At the End of the Road (11 page)

Kyle took another tack. He had to figure out a way to retrieve the note right under the eyes of the paralyzed man. There was no way he would acknowledge defeat, acknowledge that Grace had managed to place the next clue out of his reach. Even if it came down to a blatant dash-and-snatch, he would accomplish the task set before him.

Grace smiled to herself in unspoken admiration as she watched Kyle set up and execute the retrieval.

He circled back through the corn, emerged on the road well above the paralyzed man’s house, and began walking at the most leisurely of paces, as though he was maybe heading down the road to Sweetwater Reservoir to go swimming. This route took him directly in front of Patrick and Joel’s house—which was next door to the paralyzed man, separated by a plot of pole beans. He saw no sign of the Sewells and was glad for this. Patrick Sewell might not be actively seeking revenge on Kyle, but he likely wouldn’t let a golden opportunity to inflict misery pass him by either. It was just his nature.

As he approached, Kyle was very much aware of the paralyzed man’s eyes watching him from the sloping, gently warped porch. As he got directly in front of the house, Kyle made a show of becoming aware that there was a person on the porch.

“Howdy,” Kyle said.

The paralyzed man nodded his head in curt acknowledgement, his eyes imperceptible behind slitted lids.

Kyle then made a show of noticing the glut of sales papers, mailers, and grocery flyers advertising MoonPies and ground beef for sixty-nine cents a pound—all toned ochre by the heat, sun, and humidity.

“Sir, would you want me to bring your mail up to you?”

The paralyzed man took his time answering, as though mulling over the pros and cons of such an interaction. Finally, in an agreeable tone, he said, “That would be fine, girl. That would be just fine.”

“Sir?”

“Bring it, girl.”

“I’m a boy.”

“Boy. What I meant to say. Bring it.”

Kyle took care in pulling out the mail, and when he spotted the folded note tucked to the rear, he grabbed it quick.

Kyle walked up the snaking wheelchair ramp, carrying the armload of mail, Grace’s note palmed like a bribe. The wood ramp still smelled of the chemicals used to treat the lumber, and its newness stood out in dramatic contrast with the uneven planes of the weathered porch.

The paralyzed man motioned to a small, pollen-stained glass-top table and Kyle dumped the mail there. “Mighty nice of you. ‘Boy.’”

“It wasn’t no problem.”

“Y’all them that lives right over yonder?”

“Yessir.”

“Two brothers and a little sister?”

“Yessir.”

“Yep. I’ve seen you all. Don’t bother nobody.”

“Nosir.”

“Christian?”

“Yessir.”

“’Course you are. Seen you in church.” The man paused, reflected, then added, “Not like them that lives right here next door. Sewells. They pose as Christians.” The paralyzed man leaned to the side and spat on his porch. “County chairman my eye.”

“I don’t guess I know them too well,” Kyle said.

“Ain’t nothing worth knowing about that lot.”

“I reckon not.”

The paralyzed man said, “You all are good trees. Keep to yourselves.”

“Sir?”

“I stutter?”

“No, sir. You said my family is trees.”

“People, boy. Good people. Had the stroke, you know.”

Kyle nodded and took a polite half step back away from the paralyzed man, a gesture to communicate that he was ready to leave.

“Let me give you a quarter for fetching my mail.”

Kyle knew that he could get a whole pack of watermelon Now and Laters at the reservoir bait shop for less than a quarter. A pack of Now and Laters could be rationed to last a whole day if you were disciplined about it. But Kyle’s skin had begun to crawl. He wanted off the porch more than he wanted the Now and Laters. He took another half step backward.

“Nosir, I just couldn’t take that. I appreciate it, though.”

“Just wait a minute and let me reach here in my pocket.”

As Kyle shuffled a bit farther away from the man, he saw that one side of the paralyzed man’s body worked just fine, while the other side was dead.

“No. Nosir, I’ve got to—”

The paralyzed man’s good left arm shot out like a striking cobra, and his hand clamped down on Kyle’s wrist. It was tight and unyielding like metal.

“What you got in your hand there, boy? What you trying to steal from me?”

Kyle tried to wrench his hand free, but the man’s grip was powerful. There was no give to it, no question of wriggling free from it.

“Nothin’! I wasn’t trying to steal nothin’.”

“Open your hand, boy. Open your hand or I swear to God above I’ll break it open.”

Again, there was no question of refusal. Kyle did as he was told.

The paralyzed man grunted when he saw the small scrap of folded paper in Kyle’s palm. “Open it.”

Kyle manipulated the slip of paper using the fingers of his free hand. He held it out for the paralyzed man to read.

“‘Go to the green pond for your treasure.’
Treasure
is misspelled. What’s it supposed to mean?”

“Nothing. It don’t mean nothing. It’s a game.”

“A game? A game? Why, you’re playing a game with the devil, son. Do you think I’m stupid? Do you think old Kenny Ahearn ain’t right in the head?”

Kyle struggled as best he could. His hand had gone from tingly hot to blood-starved cold, then just numb. He pulled so hard to get away that he pulled the monstrous metal wheelchair forward just a bit.

“Do you think I don’t know who you are?” the paralyzed man hissed at Kyle. Kyle could see his yellow teeth dotted with black spots of decay. Drool spilled lazily from one corner of his mouth. “You’re them that set that fire. You’re the ones. Firebugs. That’s you, boy. Firebug.”

Kyle surprised himself by saying, “You’re crazy. Let me go. Let me go or I’ll tell!”

“Kyle! Kyle!”—It was Grace. Kenny Ahearn and Kyle both looked up, their faces almost touching, and saw Grace standing at the road’s edge, the cornstalks towering behind her little girl’s body. Her cheap patriotic cape stood out in stark, absurd contrast to the verdant background. Grace turned away from them and yelled back into the corn, “Daddy! Daddy! Kyle’s right over here!” She turned back to face the boy and the man in the wheelchair on the porch. “Kyle, you better hurry up! Daddy’s been looking everywhere for you.”

The paralyzed man maintained his constrictor grip on Kyle’s wrist for a moment longer, as if to prove that he didn’t care if Kyle’s daddy was coming or Tecumseh Sherman or Jesus Christ Himself. He held Kyle’s eyes with his and said, “Get on up out of here, firebug” and released Kyle’s wrist at the same moment that Kyle was jerking away. Kyle stumbled and fell on his back with a jaw-cracking thud, immediately turning over and scrambling away.

The paralyzed man watched the boy dart across the dirt road and disappear into the corn, then leaned to one side and spat on the porch.

man had cast a pall over the afternoon. They’d had enough trouble to last them a good long time and didn’t want any more.

Grace and Kyle made their way through the corn until they got to the barbed wire fence and the cow pasture. Careful to avoid the sharp rusty barbs, Kyle pulled up on the bottom strand to create a gap for Grace to wiggle through on her stomach. Then she held it up for him. Once through, Kyle scanned around for Buddy the bull and spotted him dozing in the shade on the far side. The pasture and the pond were west of the fire, so everything here was unchanged.

By the time they got to the green pond, Kyle was feeling optimistic again. He felt that maybe they were forgiven for setting that fire. That maybe God had given them a warning to start acting right or He would send bad things their way. And it struck Kyle that God was like Mercurochrome, in that He could burn you and hurt you like you’d never been hurt before. But it was for your own good. God’s burning stained you and cleaned you out so that you wouldn’t be infected by the evil you had wallowed in. But if you kept your soul clean and didn’t scrape it and tear it with every bad thing you did, then the Mercurochrome—God’s presence—still left its mark on you, but it didn’t hurt. It cooled you and felt good.

It was shady and cool at the green pond. The wind played through the hanging branches of the massive weeping willow trees that shielded the pond like a living curtain.

Kyle was ready to get back to the treasure hunt game. He was excited again. He saw the red and white fishing bobber that surely was meant for him, listing in the soupy green pond water. This was going to be the prize, the end of the game.

The pond was small, only about thirty feet across. Which meant that the bobber and whatever treasure that dangled beneath the surface was about fifteen feet from his grasp. The green pond was a special place for them. Jason and Wade knew about it of course, but they seldom came here. It was from here that Grace and Kyle hatched their plans or just sat on the red clay banks throwing rocks into the water. Kyle thought about how he was going to get the floating prize without actually wading into the viscous green water. While the pond was small in circumference, it appeared to be pretty deep. It was not the kind of water you would want to wade into.

He searched about, his mind scrambling for ideas. He thought about finding something that he could maybe use to float himself out there to grab hold of the bobber, but Kyle couldn’t imagine what he could use to do that. Then he thought about fishing it out. All he would need would be a stick or a limb long enough to hook the string under the bobber, but he couldn’t find one long enough. Kyle knew that if he crossed to the far side of the pasture and into the wood lot, he could find one easy, but that would put Kyle in the bull’s line of sight, and he had already had all the adventure he cared for in a single day.

All of the other woods where he might find a good limb were burned to the ground. He looked around, casting about for the obvious, when it hit him. The weeping willows. They were old trees, towering and sturdy. The pendulous branches cascaded downward, encircling the green pond, some dragging the ground. He spotted a good-size branch that extended outward, tapered, and hung down vine-like close to the center of the pond. With his eyes, he traced the branch back to where it sprouted from one of the main limbs and climbed up the tree to reach it. Kyle grabbed hold of the branch and pulled it down with him, bending and pulling it to the bank. He started yanking on it, climbing up it and bouncing—testing it. The branch held him easily and gave no signs of weakness. He looked at Grace to make sure that she appreciated what he was going to attempt. There was a sly little half smile on her lips, and a shine in her eyes.

Holding on to the slender branch, Kyle swung himself over the pond. The first pass didn’t get him anywhere near the fishing float. His aim was better the second time, and he swung directly over the bobber, but to pluck it out of the water, Kyle would have to hang on with one hand and reach down with the other. There was no way for him to get low enough to do that without dragging his lower body through the water.

On the bank, Kyle climbed higher up the branch to where it was thicker, then pivoted so that his body flipped upside down, his legs wrapped tight around the thick upper branch. He hung there, not moving, like a sleeping possum.

“Well, push me,” he said to Grace.

Her smile grew to full-fledged and she got behind Kyle and pushed, tentative at first, then harder.

Kyle swung out over the pond like a pendulum on the world’s biggest clock. His head grew hot and tight from the oscillating force pushing the blood down. The world was upside down and rushing past him too fast to make it out. There was the long green streak of the water, and two short red streaks of the red clay banks. As he grew accustomed to the force and the motion, he could make out the tiny red/white streak of the bobber.

“Not so fast,” he said. “Slow me down a little bit.”

Grace complied and it all came into a bit sharper focus.

“More. Slow me down some more.”

Grace’s pushing became the most gentle of nudges and Kyle swung across the pond in a slow, graceful arc.

Trusting the branch and trusting his legs to hold the branch tight, Kyle let his arms hang down freely. The water was just out of reach. He eased his legs just the tiniest bit and shimmied down about a foot. He dared not risk any more than that, as the branch grew skinnier and more fragile toward the tip. It was enough. His fingertips dredged the water. He was swinging so slow now that Grace had to find a stubby branch to extend her reach to keep pushing him. He bided his time and waited for the perfect pass. One. Two. Three. He stretched and plucked the bobber out of the water, the prize, cocooned in brown thread, hung from it like a sinker.

Kyle grinned at Grace in utter triumph, and she was so excited that she jumped up and down. He reveled in his accomplishment for a little bit, and he guessed he was taking pride in it, and remembered Preacher Seevers had said pride was a sin, and he guessed that was true, because God got busy punishing him for that sin. His pendulum movement over the pond had grown so slow that he was no longer swinging close enough to the bank for Grace to reach out and push him. Each pass grew a little slower, settling back into the equilibrium position. He thought about sending Grace to find a stick long enough to prod him with, but by the time she found one, Kyle would be at a standstill, well out of reach. His only chance would be to climb up the branch and into the tree. But first he had to get his body right side up.

He tossed the treasure onto the bank, then set about getting his body positioned upright on the suspended limb. It took three twisting lunges, but Kyle finally managed to bend his torso and grab hold with his hands. He shimmied up the branch, and he was glad it was a good strong branch. It never did break, but the tiny willow leaves started tearing off under his fingers. His tight grip was pulling the leaves loose from the branch, and every time a few leaves would give way like that, he would slide down and would have to tighten his grip, and that, combined with the downward motion, caused more leaves to give way. It was an avalanche effect. It was like holding on to a greased pole. The leaves gave way in a popping cascade and Kyle plunged into the green pond.