past five minutes honked twice and then swung out and accelerated around them in a cloud of fumes and frustration.
“Take Perma,” Corso said, pointing to the road on the right.
“That what the guy said?”
“Actually, our friend back at the gas station neglected to mention a fork in the road, but he did say the cemetery was on top of the hill, and Perma goes up and Girard goes down.” He tapped his temple. “Not much gets by Francis Albert Falco.”
She checked the rearview mirror. Pushed the accelerator. “Why do they always put graveyards on the tops of hills?” she asked. “It’s not like anybody’s gonna be putting out lawn chairs and enjoying the view or anything.”
“Nearer my God to thee, and all that,” Corso said.
They rode to the top of the next incline in silence. Overhead, a slate gray sky flowed eastward, dark and sensuous, like cooling lava. A swirling wind lifted the last derelict leaves of fall and sent them aloft in dirty spirals. As they rounded a sharp corner near the summit, a ragged patchwork of shingled roofs appeared spread out over the valley floor. Here and there the spires of churches poked up through the social fabric, like slender white fingers pointing the way home.
“The place looks way better from up here,” Dougherty commented as she wheeled the Ford around the narrow corner. “These rust belt cities have always given me the willies. Makes me feel like I need a shower.”
“Allentown used to run on iron and coke and chromium steel,” Corso said. “When the coal ran out, all of a sudden it didn’t run on anything at all.”
She wrinkled her nose at the acrid air. “Why do people stay in places like this?”
“Because they were born here. It’s all they know. And because they were promised that if they behaved themselves and worked hard, there was a life for them here. A place where they could raise kids and root for the Phillies and maybe retire to their front porches to watch the Fourth of July parade.”
She wheeled the car around another pair of corners, then sneaked a peek at Corso. “That how you envision your golden years, Frank? Waving a little flag on the porch?”
Corso snorted. “Not me,” he said. “Not you either, honey bunny. We’re not part of the scheduled programming. We’re fringe people. Neither of us is ever gonna be the one bringing stringbean casserole to the Elks or the Eagles or the Eastern Star. We’re always going to be on the outside looking in. That’s what we do.”
He expected an argument, but instead she pointed out over the top of the steering wheel. “There,” she said. “That’s gotta be it.”
It was a big old-fashioned cemetery. Maybe thirty acres of the dearly departed nestled beneath a towering grove of oaks and maples whose black branches spread like bony fingers across the sky. The burial ground was surrounded by a six-foot-tall wrought-iron fence. From where he sat, Corso’s eye could follow the meandering, frost-heaved line of the barrier as it wandered drunkenly away from him toward the northern horizon. In other times and places the fence would have been worth more than the ground it guarded, but in an iron town like Allentown—a town where for sixty years the red glow of the steel cauldrons lit the edges of the night sky—for a town like this, half a mile of iron fence was nothing special. Just a rusting divider between what was…and what was yet to be.
Something was burning. Something oily and thick whose inky, airborne ash rained down from the skies like a misty morning in hell. The air was caustic and rough to the throat. As he paced back and forth in front of the grave, Corso felt the glands in his neck beginning to ache.
The headstone was simple. A rough-hewn block of local granite polished smooth on one side. Etched leaves as a border. “Sissy Marie Warwick,” it read. “September 4, 1957–September 4, 1972. Beloved Daughter. May the Grace of God bring Eternal Peace.”
A violent
“Take Perma,” Corso said, pointing to the road on the right.
“That what the guy said?”
“Actually, our friend back at the gas station neglected to mention a fork in the road, but he did say the cemetery was on top of the hill, and Perma goes up and Girard goes down.” He tapped his temple. “Not much gets by Francis Albert Falco.”
She checked the rearview mirror. Pushed the accelerator. “Why do they always put graveyards on the tops of hills?” she asked. “It’s not like anybody’s gonna be putting out lawn chairs and enjoying the view or anything.”
“Nearer my God to thee, and all that,” Corso said.
They rode to the top of the next incline in silence. Overhead, a slate gray sky flowed eastward, dark and sensuous, like cooling lava. A swirling wind lifted the last derelict leaves of fall and sent them aloft in dirty spirals. As they rounded a sharp corner near the summit, a ragged patchwork of shingled roofs appeared spread out over the valley floor. Here and there the spires of churches poked up through the social fabric, like slender white fingers pointing the way home.
“The place looks way better from up here,” Dougherty commented as she wheeled the Ford around the narrow corner. “These rust belt cities have always given me the willies. Makes me feel like I need a shower.”
“Allentown used to run on iron and coke and chromium steel,” Corso said. “When the coal ran out, all of a sudden it didn’t run on anything at all.”
She wrinkled her nose at the acrid air. “Why do people stay in places like this?”
“Because they were born here. It’s all they know. And because they were promised that if they behaved themselves and worked hard, there was a life for them here. A place where they could raise kids and root for the Phillies and maybe retire to their front porches to watch the Fourth of July parade.”
She wheeled the car around another pair of corners, then sneaked a peek at Corso. “That how you envision your golden years, Frank? Waving a little flag on the porch?”
Corso snorted. “Not me,” he said. “Not you either, honey bunny. We’re not part of the scheduled programming. We’re fringe people. Neither of us is ever gonna be the one bringing stringbean casserole to the Elks or the Eagles or the Eastern Star. We’re always going to be on the outside looking in. That’s what we do.”
He expected an argument, but instead she pointed out over the top of the steering wheel. “There,” she said. “That’s gotta be it.”
It was a big old-fashioned cemetery. Maybe thirty acres of the dearly departed nestled beneath a towering grove of oaks and maples whose black branches spread like bony fingers across the sky. The burial ground was surrounded by a six-foot-tall wrought-iron fence. From where he sat, Corso’s eye could follow the meandering, frost-heaved line of the barrier as it wandered drunkenly away from him toward the northern horizon. In other times and places the fence would have been worth more than the ground it guarded, but in an iron town like Allentown—a town where for sixty years the red glow of the steel cauldrons lit the edges of the night sky—for a town like this, half a mile of iron fence was nothing special. Just a rusting divider between what was…and what was yet to be.
Something was burning. Something oily and thick whose inky, airborne ash rained down from the skies like a misty morning in hell. The air was caustic and rough to the throat. As he paced back and forth in front of the grave, Corso felt the glands in his neck beginning to ache.
The headstone was simple. A rough-hewn block of local granite polished smooth on one side. Etched leaves as a border. “Sissy Marie Warwick,” it read. “September 4, 1957–September 4, 1972. Beloved Daughter. May the Grace of God bring Eternal Peace.”
A violent
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