Those Who Favor Fire (24 page)

“Wait a minute,” he bawled when Amelia handed him a microphone. “I thought I didn’t have to sing.” But Rachel, holding the other microphone, only smiled. The band began to play. Angela laid her palms on her lean hips, tapped her booted toes. Ian trotted first to one side, then the other, hands rolling. He was making trainlike noises. “Whoo. Whoo. Whoo.”

“L.A.” Rachel sang, rather badly,

Angela made a fair echo as Rachel sang. Ian stumbled around behind them, botching the lyrics and grinning. And Joe stood silent, rooted, watching the three of them in astonishment.

He could find in them no vestige of modesty or even self-awareness. They were immersed in the song, right from the get-go, all smiling, all having the time of their lives. As they warmed to the song, Joe noticed in the eyes of the onlookers an amused admiration for his companions, derision for himself.

I am smarter than any of these people, he reminded himself. Richer. Better. Pretty soon I’ll be gone. I’ll never see any of them again as long as I live.

And with that, he surrendered to the moment, gave himself up to fate, and began, slowly, to dance.

It would take him years to reach the conclusion that had he not been such a bred-in-the-bone snob, he would never have allowed a song, a woman, a run-down watering hole called the Last Resort to pierce the thick muscle of his heart and lay their claim. He would never have let his laughter reach up into his eyes. He would never have danced, sung, celebrated as he did that night.

Later, when Rachel and Angela left the men at the table to sing alone together, Joe wondered at the song they had chosen. But he felt inexplicably close to tears as they sang “Moon River,” a song he had
never really listened to before, a song that first silenced the people in that bar, then gently warmed their throats, brought them up off their stools singing, sent them slowly out into the night air dancing, closed Rachel’s throat and made her stand there and cry while Angela wrapped her arms around her, singing as if her heart were breaking.

And when the song was over and Rachel had dried her eyes with her hands, Joe could not speak for minutes on end, could not look at them, at any of them, could not swallow or lift the mighty weight of his arms. For he had found himself, somewhere in the midst of that lovely old song, begging for a way to draw out this night. To keep his feet upon this undemanding floor. To stay inside the Last Resort until the rest of the world had found a way to match its matchless charm.

        Had Joe gone straight from the Last Resort to his bed that night, to sleep, to an awakening less magical, less potent than the undiluted night, his memories might have passed themselves off as dreams. He might have come to doubt what had taken place inside the Last Resort and inside his ringing skull. He might have deemed the whole thing a good time, nothing more.

But he did not go straight to his bed. He went with Rachel, and Angela, and Ian—singing still—down the street to rouse his patient Schooner, make for them a plate of sandwiches and a jug of sobering lemonade, explain to them the cryptic note taped to his kitchen cupboard, reveal with confused misgivings and uncomplicated trust the reasons for his arrival in their midst.

“I don’t regret what I did,” he said haltingly. “Just how I did it. I didn’t think things through. I was too impulsive. And now … I feel like I’m at my father’s mercy. I haven’t got enough money to last me for very long. And I’m not sure what’s going to happen next.”

For a minute or two no one said a word. Joe guessed, quite accurately, that they felt for him a hybrid sort of pity. Their sympathy was tempered with scorn, as if Joe were an adolescent brother: arrogant, selfish, charming, much loved. He had been thoughtless to them in small ways, but for his sister’s sake he had been brave, choosing her comfort over his own. When they pictured his merciless father, they planted their elbows on the Schooner’s Formica tabletop and felt their hackles rise. And when he finally lifted his eyes to theirs, they closed ranks, he among them.

“If I were you,” Ian said, “I’d go over to the Gas ’n’ Go right now and call the man. Get it over with.”

“I was planning to give him a few more days to cool off.”

“Uh-uh. He’s likely to be worrying his head off by now. And the more worried he gets, the angrier he’ll be when he finds out you were sitting here the whole time, safe and sound.”

“I don’t know,” Joe said. “I’m not sure he’d worry. He might, I suppose. I’m not sure I can rely on anything I thought I knew about the man.”

“I don’t envy you, Joe.” Angela sighed. She’d been thinking about her long-gone husband and her son. “What a time you’ve had the last few days. It’s hard to have so many things thrown at you at once.” She slid out of the booth and looked at her reflection in the dark window. It made a kind mirror. She looked less tired, much younger than she felt. “I can understand you wanting to lie low for a while and let the dust settle. But I also think Ian’s right. It might be better to go at this whole thing straight on, get it over with, thrash it out with him before things get worse.”

After a moment, Joe turned to Rachel, who was sitting alongside him in the little booth. “Well?”

“Well what?” she said, startled. “What do I think? I don’t know. I’ve just been trying to put myself in your shoes, but I can’t quite manage it. You really did all these things without a second thought?”

“Afraid so.” Joe leaned his head against the back of the booth and closed his eyes. “It seemed like the right thing to do at the time.”

“And it’s turned out all right so far, hasn’t it?” she asked. “I mean, you’re alive and well and in good company. Nothing wrong with that. If you’d done nothing, stayed where you were, Holly would still be counting down the days, you’d be as good as dead, and your father …” Rachel shook her head. “I know he’s your flesh and blood, Joe, but he got what he deserved. And if there’s any decency in him, he’ll take it from here, get himself some help, and thank you in the end. If not, then it’s good you left.”

“Saved your life,” Ian said, nodding.

Joe rubbed his eyes. It was three o’clock in the morning. His father would be sleeping. Dreaming, perhaps, of an absent son. Unaware of the rioting stars—distant, hot, noisy suns that from earth looked like chips of ice and diamond. Unaware of the treasure his son had somehow struck, on this journey, in his own neglected bones. Unaware of
the choices his son was contemplating, like a farmer whose crop is nearly ripe.

“Who’s got a dime?” Joe asked, and went out into the night while his friends sat and waited.

They waited for a long time.

“Think he got lost?” Ian finally yawned.

“Maybe he just chickened out.” Rachel sighed. “He’s probably wandering around like a goat, trying to figure out what to do next.”

“Nice.”

“Well, shoot me, Angela. I like the guy well enough—don’t ask me why—but we’ve known him all of a day. He’s already rubbed me the wrong way more than once.”

“He’s a stranger,” Ian said. “There’s no reason in the world we should be here waiting for him in the middle of the night, worried about him, looking for ways to help him. But I don’t need a reason to like the boy or give him a hand if he asks for it.” He paused and ran his finger around the rim of his empty glass. “Do you?”

“Well, no,” Rachel said, somewhat petulantly. “I already said I like him, didn’t I? I’m just a bit more skeptical than you, Ian.”

“Maybe we should go look for him,” Angela suggested.

At the sound of the doorknob turning, Rachel looked up, frowning. She was annoyed at herself for the softness of her heart. Her pleasure was scarred by indecision. Her instincts collided like the wakes of boats on separate courses, all foam and disturbance. She was prepared to meet his return with nonchalance, even disinterest. But she was not prepared for his sorrow.

He was weeping as he walked in the door. Rachel reached him first and did not think as she opened her arms and took him in. He was heavy and cold. His cheek against her neck was wet.

He was talking to himself, his voice so hoarse and exhausted, so clotted with tears that she could not understand what he was saying.

“It’s all right now,” Rachel murmured, helping him to his bed. When he lay down and turned his face to the wall, she covered him with a blanket and stood looking down at him.

She imagined that his father had lashed out at him, disowned him, torn at his heart, and she was right. But she also imagined that Joe had heard only what he’d feared, and in this she could not have been more wrong.

        Joe let his hair grow all through the long, hot months of his first summer in Belle Haven. While most of the other men in town had theirs clipped down to let the air touch their sweating scalps, he let his go its own unruly way. He let his beard grow too, for a while, but it made him feel like a stranger, and since he’d had enough of that, he cut it off sometime before July.

He borrowed a shovel from Ian, turned over a few bits of ground around the Schooner, and carefully transplanted clusters of wild-flowers from the fields and woods.

He bagged groceries at the A&P, hauled ice in a worn-out truck, picked strawberries by the hundred-quart, and shelved books at the library. A few hours’ work here and there. He fed himself, mended his berry-stained trousers, went to bed as soon as it was dark.

“My son, Rusty, hates to read,” Angela said to Joe one day when he stopped in to buy a paper. “Which makes me sick at heart, Joe.” She wiped one glistening cheek with the back of her hand. “I can’t afford to pay you, but I’ll feed you supper every day of the week. Anything on or off the menu, long as the fixin’s are in the fridge. Ice cream if you’re good.” She smiled tiredly. “Read to him. At least once a day. You choose the books. Or let him. Whatever you want. Read to him. Talk to him. Tell him stories. I don’t care what you do, just get him in love with books. Would you do that for me, Joe?”

He would have done it for nothing. He did it for her. For her cooking. He didn’t really know the boy yet. Had he known him, he would have done it for the boy, and for no other reason.

He started with books gathered by the town’s eager librarians, books that made Rusty wince when he saw them coming and made Angela shake her head in doubt. Big, heavy books with somber leather bindings and pages that creaked like long-locked doors.
The Last of the Mohicans, The Yearling, Treasure Island, Kidnapped
.

“I like comic books,” Rusty said, looking a bit like he’d stepped out of one. He was small for his age, crowned with a cowlick, his jeans cuffed up, his face freckled. He sat across from Joe in the Kitchen’s only booth, the books scattered across the table between them.

“So do I,” Joe said. “I also like these.”

Rusty picked up
The Yearling
with both hands. Pasted on the front cover was a large illustration of a boy and a deer. He turned it over suspiciously.

“What’s this one about?”

“What do you think?”

Rusty looked at the picture again. “A boy and a deer.”

“And?”

“And what?” Rusty gave Joe a sour look. He glanced over toward his mother, who was polishing the chrome on an enormous blender, but she ignored them both. When Joe did not answer, Rusty sighed and said, “How am I supposed to know? You’re the one that read the book. You tell me.”

Joe picked up the book, weighed it in his hands. “I could tell you this story, in a hundred words or less, and you’d forget it by bedtime.” He leaned toward Rusty and lowered his voice, as if he had secrets to share. “Or you could read a couple hundred thousand words instead and never forget the story as long as you live.”

Rusty snorted, crossed his arms over his chest. “Hundred thousand? You gotta be kidding me.”

“Hey, look, kid. I couldn’t care less if you read comic books and cereal boxes the rest of your life. But I do care what I read, and I’ll be goddamned if I’m going to spend my summer reading trash.” He stopped. Rusty looked at him across the table as if it were a continent. “All right, let’s start again,” Joe said, running a hand through his willful hair. He thought for a minute or two while Rusty waited. He seemed to be good at waiting.

“All right,” Joe said again, taking the book up against his chest and closing his eyes. He held it there for a moment while Rusty wondered whether he was supposed to do something to get them both past this bad beginning.

Then Joe opened his eyes and smiled.

“What would you do,” he said, “if you were out in the woods, deer hunting with your father—”

“I don’t have a father,” Rusty said. He said it simply but as if he wanted to get that one thing straight right up front. “And I don’t like it when people try to act like they’re my father either.”

Joe had never had a conversation like this before. He couldn’t remember the last time he had spoken even a single word to a child, let alone discussed great literature and the unfortunate lack of fathers.

“I don’t blame you,” Joe said. “And if it matters, I don’t really have a father either. Not anymore.”

Rusty looked as if he wanted to ask a question, but he had enough sense to keep it to himself. “So I’m deer hunting with my father, and?”