hello?”
“I will. And please—” The girl’s eyes filled again. “Please come back.”
Lindsay watched her walk away. From where she sat she saw Angela pass through the library’s automated glass doors and stop to open the small brushed-nickel door of the deposit chute, lift her book, and drop it in. She seemed to listen for the dull bang, then she let go the little door and walked on.
15
A whistle shrilled and three girls burst bare-legged down the black lanes, ponytails whipping, but then pulled up laughing and loped onto the field where other girls lay strewn and twisting on the grass. Cross-country girls, not sprinters, they’d mostly been freshmen when Caitlin was a senior, yet they all knew her and they all knew him, and when one girl contorting in the grass looked up the hill and saw him, and tapped the hip of the girl nearest to her, he turned and limped away.
Deep painful blue of sky, the first stains of autumn in the elms and oaks.
Th
e buses were long gone and there was nothing to see or hear at the front of the building but the snap hooks lashing at the high barren flagpole with that silvery hollow sound, and when he reached the street he turned south toward the railroad tracks. VFW stood for Veterans of Foreign Wars and the old vets would hail him and arm him with a pool stick and tell him stories of shitstorms in the jungle where men, boys really, not much older than he, best buddies, brothers, were there one second and gone the next. Headless. Cut in two.
Th
ey wouldn’t let him smoke or drink.
Th
ey called him the Young American.
Th
ey swore they would find the piece of shit who did that to his leg and make the cocksucker beg them to put a bullet in his cocksucking eye.
Th
e old vets knew nothing about Caitlin—there one second and gone the next.
Before he reached the tracks a truck pulled alongside him in the street, and the passenger’s window descended and behind the wheel was his father.
Th
e boy stopped, and the blue Chevy stopped too.
I was up at the school, his father said. Up and down those halls. Where were you?
Just walking.
Th
e boy felt dizzy.
Th
e sun appeared to yo-yo in the sky. What are you doing here?
Came to talk to you.
Th
e boy waited.
It’s not about Caitlin, he said. Hop in, he said, and the boy breathed. He slipped the backpack from his shoulder and hauled himself up into the cab.
Where were you going?
Nowhere. Just walking.
Just walking, his father said.
Th
at knee must be feeling pretty good.
Th
e boy shrugged.
Th
ough the windows were down, the cab held a humid personal odor like a bed just vacated. It was the smell of a man’s long drive alone. His uncounted cigarettes and coffees. His souring skin and all his human emanations, including his thoughts, all the miles and miles of them collected within the cab like a dew that would lift from the glass on the tip of a finger.
Th
e Chevy joggled over the tracks and Grant turned left and drove past the old VFW lounge with its antiaircraft gun aimed at the sky.
Th
e faded flag lifting feebly from the pole and falling again.
You’ve got your aunt Grace pretty concerned with all this just walking.
Is that why you’re here?
No, I was coming anyway.
Why?
To talk to you, like I said.
You could’ve called.
Th
at only works when the other party answers his phone. Did you lose your phone again?
Th
e battery died. So you drove all the way here to talk?
Do I need a better reason?
Th
ey drove south, out of town, on Old Airport Road. Grant had just come from seeing Angela, from sitting across from her at Grace’s kitchen table, a mug captured in her thin hands, her eyes dark and strange. As if watching a scene that had nothing to do with that kitchen, with him.
Th
ere was one morning she couldn’t forget, she said.
A twin-engine Piper raced the Chevy on a parallel course and rose from the runway and immediately banked and headed for them as if in attack. It droned overhead, darkened them in a blink of
“I will. And please—” The girl’s eyes filled again. “Please come back.”
Lindsay watched her walk away. From where she sat she saw Angela pass through the library’s automated glass doors and stop to open the small brushed-nickel door of the deposit chute, lift her book, and drop it in. She seemed to listen for the dull bang, then she let go the little door and walked on.
15
A whistle shrilled and three girls burst bare-legged down the black lanes, ponytails whipping, but then pulled up laughing and loped onto the field where other girls lay strewn and twisting on the grass. Cross-country girls, not sprinters, they’d mostly been freshmen when Caitlin was a senior, yet they all knew her and they all knew him, and when one girl contorting in the grass looked up the hill and saw him, and tapped the hip of the girl nearest to her, he turned and limped away.
Deep painful blue of sky, the first stains of autumn in the elms and oaks.
Th
e buses were long gone and there was nothing to see or hear at the front of the building but the snap hooks lashing at the high barren flagpole with that silvery hollow sound, and when he reached the street he turned south toward the railroad tracks. VFW stood for Veterans of Foreign Wars and the old vets would hail him and arm him with a pool stick and tell him stories of shitstorms in the jungle where men, boys really, not much older than he, best buddies, brothers, were there one second and gone the next. Headless. Cut in two.
Th
ey wouldn’t let him smoke or drink.
Th
ey called him the Young American.
Th
ey swore they would find the piece of shit who did that to his leg and make the cocksucker beg them to put a bullet in his cocksucking eye.
Th
e old vets knew nothing about Caitlin—there one second and gone the next.
Before he reached the tracks a truck pulled alongside him in the street, and the passenger’s window descended and behind the wheel was his father.
Th
e boy stopped, and the blue Chevy stopped too.
I was up at the school, his father said. Up and down those halls. Where were you?
Just walking.
Th
e boy felt dizzy.
Th
e sun appeared to yo-yo in the sky. What are you doing here?
Came to talk to you.
Th
e boy waited.
It’s not about Caitlin, he said. Hop in, he said, and the boy breathed. He slipped the backpack from his shoulder and hauled himself up into the cab.
Where were you going?
Nowhere. Just walking.
Just walking, his father said.
Th
at knee must be feeling pretty good.
Th
e boy shrugged.
Th
ough the windows were down, the cab held a humid personal odor like a bed just vacated. It was the smell of a man’s long drive alone. His uncounted cigarettes and coffees. His souring skin and all his human emanations, including his thoughts, all the miles and miles of them collected within the cab like a dew that would lift from the glass on the tip of a finger.
Th
e Chevy joggled over the tracks and Grant turned left and drove past the old VFW lounge with its antiaircraft gun aimed at the sky.
Th
e faded flag lifting feebly from the pole and falling again.
You’ve got your aunt Grace pretty concerned with all this just walking.
Is that why you’re here?
No, I was coming anyway.
Why?
To talk to you, like I said.
You could’ve called.
Th
at only works when the other party answers his phone. Did you lose your phone again?
Th
e battery died. So you drove all the way here to talk?
Do I need a better reason?
Th
ey drove south, out of town, on Old Airport Road. Grant had just come from seeing Angela, from sitting across from her at Grace’s kitchen table, a mug captured in her thin hands, her eyes dark and strange. As if watching a scene that had nothing to do with that kitchen, with him.
Th
ere was one morning she couldn’t forget, she said.
A twin-engine Piper raced the Chevy on a parallel course and rose from the runway and immediately banked and headed for them as if in attack. It droned overhead, darkened them in a blink of
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