Scowler (31 page)

Her face was painted with soot and she held in one hand the shotgun. This detail mattered to Ry; it meant she had dared to sprint onto the back porch of a burning house. There was a time, only a few hours ago, when he would have viewed such action as proof of her need to salvage the meteorite, to turn it into cash. The mother he believed in now was better than that. She, the greatest hero of them all, had braved toxic smoke, disfigurement, death. And all because the gun meant safety for her children and there was no telling what fresh dangers the new day would bring.

Far across the yard the fire continued to burn, insinuating itself into the daylight. The weathered dairy barn, the wilted chicken coop, the leaning corn crib, the corroded silos—all were revealed as structures of utility and grace. Someone must have rigged Ry’s perception so that he had spent his
whole life seeing only the ultimate futility of these structures while concealing what made them worthy, the struggle itself, the striving for a better day.

Ry would give anything for one more hour in this paradise.

He tried to raise an arm to touch their faces. The arm went nowhere. He traced his mother’s panicked lips—
I shouldn’t have moved you, but the fire
—and he tried to shake his head to tell her that she did right, she had always done everything right. The head did not shake. Frustration pricked at his mouth, the only part of him he could feel. He gathered his energy and pursed his lips. They leaned in, wild for his words.

And there was so much he wished to say! Troves of wisdom and insight were suddenly available to him to spend as he saw fit. He was Mr. Furrington: He believed in his mother and sister and during dark times this belief ought to light their way. He was Jesus Christ: His sacrifice would remind them of the wisdom they held like doves and how rewards would be theirs when they let those doves use their wings. He was Scowler, too: They could not let any future Marvins stand in their way, no matter what town or city or path they chose. There was a new talisman for Jo Beth and Sarah to carry and its name was Ry Burke. Please, take of him what you need.

None of this made it across his tongue. Jo Beth wiped his forehead and mouthed sympathy—
Shhh, baby, don’t try to talk
—and he had no choice but to comply. After all, he was tired. He had never been so tired.

He let his neck slacken so that his right cheek dropped into overgrown grass he could not feel. The sight line did not include the blazing house, but there was plenty else to
appreciate. There was the garage, a grain bin, the junk shed, the machine shed, the McCafferty Forty, even Black Glade. All things considered, not a bad final view.

At the closest edge of the field, trudging back to the crater hand in hand, were the Unnamed Three. They had not perished; Ry admonished himself for having entertained the thought. What’s more, they were no longer pale or gnarled or burnt. They stood at their full, proud heights and moved like happy toys, if toys could move at all, which, of course, they could. Scowler was in the middle, swinging from the arms of his taller companions, his head bowed as if smarting from a recent scolding. On the left, Furrington hopped on one leg, his progress tireless and ebullient. On the right, the long banner of Jesus Christ’s body flapped in the occasional gust. Birds, their numbers growing every second, circled the Three, the gentlest escort.

They were twenty feet into the McCafferty Forty when, one at a time, they turned around.

Furrington touched a paw to his bowler, as if to say:
Farewell, lad. We had some fun, didn’t we?

Jesus Christ pressed an open palm to the air, as if to say:
If thou needest us, thou knowest where to look
.

Scowler made no such special address. For some time he stared with blind eyes and a gaping mouth before turning away and pulling his companions in the direction of the crater. Ry thought he saw Furrington’s paw touch Scowler’s back with shy affection; a few seconds later, he was almost positive that Jesus Christ touched his stigmata to the top of Scowler’s pointed head. Scowler’s malformed feet picked up speed, began to skip. Ry could not help but smile. After so
much excitement, the little guy must be looking forward to lying down.

Ry would have enjoyed watching their slow act of disappearance but his body did not cooperate. His eyes closed. He felt a plummeting sensation—or was it a rising? He felt his mother’s touch, just barely, but it was enough to guide him softly along an unlit path. There was a sorrow that came with entering into this void, but he told himself that was a good thing, even a great thing. You can’t recognize sorrow, he reminded himself, without having first known joy.

H
e was wrapped up to his neck in a blanket so natty and hay-threaded it must have been peeled from the floor of a barn. It smelled sharp and real, and he pulled it tight around his shoulders. It was midday and Ry found himself sitting against the side of the block shed on the farm’s eastern end. At his side was a mason jar filled with pump water, and from the looks of things he had drank over half of it. He had no memory of rebirth.

The house was cinder. Though it had been one of the property’s smallest buildings, its obliteration made the farm look empty. Within the black smolder, white fires burned with persistence, billowing forth brown flakes that could have been flayed from Sarah’s notebook. It was impossible to reconcile this modest pile of rubble with the proud house he
had lived his life inside, with all its familiar labyrinths and infinite dead ends. He considered the possibility that this was a dream, but he tossed that idea away upon noticing shapes inside the wreckage that did not look like wood or furniture.

A car horn honked. It took Ry a bit to appreciate the significance of the sound. He tore his eyes from the debris and watched as a dust-caked four-door sedan pulled into the grass thirty feet away, ignoring the gravel driveway because of its proximity to the house. He heard shouts of hello and saw Jo Beth approaching from the direction of the garage, clutching the shotgun in her left fist, Sarah’s hand in her right. Both of them were clad in old jackets Ry had last seen housing spiders in the garage. Jo Beth waved the gun in a salutation.

Quite abruptly Ry became aware that it was a gorgeous day.

The car door opened and Kevin Crowley, a short, pudgy fellow with pale skin and curly red hair, exited. He held a weapon of his own, a rifle. He walked up to Jo Beth and extended an arm. Jo Beth hesitated, then accepted the offer and moved in for a sideways hug. The two weapons clacked in a duck language. Upon release, Kevin looked dazed but still managed to muss Sarah’s hair. He said something; Jo Beth nodded and said something back. She gestured at the house. Kevin pointedly did not look at it.

Ry heard other car doors open and watched as an astonishing number of Crowleys unfolded themselves from the sedan. Kevin’s wife, Peg, was the first out, followed by an indeterminate amount of girls and a single boy. They wandered closer to the remains of the house as if drawn by an interstellar magnet still possessed of a degree of power. Ry considered the trail of smoke feeding up into the sky like a twister
and wondered what would happen when this meteorite dust was rained back down upon Iowa.

Ry drew the blanket close to his chin and let go of the macabre thought. Finally one of the Crowley kids began to approach. He recognized her, felt a fluttering nervousness, and almost laughed at that reaction. Still, he touched his nose to check on that zit and was relieved to find that his coat of dried gore was plenty thick enough to conceal it.

Esther Crowley stared down at him with concern.

“Ry,” she said. “Are you okay?”

He nodded. It hurt his neck.

“I’m sorry,” he said. The words came out mushy.

Esther cocked her head. “About what?”

Ry shrugged. “College,” he said. “You were supposed to be leaving.”

Esther looked at him strangely.

“It’s all right,” she said. “But thanks.”

Even disheveled, she was a knockout. Ry licked his lips. “You all right?”

Esther shrugged. “What happened to your hair?”

Ry reached a hand up and touched the bare, scabby skin.

“It’s gone,” he said with wonder. He saw her worried expression and tried to sound reassuring. “It’ll grow back.”

Peg was suddenly there, kneeling at his side.

“Esther,” she said. “Hush.”

“We’re just talking, Mom.”

Peg’s hands felt nothing like how Ry remembered Esther’s hands, though they displayed similar confidence. With a thumb she pulled up his eyelids one at a time, then used her fingertips to probe his neck. Sliding her hands beneath the blanket, she pressed gingerly at his ribs and shoulders and
wrists. Peg Crowley was a nurse, a fact he remembered out of nowhere, and he happily gave himself over to her satisfied nods and disapproving tsks.

Additional shadows fell over them.

“He all there?” Kevin asked. His eyes bugged at Ry’s bloody visage.

“He’s got a broken rib or two, maybe a fractured collarbone. His wrist here is swollen and so are both ankles. And he’s cut up.… ” Peg twisted around and squinted up at the other adults. “Jo, he’s sliced to pieces. This cut in his forehead is serious. What happened here, honey?”

Jo Beth shook her head vaguely.

“It was a bad night,” she said.

Peg stared at her. After a moment, she nodded. Her eyes held tears.

“I understand,” Peg said. “We had a bad night too.”

Ry swept his gaze across the congregated Crowleys: Esther, her dirty-faced sisters, the lone six-year-old brother with what looked like a smear of dried blood matting his arm hair. Ry was not positive, but he recalled there being eight Crowleys. He counted, got mixed up, counted again, but kept coming up with seven. But he could not trust his math, especially in this condition. It had never been his best subject.

Peg stood and wiped her hands on her dirty slacks.

“I did turn on the television, Jo, after you called. And they did eventually break the news about the prison and the …” She waved a hand at the clouds. “The things from the sky. I tried to call. I did. It didn’t go through.”

“One of those rocks hit the bridge,” Kevin said. “On Route Nine. Emergency vehicles haven’t been able to get through. We couldn’t get through either; we were as good as trapped
over there. We had to go halfway to Bloughton and swing around the reservoir to get here. Otherwise we would’ve come earlier. It’s just, we …”

“I know,” Jo Beth said softly.

She reached out and took Kevin’s shoulder, which trembled.

Peg took Jo Beth’s other arm, put a palm to her filthy cheek.

“Oh, honey,” Peg said.

The Crowley boy made an impatient cheep. Everyone was brought forth from their trances of apology and forgiveness. Arms dropped, understanding nods were exchanged, and together, as equals, they scanned the farm, looking for anything of value that needed to be brought along.

“Our car is dead,” Jo Beth apologized.

“Figured as much,” Kevin said. “Not sure how we’re going to cram everyone in, but I suppose we’ll manage.”

“We Crowleys are used to close quarters,” Peg added. “We pack like sardines.”

On cue, the Crowley kids began drifting back toward the sedan. It was time to go. Ry put both palms to the ground and began to push himself upward.

“Oh, no,” Jo Beth said. “Ry—”

“I can do it,” Ry said.

“Let me—”

“Mom.” He raised his eyebrows at her.

Her mouth closed. She nodded.

With Jo Beth and Esther hovering close, Ry gritted his teeth and went over the muscle groups he’d need to pull this off. He felt nothing but confidence. Standing up, moving on his own, returning to life, all of it was going to take three
things he was newly rich in: hope, judgment, and courage. These qualities paid immediate dividends. His thighs performed their duties and his abdomen muscles held steady. The blanket slipped from his shoulders and he heard Esther gasp at the blood crusted to his clothes.

“It’s …,” he started. “I …”

“Idiot,” Esther said. “Let me help you.”

She held out an arm. Ry sent up a prayer and let her wrap that arm around his shoulders. There was nothing else to do but take hold of her waist. Their first step proved that Peg had been right—there was something wrong with his ankles. But it was not an entirely unpleasant thing, taking his time arm in arm with Esther Crowley. There were worse fates everywhere, he thought. Just look around.

Everyone was piling into the car through multiple doors. As they waited, Jo Beth joined Esther to hold up Ry and he sensed excitement in her touch. He did not blame her. At long last they were leaving. It was not exactly as planned; she wore no smart ensemble and her cargo did not include the dress of her dreams. But a clean slate, thought Ry, was worth something too. Off to their right, the For Sale sign swung in the breeze, smoking.

With one foot already in the backseat, Sarah gave her brother a long look.

“You look like a terror man,” she said.

Ry creased his forehead. The hole did not hurt much anymore.

“A what?”

“A terror man.” Now she looked uncertain about her terminology.

“A terror man?”

“You know.” Sarah made an impatient gesture. “A horror man.”

Ry shook his head and discovered with some surprise that he was laughing.

“Fine,” he said. “I’m a horror man.”

Her eyes narrowed suspiciously—she knew she was being made fun of. But then she brushed her blond hair away from her face with two fingers to show that she was grown-up enough to let it go. Looking pleased with herself, she took one last look up at the sky and clambered over at least three bodies until she was just a face among other faces, no longer the youngest or most special. The other kids’ elbowing caused her to cry out and elbow back.

“This is bullshit,” she muttered.

“Sarah,” Jo Beth warned.

Sarah lowered her voice. “This is
dog
shit,” she clarified.