit up, put her head against the window for the coldness, she couldn't get a clear thought into her head. She had to call Simon. Simon was her anchor. Poe stirred and she rubbed his arm automatically, she felt sick again, she had to get out of the car, she dressed quickly, things were inside out, she took her purse and got out of the car and shut the door quietly.

Her phone had service. She looked back at the car, at Poe sleeping inside, then back at her phone, then pressed Simon's number. There was the famous line:
Granted, I am an inmate at a mental institution.
It was ringing and then Simon answered. She walked a good distance away from the car, under the trees, she could hear the river.

“My love,” he said, “are you on your way home?”

“Not yet.”

“Did you find your brother?”

“Sort of,” she said, “but then I lost him again.”

“Well I hope you find him soon,” he said. “I'm miserable without you.”

“I have to stay. I'm interviewing the nurses tomorrow.”

“Fine fine fine. You know I should have offered to come with you. I'm sorry I was being a baby. I should be there with you.”

She felt herself choke up, she could hear people talking in the background, she didn't know, she was on the verge of telling him everything.

“Listen,” he said, “the boys and girls are all over, up from the city, can I call you later tonight or tomorrow?”

“Okay.”

“Everyone says hi. Say hi, everyone.”

She could hear all their voices chime in the background, the voices of her friends, nonsensical and distant.

“Our friend Mr. Bolton brought a case of Veuve Clicquot.”

“Simon, listen for a second. I may need some money. My brother might need a lawyer.”

“Is it serious?”

“I don't know.” A pause. “It's not really clear yet.”

“Lee,” he said. “I'm really sorry. I'm really sorry, I should have come out there with you.”

“It's alright, I'm glad you answered. I'm going a little crazy out here.”

“I'll fly in tomorrow.”

She had to swallow again. “No,” she said. “I think it'll be fine. I'm just being neurotic.”

“I can be there tomorrow. What the hell, I'll get Bolton to drive me there now, we'll be there by three
A.M.
”

“No, it's okay,” she said. “I just needed to hear your voice. I think I already feel a lot better.”

“Call me later. Or call tomorrow morning, whatever you want. Do you have the checkbook?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Use it. If it's bad trouble I'll ask my father to look someone up.”

“Don't ask your father.”

“You don't have to worry about him.”

“I know. I'd just rather you not ask him.”

“Alright,” he said. “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” she said.

After they hung up she stood there in the cold, it was very dark and the air was very clear, there were bright cold spots of light in the sky above her. She began walking back to the car. She would have to keep this inside her forever, there would not be any person she could ever talk to. Well, she thought, at least you know you'll make a good lawyer.

6. Isaac

W
hen he woke up it was morning and he was lying in tall grass behind the warehouse. He could hear several motorboats on the river. Why won't that eye open? He touched it. Dirt and dried blood. Stay here till I'm better, he thought. Root and hibernate. Come out when the weather's better. The locals friendly. He looked around him. It's fine now, he thought. Get up.

It was a warm windy day and above him the sky was dry and deep blue and the clouds were blowing south, a V of geese flying against them. Original itinerants. As for the kid he's not worried. Thinks back to his days in Vietnam—Special Forces—this is nothing. Back from the dead like Easter. Feel of a spear in his busted ribs, bone bruises, a nice day of walking ahead of him.

With the pain in his side and legs it took him half a minute to get to his feet. The ground was wet, his sleeping bag covered in mud; his clothes were filthy. He made his way back, the tall grass moving in the wind, flattening and standing up again, the warehouse was not nearly as remote as it had seemed in the dark—maybe two hundred yards from the main road. The dirt lot strewn with trash and beer cans, an occasional condom. Mark of communion. Wishing to repay his blood debt to Swede Otto, the kid visits the hideout of local delinquents, submits his holy vessel for redemption. Milk of his human kindness draws them in like blood, gets baptized in his own there's the church of it. He looked up at the brick warehouse with its scarred facade, the high arched windows. Only see—still his hands are filthy—the debt still owed.

In the dirt lot he came on his own pile of scat from the previous night, stopped to kick dirt over it, thought possibly the kid should not compare himself to Jesus. Then he thought: least of my worries. If there's Hell it's so thick I'll be standing on shoulders—hypocrites at the bottom, plenty of churchgoers. Special compartment for popes.

He limped across the field toward Route 906. There was a good deal of traffic and he could see it wouldn't be a pleasant walk—the road was barely wide enough to hold the cars. He was moving very slowly. Pretty sure you broke a rib—hurts to inhale. Arms, legs, and back all bruised. He touched his face and could tell it was encrusted with a mixture of dirt and blood, his lips and cheeks and eyes swollen. It seemed like a miracle he hadn't lost any teeth. You aren't cut out for this, he thought. But as soon as he thought that he got a picture in his mind of the Swede standing there looking at something, his bulky army coat and his tan cargo pants nearly black from soot. Believe what you want but the evidence shows something different. The empirical data supports a different hypothesis. The kid seems to be quite capable—making mistakes but learning quickly. A certain amount of hard- wiring in evidence. Rusty, is all.

Route 906 sat along the edge of the floodplain that ran to Monessen. The side of the valley rose behind it, just woods, but along the riverflat there were old buildings, warehouses, factories. The traffic was heavy, all subcompact American cars and old pickups. There was barely enough pavement for the cars and not much space even in the weeds—the air shook even as the smaller cars passed. A half dozen people were walking at various intervals in the same direction as him—toward Monessen, which had once been one of the most prosperous towns in the Valley but was now one of the poorest. The remnants of a U.S. Steel coking operation still limping along, employing a few hundred people. Otherwise, plenty of Section Eight.

Half an hour later he reached Monessen, the main part of town looked like Buell, a riverflat blending into a steep hillside, neighborhoods terraced along the heights, stone churches, wooden churches, three Eastern Orthodox churches with gilded domes. Trees everywhere. From a distance it looked peaceful. Up close it looked abandoned—most of the buildings in complete disrepair, vandalism and neglect. He passed through the downtown, there were a few cars parked, but mostly it was empty buildings, old signs on old storefronts, ancient For Lease signs in most of the windows. The only hints of life came from the coke plant by the river, long corrugated buildings, a tall ventstack burning off wastegas, occasional billows of steam from the coke quenching. A scooploader big enough to pick up a semitrailer was taking coal from a barge and dumping it onto a conveyor toward the main plant. The train tracks were jammed with open railcars full of dusty black coke but other than Isaac, there was not another actual person in sight.

In the middle of town, he found an open restaurant. The waitress sat alone at a table by the front window, staring at something outside in the distance and smiling until she saw him come in. The sunlight was on her and she didn't want to get up. He guessed she was about fifty, her hair was dyed blond.

“Hon,” she said. “I can't have you looking like that.”

“I'll get cleaned up,” he told her. “I got jumped.” He looked around the diner, restaurant, whatever it was, there was only one other patron.

She shook her head. “There's a hospital across the bridge over in Charleroi,” she told him.

“I can pay.” He opened his wallet to show her. He could smell the food, frying potatoes and meat, he was not going anywhere. He was surprised to be standing up to her—in the old days he would have walked out immediately, gone looking for another place. “Put yourself in my shoes,” he said.

For a moment he wondered if he'd said too much, but then she sighed and pointed him toward the back of the diner, toward the bathroom. The other patron, a middle- aged black man with his lunch pail, looked up from his magazine at Isaac and then quickly back to his magazine. He sipped his coffee and didn't look at Isaac again.

To get to the men's washroom he had to edge by stacked boxes of paper towels and cooking oil, and once inside he locked the door and stood in front of the mirror. A corpse mucked up from the riverbed. Or a mass grave. His pants and coat were covered with mud and grass and his face was smeared with ashy dirt. He would not have let himself into a diner, or anywhere. One eye was badly swollen and his lip was split and it was hard to tell where the dried blood ended and the dirt began. After using the toilet he stripped and stood in front of the sink and mirror; his filthy brown face didn't belong to his pale white body pink scrapes along his ribs, the faint purple of developing bruises. He washed his hair and face in the sink, splashing dirt everywhere, thinking man the most fragile creation—them more than you. Now the cold towelwash, way to clean a corpse. Body's last bath. Special attention to crevices—probably they use a hose now, drip dry, automatic wash for bulk processing. Who knows who touches you after you're dead? He took another handful of paper towels and wet them and continued to bathe himself. Shivering already, water cools quickly. A tub a warm womb we take for granted—the nature of wombs. My mother bathed herself. Wonder if they cleaned her after. Like the bogmen—preserved in peat. Not Swede Otto—no baths at taxpayer expense. Pauper's grave too expensive. Incinerator his final warmth. Clear out your head, he thought. You're not there yet.

When he was finished he took out his knife and carefully soaped down the blade, rinsed it and dried it, then dried himself with the last of the wadded paper towel, he had used two entire rolls. The place had been very clean before he came in and he carefully wiped off the floor and sink before going back out into the dining room. He examined himself in the mirror. From the waist up, it was okay. The coat had kept most of the dirt off his shirt and sweater. Don't wear the coat into places, he thought. Take it off first.

When he came out of the bathroom the waitress was watching for him and she raised her bulk up slowly like her knees were going and brought him a menu and a cup of coffee. Sitting there in his booth, the entire back corner of the restaurant to himself, he was warm and clean and dry, it was a comfortable feeling. He added cream and lots of sugar and sipped his coffee and felt his head begin to clear. He would take his time. He would enjoy himself. He ordered country fried steak and hash browns, three eggs over easy, a slice of peach pie. She took the order and refilled his coffee and he adjusted it to his exact preference, sweet and creamy, almost like dessert. He looked around the diner, it was a nice place, it was really more of a restaurant, a few dozen tables with checkered tablecloths, they probably never filled it anymore but it was very clean and pleasantly dim, knotty pine paneling, a high ornate tin ceiling. The walls were covered with team photos of the Monessen Greyhounds football team, photos of Dan Marino and Joe Montana, the Valley's biggest NFL stars, and a few framed posters from bullfights in Spain, souvenirs of a trip someone had made twenty years before. The waitress came back with his food.

“Get any licks in?” She indicated his face.

“Not really.”

“That bad, huh?”

“There was a bunch of them.”

“You ought to just go home,” she said. “It won't get any better.”

“You always this nice to your customers?”

She smiled at him and he found himself smiling back. She had braces on her teeth.

“There you go. Don't take that crap off me.” She went slowly back to her table, leaving two plates of food in front of him. “I'll bring the pie in a minute,” she said.

He cut his steak into small pieces, the crispy fried outside and the meat inside rich and dripping juice, it was the best food he'd ever eaten. He forked some hash browns, fried hard with onion, mixed one of the eggs into it, it felt like he'd never eaten before in his life, he wanted to take small bites and make it last forever but couldn't help shoveling huge forkfuls, she brought his pie and refilled his coffee and the sharpness of the coffee was good with the rich food. When the plate was finally empty he went for the pie.

He sat back with his eyes closed, though he knew he couldn't fall asleep. It is a good life, he thought. It is a good life to walk into someplace and eat food. The waitress appeared again with a bowl of ice cream.

“On the house,” she said. “You clean up pretty good.”

After sitting for a while he could feel himself drifting off, it was so warm, he decided not to push his luck. He looked at the bill. She'd only charged him for the eggs and coffee, two dollars and eight cents. He looked up to thank her but she was already back at her table, daydreaming.

He thought about a tip, he needed his money to last, but left her ten dollars. Poor to the poor. He was going to spend it anyway.

Back on the street his bruises hurt less and he hadn't felt so good in years, he wanted to lie in the sun and take a nap. Once past the town he left the road and crossed the field to the train tracks again and then found a grassy secluded spot on the riverbank. It was sunny and he took off his shirt and shoes and sat out in just his pants. You need to keep moving. He shook his head. I might be dead tonight. Enjoy the nice things as they come.

He lay there and felt the sun on him. Simple pleasures we're wired for. A million years of evolution—appreciate a sunny day.

You are being tested, he thought. What's going to happen with the Swede? I can't think about that now, he decided. I'll get to Berkeley and I'll see. If something happens, at least I'll have done that. Eventually they'll find out what you did. Poe will talk. It's just the way he is. He can't help it. Even so, he thought. He's the best of them.

He closed his eyes. He wondered if his sister was still in Buell. What if she just drove by right now? I'd go with her. Have everything I need right here. He tried to will it, get into the car, Lee, and drive. Meet you by the side of the 906. But of course it was ridiculous. She couldn't hear him.

At her graduation he remembered how he'd felt sitting next to her. The principal had gone on for ten minutes, National Merit scholar, perfect SATs, got into Yale, Stanford, Cornell, and Duke. All four of you were there. That felt like the moment that everything seemed to make complete sense. You could see the exact moment you would be standing up yourself, felt like seeing through time. Very clear picture in your mind—watching her you imagined yourself. Remember that well. Then Mom was dead and Lee was leaving, you hoped she might stay, but of course. Who would—new life waiting—it became even more important to get out. Can't blame her.

He saw a large hawk, no it was an eagle, they were coming back. Things were always changing. Sometimes good and sometimes bad. Your only job was to wake up until you were stopped. He would. His sister had had it easier but there was no point in worrying about it. He would make his own way. He would be living in the mountains in northern California, green and much taller than the hills around here, they were actual mountains. Near an observatory. An observatory in the house, look at the stars anytime, the house would have a long porch that stuck way out over a cliff so it felt like you were floating in space. Like Lee you won't be on your own. Remember that visit to New Haven— everyone, in their way, was like you and Lee. It was difficult to imagine but his sister had done it and in most ways she had far less idea of what she wanted. He had always known what he wanted to do. Of course she'd still beaten him on the SATs. Forty points. Within the statistical error. In fact that was the first thing she'd said when he'd told her his score—
well, it's within the margin of error.
Sympathetic human person that she is. Except there was the thing with Poe. That was what screwed it all up. It would not have been a big deal, he knew everyone else she'd slept with in the Valley, there were two others, it hadn't bothered him, or not much, anyway. The thing with Poe somehow seemed like an indication of something much bigger. He couldn't think of exactly why, but he was sure of it.

Change of subject, he thought. Feel that sun. In California it will be like this most of the year. Dose of the ultraviolet. Heals bruises and kills bacteria. Ultra means you can't see it. No, it means
very.
Fuckin retard. He sat up and looked around. There were grass and trees all around and the river right in front of him. To the south was a big intermodal terminal, long piles of coal and cinders and other bulk materials, just to the south of that the three big bridges to Charleroi, and beyond the bridges he could still make out the cranes of the lock. There were barges log-jammed, waiting to pass through the lock chamber.