Smoke (30 page)

Tom stops again, blows a puff of smoke so that it hangs before his lips, and takes aim with his tired dark eyes, first at one son and then at the other. “First off,” he says. “Family's a team and you know it. I can use as many free hands as I can find. Second, your place is right here, with the rest of us. Jesus, Hank!” He takes another drag off his cigarette, spins the A-frame in the dirt and walks on.

Hank clenches his jaw. He's not going to be stuck rotating the bloody sprinklers for another season. Tobacco isn't going to eat up his days and swallow his dead-tired nights and leave him with nothing of his own. This year his hands won't contort into claws during sleep so that he wakes to find them stiff and sore from priming. He's not working like a derelict machine any more. “No it's not!” he says. “Just because you do it doesn't mean I have to.”

Tom swings around, shaking with rage. “Do you two think I can manage here alone!?”

“All right,” says Hank. “Fine. I'll stay through one more harvest. That'll leave you plenty of time to replace me.”

“I can't replace you, Hank. This is
your
land, for Christsake! Yours and Buster's. The sooner you two get that through your thick skulls the better off we'll all be.”

“Dad,” Buster interrupts. “A man's gotta carve out his own way.” “What did you say?”

“Yeah, Doc John told me: if he doesn't know what he wants, he'll end up with a life meant for someone else.”

Tom's arm shoots out to backhand Buster, but stops short. “Who do you think you're talking to?” Tom drops his arm. “What he
wants
? This is about what needs doing.” He storms ahead and smoke from his cigarette feels like hot, stale breath on Buster's face. Buster watches a hawk circle over them in the distance. The bird's head is tucked into its feathery chest, eyes like darts pinned onto a target only it can detect. Buster's arms and legs are at once heavy bags of topsoil and weightless, as if they don't belong to him any more. He doesn't inhabit this ugly body. He wants to fly away, fly away, be anywhere and anyone else but here, this. He continues on beside his brother in silence until they reach the patio where Tom props the A-frame against the house and steps up inside without another word. Hank grabs Buster by the shoulder and holds him back.

“Nice going,” he says. “What the hell were you thinking?”

“What do you mean?” Buster jerks his arm free. “I was trying to help you.”

“With help like that I'll be stuck here forever. Say what you want to Dad about Doc John, but leave me out of it. You're not the only one around here with plans.” Hank walks inside leaving Buster to sit on the steps alone.

Moments later the patio door opens and his mother emerges with a cigarette in her hand and Lizzie awkwardly propped on one hip. She sidles up beside him on the bottom step and settles the baby at her feet. Lizzie tugs on the trim of Isabel's dress.

“Your brother's just told me what happened.”

“I don't want to talk about it.”

“Brian, what I told Hank was—”

“I said I don't want to talk about it.” He looks at her.

“All right. But your father's under a lot of strain these days.”

“It was nothing. Just forget it.”

Isabel takes a nervous drag off her cigarette, blows smoke to one side. She hates it when Tom loses his temper with the children. It doesn't happen often but the few times it has have left her jittery for days afterward. She'd be cooking in the kitchen, hear any little noise and jump. Those are the only times she ever refuses her husband's advances. “I'm sorry,” she says, feeling partly to blame. “Your dad doesn't mean to be so harsh. He just gets frustrated. We all do.” She pats Buster's thigh twice as if to punctuate the thought.

“Can we talk about something else for a change?”

Isabel's eyes fill with tears. She lifts Lizzie and passes her to Buster. Then she drops her cigarette on the steps, stands and squashes it with the toe of her shoe. “Fine. Don't keep your sister out long. I've got a bottle ready.” She turns and disappears through the patio door.

Buster feels a pang of guilt. He remembers what Doc John said about being good to his mother. But he can't seem to do anything right; he wants to hurt someone at least as much as he's been hurt. Punish the world. He observes Lizzie for a moment. Steadies her in his lap and then pulls her closer. She tugs on his rubbery earlobe and coos. She smells of talcum powder and sleep. He plays pat-a-cake with her, and when she giggles and laughs the sound of unfettered happiness makes him even more sick of himself, of his weak attempts at bargaining on his brother's behalf, and of his own abiding sense of frustration. He looks at the old oak tree where his tree fort once was. It reminds him of Ivan and Donny, of marbles, Chinese checkers and childhood pacts.

He remembers moving through the woods in single file. Ivan, the tallest of the three, was last that day. Even then Ivan had a pronounced jawline and more muscle than other boys his age. He carried a big stick. Donny was in the middle, with a comic book stuffed into the back pocket of his blue jeans, and Buster led the way in his favourite cut-off overalls and rubber boots. He had messy curls that hung around his face like a soft halo. His skin, an even tan left over from the summer, was as smooth and golden as corn syrup. He remembers what it felt like to sparkle at the thought of undiscovered treasures. A coin, green with age. Smooth flat stones for skipping on the river. An old pair of glasses with the lenses busted out. He never knew what was coming next and this lent a fever of thrill to their expeditions.

“Shush,” he said pausing and turning, one finger up before his lips. “Listen.”

Nothing. Then a slow drag through the grass.

“There it is! I'll get it.” He remembers hitting the ground, arms spread out in front as though he was flying. He reached blindly. “Got it.” The green body in his hand was not slimy but smooth and velvety as a tobacco leaf on the stalk before it was primed. A solid, thick pencil. He tightened his grip as it wriggled to escape. He was up on both feet again, like a jack-in-the-box, with the others at his side. They stared at the creature, its sleek head, its eyes absolutely round and without lids or lashes. The snake flicked its pink tongue in protest, and as though resigned to captivity, went slack.

“What should we do with it?” Donny asked.

“Kill it,” said Ivan.

“Naah, I've got a better idea. C'mon.”

Again they were off, shooting through the woods like three bullets fired from a pellet gun. Twigs snapped beneath their sneakers and boots. Sunlight filtered through the tall trees, blinding them in spots. They reached the edge of the forest and came out onto a field. With the snake still in his hand, Buster darted in between the wide green leaves and drank in their tangy brine. It coated the back of his throat. It was the smell of his father and of his older brother. He knew it better than he knew himself. Tar from nicotine on the weed was gummy and rubbed off black on his bare arms and legs. He ignored this. When he reached the top of the property, where his house sat, he crept up to the rear patio. “Wait here,” he whispered to the others. “I'll be right back.”

He took the steps two at a time and slipped inside through an old wood-framed door. He found his mother's gingham apron looped over the back of a kitchen chair. The faint scent of her Evening in Paris washed over him. He lifted the material with his thumb and pointer finger, so as not to leave a stain, and carefully dropped the snake in the pocket. He replaced the apron and hurried outside once more, gently shutting the door behind him. “Quick,” he said, motioning his friends towards a large tree. “Hide.”

As they climbed he placed one rubber boot on the bottom rung, relying on the rules of three-point suspension that his father had taught him when they'd built the fort. He moved with confidence, one hand or one foot at a time, reducing his chances of losing his grip. The others followed closely doing the same, and when they were all up they faced one another ready for the secret handshake. Two firm downward motions with the right hand followed by a double-wink, the right eye and the left. It sealed their pact—friends for life. Each boy repeated this exchange until he greeted the other, and satisfied, they fell to the floor and pealed into laughter. Resting high above the adult world they were invincible.

A half an hour later, a shrill scream came from the direction of the house and they scrambled fast, sliding onto their bellies and slithering across the wood floor to their peepholes. There, in lookout position, they watched as a tall redhead in a red and white apron dashed from the house waving her arms and dancing around the backyard, shrieking. Buster remembers that his mother undid the apron and threw it to the ground and the snake slithered out of the pocket and off into the garden. She glanced around the yard and, relieved at finding the creature gone, began to cry. A moment later, she raised her head and peered over at the tree. Started towards it, faster, faster, with a wild look in her eyes. “I know you boys are up there!” she hollered, wiping her cheeks dry on the back of her hand. “Wait until I get my hands on you. I'll wring your little necks!” Buster flattened, pressing his ribs sharply against the plank floor. The boys were motionless and covered their mouths with their hands to keep themselves from releasing any sound. Seeing and hearing nothing, Isabel finally turned, grabbed up her apron and marched back inside the house.

“Whew, close call,” Ivan said.

“Yeah.” Donny sat up. “She really flipped.” He pulled the comic book from his back pocket, began skimming pages. “For a minute I thought we were gonna get creamed.”

“Nah, I knew we were safe.” Buster found a blue marble in one corner, rolled it in his palm and tossed it over the wall. “Mom would never climb up here. Besides, look around.” He stood then, and gestured with both arms to the tobacco spread out all around them, a rich green empire. “This is my kingdom. Nothing can get me here.”

Lizzie begins to squirm in Buster's lap and he's ashamed of his behaviour towards his mother. She's always been an easy target, easier than his father. It's his life he can't stand now, not her. It's the fact that they've all moved on without him. The funny thing is though, hearing Hank say he really wants to leave the farm makes Buster reconsider whether he does. He's always been more interested in growing tobacco than his brother, and as much as he's withdrawn from it and the family since the accident, his has been a general withdrawal, a sweeping defensive reaction to everything he once knew and loved. But Hank never wanted to be a grower in the first place, or to have a future in tobacco. For a moment Buster feels ashamed of the way he's been acting towards his father too. Hank's request to leave has got to hurt, even if it's the right thing for him to do. He'd be betraying himself if he stayed forever.
What about me?
Buster thinks.
Who am I betraying?
He sticks his tongue out at Lizzie. She's young and all adventure ahead of her. She hasn't yet grown jaded about the future or been disappointed in other people. He wonders whether he'll eventually become one of her disappointments. He lifts her closer, whispers in her ear. “Naah, I'm going to impress you, Lizzie. I'm going to impress everyone because I'll be the one to catch the bandit. I might need a little help, that's all.” Before he stands to carry her inside he lifts his mother's flattened cigarette to his nose and inhales. The smell of dried blood and stale nicotine cause him to gag.

Buster is pacing in the root cellar where it's as damp and dark as it was on the night of his accident. His flashlight is propped up in one corner and aimed at the ceiling. The radio is playing
Sixteen Tons
when there comes a loud knock at the trap door. The knock has a rhythm to it—two long followed by three short, two long again.

The old code.

“Come,” Buster says, moving to switch off the radio.

Donny pulls the door back. A gush of fresh night air and moonlight flood the cellar. He squints and climbs in. “What's up?” He reaches into his jacket, under his rolled shirtsleeve, for a pack of Export A, taps it on his knee until one cigarette falls partway out. He brings it to his lips and fishes in his pants pocket for a light.

Buster's head pounds with a ferocious ache and he kicks an old apple crate across the floor and pulls another over to the centre of the room. “The bandit's going to rob the bank,” he says as soon as Donny sits. “I'm sure of it.”

Donny stares, dumbfounded. “It really
is
you.” He moves to stand but Buster sticks out his arm, pushes him back down.

“Don't be a moron. I called you here 'cause I've got a plan and I can't do it alone. C'mon, hear me out. Our man seems to hit up some place every few months. I figure he lives on his take until it runs down. The big news around here all year has been the sesquicentennial, right? The whole village is going bananas with planning it. There'll be big crowds. A lot of money is going to change hands that day and I'm betting the bandit has figured that out. The bank would be a windfall. You remember us and the stores?”