Scowler (17 page)

“I’m sorry I didn’t run when you said.”

“It’s okay. Everything will be okay.”

“Ry, it hurts. I’m not lying.”

“I know.” He held out the glass and the pills. “Take these.”

Even suffering, she took the time to look skeptical. “What is it?”

“Arsenic. Take it.”

“Ry.”

“Go on.”

Teeth bared bravely, she propped herself up on one elbow, pinching an aspirin aloft in front of her face. She had been swallowing pills for only a few months now, and never in a situation this dire. But lodes of strength ran deep in this girl. A little line dimpled her forehead. She placed the pill on her tongue and with impulsive speed slopped water into her mouth and rocked her head backward in the same alarming style of pill-swallowing as their mother.

“Good girl. One more.”

She coughed, the aftereffect of having done something vaguely medical, but it caught in her lungs, wet and crackling and more resonant than any sound that had ever originated from that tender chest. It might have been the same cough she had been nurturing since yesterday. Ry grimaced—it might not. Thirty brutal seconds passed with her spine curled and wretched. Finally she leaned back, taking hold of her injured appendage just above the wrist and settling it in her lap.

“I have a question,” she whispered.

“One down the hatch,” he urged softly. “How about another?”

“He’s going to take it? The meteorite? And sell it?”

Ry shrugged. “I guess so.”

Sarah frowned. “That’s a bad plan. It doesn’t make sense.”

Ry thought for a moment. “I guess not.”

“And it falling here in the first place—that’s crazy, right? That’s crazy that it happened.”

Ry nodded. “It is.”

“Okay, I have another question.”

“All right.”

“Is he going to shoot us?”

“No.”

“Ry, be truthful.”

“I am. No.”

“Is he going to shoot
you
?”

It was a trap well set. He massaged his head. “I don’t know. I hope not.”

“You have a headache?”

“Yes.”

She extended a tiny pale hand, touched the bottom of his cupped palm, and lifted it so that the remaining aspirin was elevated to the level of his lip. They did not make girls any finer. Holding back tears, Ry took the pill and placed it on his tongue. She handed over the sweating glass. He tipped it back, swearing to himself that he’d get his sister out of this mess no matter what kind of sacrifice it took.

The pill was in his mouth when there came a knock at the front door.

R
y swung into the dining room. Marvin and Jo Beth crowded there, faces broadcasting their fear that Ry might shout for help, because who had any idea what might happen after that. Five heavy raps upon the door—and then a silence in which none of them moved or breathed.

Then of course came more knocks, harder this time, and six of them; Ry now had an idea of what being shot felt like. People did not make idle sojourns to the Burke farm—it was on the way to nowhere—so this visitor had some good reason to be there, and knowing how farms operated the visitor might amble around back to hunt for them in the barns or fields. They had to face this right now.

“Anybody home?” boomed the voice. “You folks there?”

Phinny—oh, Christ, it was Phinny. Ry’s heart skipped and he gaped at his mother, guilt and heroism swirling in his throat, and she transferred his paralyzed appeal to Marvin. He bit his lip with such force that beard hairs shot outward like quills. He made a motion at his wife with the shotgun.

“Answer it,” he whispered. “Get him out of here.”

Jo Beth looked at her husband as if he had asked her to host an impromptu dinner party. Her eyes pleaded but he kept white-knuckling the gun, and the way the old parts rattled, agitating the loaded shell, made everyone nervous. Seconds, swollen with fear, dripping with torture, ticked by. At last Jo Beth moved her head in loose circles; maybe it was a nod, though it looked more like her neck had snapped.

She moved toward the door as if reeled by fish line. Marvin snatched a fistful of Ry’s shirt and pulled him against the dining room wall so that the two of them hid only a few feet
from the front door, mere inches from Phinny’s view, the muzzle of the shotgun pushed into the back of Ry’s skull. There was a noise behind them, and both of them twisted their necks to see Sarah standing slack-jawed, the damp cloth draping from her forgotten injury. She might talk, she might scream—Marvin opened his mouth to deliver a warning but there was no time.

Locks snickered open and the door mewled like a cat.

“Why, Phinny.” Ry winced; the
why
was too much. He heard the rusted springs of the screen door push wide. “Good morning. Or is it later than that already?”

“You know you got live wires out here?”

Phinny was livid. As gregarious as the man was, he had no patience for incompetence, and the front yard writhing with downed wires had set him on edge. Ry pressed his eyes shut and told himself to stay quiet, stay quiet, stay quiet.

“Yes,” Jo Beth said. “I know. I’m sorry.”

“Lightning hit that thing? Sweet Jesus. Dangerous as hell. You’re keeping that girl of yours away?”

“I am. And I’ll call the phone company and get them to take care of it.”

“You’ll call them? With what?”

“With the …” Jo Beth’s voice was louder because she had turned to point a finger at the kitchen, where the dead phone swung like a man hanged. “Oh. Of course. I can’t call, can I?” She giggled; it was over the line of normalcy and Ry held his breath.

“How about I call for you when I get back?”

“Oh, Phinny, that would be wonderful. I’m sorry I’m scatterbrained, I just—”

“Now, look.” The shake of a box of spark plugs brought
back to Ry the sweet, safe memories of motor oil and uncooperative engines. “I know these are late. Mary came back from a weekend at the lake with her fellow hoodlums and told me she’s dropping out of school, so I had to dish out all kinds of hell. That had my attention for a couple days, I admit. Then I backed over my mailbox. I know this isn’t a great excuse. But dammit if I wasn’t distracted by all this nonsense with Mary and I guess I wasn’t looking where I was going because I steamrolled that thing, and it gave my back axle a talking to. So there’s a day lost right there. Worst thing of it was my mailman refused to deliver a single piece of paper so long as that mailbox was down. Said it wasn’t regulation. So I had to fix that axle and get myself to town to pick up my mail. Long story short, here’s your plugs, and I hope to God they work because they’re a different brand and I didn’t have time to double-check compatibility.”

“Thank you. Thank you, Phinny. This is wonderful. I’ll let Ry know.”

“Where is he? I better show him myself.”

“I … ah …”

Everyone in the house sweated.

“Ry,” Phinny repeated. “He here?”

Ry did not need to see his mother to picture the tics of her lie: the false, faltering smile, the eyes rounded and blinking as if somehow offended. They were red flags for anyone with half a brain and Phinny was as sharp as they came. Jo Beth’s silence became a thing too hot to touch, and then the gun was jabbing into Ry’s back, prodding him into the hallway.

“Fix this.” Marvin’s threat was clammy against Ry’s ear.

Ry snatched the briefest of looks at Sarah, planted in the center of the dining room and at her father’s mercy, before
a shove sent him into the hall. Shoe rubber squeaked across tile and instantly four eyes were on him: Jo Beth’s childlike in naked distress, Phinny’s peering from the shade of the porch. Ry straightened and pushed himself down the hall. He arrived to find his mother holding open the screen door and looking ridiculous—nightgowned and aggrieved in the midday sun. Nothing felt right and Phinny would sense it.

Ry tried anyway: “Howdy.”

Phinny held up the box. Ry saw right off that the spark plugs were just what he needed and parted his lips to say it. But he paused. There was a chance here. If he was careful, if he was clever. He settled in next to his mother and gave Phinny a once-over: frayed cap with the seed manufacturer logo subsisting on two or three threads, waterfall beard pouring over the chest, thick neck and thicker torso giving the man the dimensions of a grizzly. It was the bleached overalls Ry was most interested in; often the pouches and loops held screwdrivers and hammers, any of which might be handy if Marvin decided to attack.

“Hiya,” Phinny said. There was no doubt that he was giving Ry the eye. “Better late than never, I hope.”

What Ry needed was to send a signal. There was a crazy man hiding six feet away. A gun. Something in the field. They were hostages. Sarah was hurt. Back off, Phinny, drive away, fetch help. But Ry could not risk mouthing any of these words, because if Marvin was peeking he would see everything, and there was Sarah to think about. Ry dug his fingernails into the soft wood of the doorframe and let his mind spin. Then: a delirious flash of inspiration.

“We don’t need them,” Ry said.

Jo Beth turned her face to her son in disbelief.

Phinny’s frown deepened.

“You don’t need them.”

“Nope.”

“Huh. You don’t say.”

Ry looked at Jo Beth for backup. She withheld reaction, perhaps thinking of that trip to the emergency room she wanted for Sarah, but what else could she do? She nodded to Phinny as if passing along wonderful news. Ry’s nerve endings tingled with the audacity of the gambit: Marvin’s escape plan surely hinged upon the car, and the car would not run without the spark plugs, and Ry, following his father’s directions, was going to send those spark plugs away. It was a thicket of risks and rewards, a minefield of dangerous outcomes, but once spoken there was no option besides total commitment.

“Yeah, we got them already,” Ry said. “Sorry about that. Found them in town.”

“That right?” Phinny was unnaturally still. “Whereabouts?”

Ry shrugged. “Oh, let’s see.” His voice was all over the place. “Riley’s Gas. I think that’s right. Yeah, that’s it. He just happened to have them on hand. Sorry I didn’t mention it. I was going to call this morning, but …”

“The phone pole. Went kablooey.”

Ry forced a laugh. “You should’ve heard it.”

Phinny took his time switching feet. A funny smile emerged beneath his beard, one that said:
You can’t fool me, you little shit
. Ry intensified his stare to send his own message:
Back the fuck off
. Controlling facial muscles, however, proved tricky—his head was pounding and the sweat rolled heavy as blood.

Phinny’s sigh was theatrical. “Well, I hate to do this to
you, pal. But I’m going to have to ask for payment anyhow. Two whole boxes and whatnot. You know how it is.”

Ry turned to his mother with a slowness that he hoped communicated the caution with which she needed to respond. Jo Beth looked down at her body and found that not only did she not have a purse, she had no proper clothes, either. Her forearms twitched as if longing to cover the areas where lace packaged her skin. Phinny looked apologetic, just for a moment.

“I don’t know that we have it,” Jo Beth said. “Ry?”

“No,” Ry said. “I don’t think we do. Tomorrow, though. How’s that? No reason to waste your time. I’ll bring it by.”

“I’m in no hurry.” Phinny spoke with such calm that Ry expected a yawn. “How about I come inside and you see what you can dig up? Even a buck or two would be great. I’m thinking about grabbing a bite and could use a little tip money.”

Jo Beth’s naked arm rattled the screen door chain. Despite Marvin, the gun, the meteorite, everything, Ry could tell that she was seconds away from letting the mechanic inside. Phinny saw the same thing and lifted a foot to take advantage. Ry shoved himself into the man’s intended path.

“Don’t,” Ry said.

“Smells out here,” Phinny said. “You burning something?”

“It’s the wires.”

“Doesn’t smell electrical.” He planted his foot in a new direction.

“Come on—don’t.”

“At least let me in out of the sun so we can talk.”

Honor among men was strong. Ry never knew how strong
until he had to betray it. He summoned all of his bile, his hatred, his frustration, and redirected it at this man who even now was proving the definition of friendship.

“I don’t appreciate what you’re doing,” Ry said. “You were late.
Very
late. This is always how it is with you. It’s a disgusting way of doing business, and if you honestly expect me to pay for that kind of service, then I don’t know what to say. Making my mom feel bad? Making demands? She’s here in her
nightgown
. Can’t you tell she’s not feeling well? And you’re trying to push your way in? I’m glad this happened because now I know never to deal with you again. Get the”—and here his voice snagged and faltered—“get the hell off our property.”

Phinny Rochester drew himself up to full wilderness height. No one dared address him this way, at least not since Marvin Burke had left the scene. His eyes drained of their cunning and went flat as pavement. Ry raised his chin and chest, a paltry defense.

It was Jo Beth who played the deciding card. She gestured at the world beyond the front porch and said, softly, “Please go.”

Phinny bared his teeth and looked from Jo Beth to Ry and back again. No matter his instincts, there was a deeper code imprinted into him regarding the requests of women. He inhaled.

“All right.”

He pulled his cap down so that it pushed out his ears, the only parts of him that were undersized. The boxes of spark plugs were palmed; Ry felt a pang of loss. Phinny patted his other pockets out of habit and turned, ducking his head to fit
beneath the motionless chimes, the hanging fern. Ry followed his progress down the steps and path but did not see any truck; the hazard of the live wires must have forced Phinny to park down the road. He began to wander off the path and Ry craned his head to watch. Then, mercifully, Jo Beth pulled the storm door shut, doing it so quickly the screen seemed to capture the entire world like a butterfly in a net.