dawns on him that she isnât the slightest bit sorry. She shakes her head.
âIâm sorry you took it out on the girl,â she says. âThatâs all.â
âI didnât know what I was doing.â Itâs the first admission heâs ever made. If he starts down that road there might be no end to it. Even in his surest moments Deegan never really believed there would be an end to anything. They stand there until the heat becomes too strong and they have to back away.
They must now turn their backs on Aghowle. To somethe lane has never seemed so short. To others it is otherwise . But never has the lane been so bright: sparks and ash are flying through the air. It looks as though the oaks, too, could catch fire. The cows have come down to the fence to watch, to warm themselves. They are ghastly figures and yet they seem half comic in the firelight.
Martha holds on to her daughterâs hand. She thinks of her money, the salesman and all those obsolete red roses. The girl has never known such happiness; Judge is back, thatâs all she cares, for now. It hasnât yet occurred to her that sheâs the one who taught her brother how to light a fire. The guilt of that will surface later. Deegan is numb and yet he feels lighter than before. The drudgery of the past is gone and the new work has not yet started. In the lane, the puddles are reflecting fire, shining bright as silver . Deegan grasps at thoughts: of having work, that itâs just a house, that they are alive.
It is hardest for the boy whose farm is gone. All his work, through his own fault, is wasted. Nonetheless he is intrigued. He looks back at his creation. It is the biggest fire anyone has ever built. At the foot of the lane the neighbours are gathering, coming on slowly towards them. Now they are closer, offering beds for the night.
âWho cares?â he keeps whispering as he goes along. âWho cares?â
Close to the Waterâs Edge
Â
Tonight he is out on the balcony, his dark tan stunning against the white of his dress shirt. Five days have passed since he left Cambridge to spend time with his mother on the Texas coast. Up here, the wind is strong. The plastic leaves of the tall, potted plants beat against the sliding glass. He does not care for the penthouse with its open-mouthed swordfish on the walls, the blue tiles and all the mirrors that make it impossible to do even the simplest thing without it being reflected.
Early in the mornings, the porters erect wooden loungers and stake blue parasols on the private strip of sand. As the morning heats up, the residents come out to lie almost naked in the sun. They bring paperbacks, towels and reach into their coolers for Diet Coke and Coppertone. He lies in the shade and watches the procession of young men with washboard bellies walking the strand. They are college kids his own age who stay at the motels closer to the strip.
Towards midday, when the heat becomes unbearable, he swims out to the sand bar, a good half-mile from the shore. He can see it now, the strip of angry waves breaking in the shallows. Now the tide is advancing, erasing the white, well-trodden sands. Itâs ten years since the ban on DDT came into place and the brown pelicans are back. They look pre-historic gliding over the water, scooping their prey with their huge bills, their high, plummeting dives. A jogger stays on the hard sand close to the waterâs edge, hisshadow at his side.
Inside, his mother is arguing with his stepfather, the Republican who owns this complex. He is a man of humble origins who made his money out of exports and real estate. After his parents divorced, his mother said people have no control over who they fall in love with, and a few months later she married the millionaire. Now he can hear them talking, their enraged whispers gathering speed on the slope of their argument. It is an old story.
âIâm warning you, Richard, donât bring it
âIâm sorry you took it out on the girl,â she says. âThatâs all.â
âI didnât know what I was doing.â Itâs the first admission heâs ever made. If he starts down that road there might be no end to it. Even in his surest moments Deegan never really believed there would be an end to anything. They stand there until the heat becomes too strong and they have to back away.
They must now turn their backs on Aghowle. To somethe lane has never seemed so short. To others it is otherwise . But never has the lane been so bright: sparks and ash are flying through the air. It looks as though the oaks, too, could catch fire. The cows have come down to the fence to watch, to warm themselves. They are ghastly figures and yet they seem half comic in the firelight.
Martha holds on to her daughterâs hand. She thinks of her money, the salesman and all those obsolete red roses. The girl has never known such happiness; Judge is back, thatâs all she cares, for now. It hasnât yet occurred to her that sheâs the one who taught her brother how to light a fire. The guilt of that will surface later. Deegan is numb and yet he feels lighter than before. The drudgery of the past is gone and the new work has not yet started. In the lane, the puddles are reflecting fire, shining bright as silver . Deegan grasps at thoughts: of having work, that itâs just a house, that they are alive.
It is hardest for the boy whose farm is gone. All his work, through his own fault, is wasted. Nonetheless he is intrigued. He looks back at his creation. It is the biggest fire anyone has ever built. At the foot of the lane the neighbours are gathering, coming on slowly towards them. Now they are closer, offering beds for the night.
âWho cares?â he keeps whispering as he goes along. âWho cares?â
Close to the Waterâs Edge
Â
Tonight he is out on the balcony, his dark tan stunning against the white of his dress shirt. Five days have passed since he left Cambridge to spend time with his mother on the Texas coast. Up here, the wind is strong. The plastic leaves of the tall, potted plants beat against the sliding glass. He does not care for the penthouse with its open-mouthed swordfish on the walls, the blue tiles and all the mirrors that make it impossible to do even the simplest thing without it being reflected.
Early in the mornings, the porters erect wooden loungers and stake blue parasols on the private strip of sand. As the morning heats up, the residents come out to lie almost naked in the sun. They bring paperbacks, towels and reach into their coolers for Diet Coke and Coppertone. He lies in the shade and watches the procession of young men with washboard bellies walking the strand. They are college kids his own age who stay at the motels closer to the strip.
Towards midday, when the heat becomes unbearable, he swims out to the sand bar, a good half-mile from the shore. He can see it now, the strip of angry waves breaking in the shallows. Now the tide is advancing, erasing the white, well-trodden sands. Itâs ten years since the ban on DDT came into place and the brown pelicans are back. They look pre-historic gliding over the water, scooping their prey with their huge bills, their high, plummeting dives. A jogger stays on the hard sand close to the waterâs edge, hisshadow at his side.
Inside, his mother is arguing with his stepfather, the Republican who owns this complex. He is a man of humble origins who made his money out of exports and real estate. After his parents divorced, his mother said people have no control over who they fall in love with, and a few months later she married the millionaire. Now he can hear them talking, their enraged whispers gathering speed on the slope of their argument. It is an old story.
âIâm warning you, Richard, donât bring it
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