The road by Cormac McCarthy Page B

beyond the road. On the patio
was a barbeque pit made from a fifty-five gallon drum slit endways with a torch
and set in a welded iron frame. A few dead trees in the yard. A fence. A metal
tool shed. He shrugged off the blanket and wrapped it around the boy's
shoulder. I want you to wait here. I want to go with you. I'm only going over
there to take a look. Just sit here. You'll be able to see me the whole time. I
promise.
     
    He crossed the yard and pushed open the door,
still holding the gun. It was a sort of garden shed. Dirt floor. Metal shelves
with some plastic flowerpots. Everything covered with ash. There were garden
tools standing in the corner. A lawnmower. A wooden bench under the window and
beside it a metal cabinet. He opened the cabinet. Old catalogs. Packets of
seed. Begonia. Morning glory. He stuck them in his pocket. For what? On the top
shelf were two cans of motor oil and he put the pistol in his belt and reached
and got them and set them on the bench. They were very old, made of cardboard
with metal endcaps. The oil had soaked through the cardboard but still they
seemed full. He stepped back and looked out the door. The boy was sitting on
the back steps of the house wrapped in the blankets watching him. When he
turned he saw a gascan in the corner behind the door. He knew it couldnt have
gas in it yet when he tilted it with his foot and let it fall back again there
was a gentle slosh. He picked it up and carried it to the bench and tried to
unscrew the cap but he could not. He got the pliers out of his coat pocket and
extended the jaws and tried it. It would just fit and he twisted off the cap
and laid it on the bench and sniffed the can. Rank odor. Years old. But it was
gasoline and it would burn. He screwed the cap back on and put the pliers in
his pocket. He looked around for some smaller container but there wasnt one. He
shouldnt have thrown away the bottle. Check the house.
     
    Crossing the grass he felt half faint and he had
to stop. He wondered if it was from smelling the gasoline. The boy was watching
him. How many days to death? Ten? Not so many more than that. He couldnt think.
Why had he stopped? He turned and looked down at the grass. He walked back.
Testing the ground with his feet. He stopped and turned again. Then he went
back to the shed. He returned with a garden spade and in the place where he'd
stood he chucked the blade into the ground. It sank to half its length and
stopped with a hollow wooden sound. He began to shovel away the dirt.
     
    Slow going. God he was tired. He leaned on the
spade. He raised his head and looked at the boy. The boy sat as before. He bent
to his work again. Before long he was resting between each shovelful. What he
finally unburied was a piece of plywood covered with roofingfelt. He shoveled out
along the edges. It was a door perhaps three feet by six. At one end was a hasp
with a padlock taped up in a plastic bag. He rested, holding on to the handle
of the spade, his forehead in the crook of his arm. When he looked up again the
boy was standing in the yard just a few feet from him. He was very scared. Dont
open it, Papa, he whispered. It's okay. Please, Papa. Please. It's okay. No
it's not. He had his fists clutched at his chest and he was bobbing up and down
with fear. The man dropped the shovel and put his arms around him. Come on, he
said. Let's just go sit on the porch and rest a while. Then can we go? Let's
just sit for a while. Okay.
    They sat wrapped in the blankets and looked out at
the yard. They sat for a long time. He tried to explain to the boy that there
was no one buried in the yard but the boy just started crying. After a while he
even thought that maybe the child was right. Let's just sit, he said. We wont
even talk. Okay.
     
    They walked through the house again. He found a
beer bottle and an old rag of a curtain and he tore an edge from the cloth and
stuffed it down the neck of the bottle