American rust (37 page)

Authors: Philipp Meyer

Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Detective, #Murder, #Mystery & Detective, #American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, #Fiction - Mystery, #Literary, #Sagas, #Mystery fiction, #Thrillers, #Crime, #Fayette County (Pa.)

7. Harris

H
e watched Isaac leave, shutting the door politely behind him. He wondered if he would be able to keep quiet. It all could have been a disaster. It might still be.

He hadn't told Isaac that Billy Poe had been stabbed and nearly died, after refusing to see his lawyer for several days. A different person than you thought. Grace didn't know yet. He could not be the one to tell her. He could feel his head begin to swim but sooner or later the DA would come around asking and he would have to get himself in order. His fingers ached and the pain was radiating up his arm, the wound on his rib cage refused to close, it ought to be stitched but tape would have to do.

He had to get up. There was a story to get straight about where he had been last night, he needed to go over the truck with a Q-tip. New tires, probably. The tires—that was being too careful. Maybe not. Hell hath no fury like a spurned lawyer. He grinned at his little joke and then felt a lightness come over him. Both of those boys were worth saving, he thought. That is something you wouldn't have known.

Ho hadn't called in relief—he'd stayed the entire night himself. He'd known something was happening. All of them, he thought. All of these people. Harris knew he had to get up but it was two days since he'd really slept, the sun was coming in the window now, he'd been waiting for it, it was easing across the floor, it was moving so slowly he watched it inch across every grain of wood, he would rest another minute and feel it on his face. Then he would start his day.

8. Poe

H
e knew he'd been in the hospital for a while but it seemed like he was waking up for the first time. It was daylight and hot in the room, there was a parking lot outside his window and on the other side of the parking lot there were houses and an old man watering a planter box.

A woman, a nurse he guessed, opened the curtain.

“Here I am,” he said.

“You're lucky,” she said. “You lost so much blood your heart stopped. You're lucky you're young.”

“I'll trade you anytime you want.”

“We were worried you'd have brain damage.”

“I probably do, but it ain't from that.”

She smiled but went on checking things.

“Did I say anything while I was out?”

She shrugged. She didn't know what he was talking about.

“What's going to happen to me?”

“They want to take you back but we're keeping you a few more days. You can't move around too much, you've got too much stitched up inside you.”

“Am I going back to Fayette?”

“You're going back somewhere,” she said. “But I doubt they'll take you back there.”

“Can I have visitors?”

“No,” she said.

“Can I call my mother?”

“Maybe tonight.” She started to walk out. “There's a state policeman outside the door. Just so you know.”

9. Grace

L
ater that day there was a knock at the back door. She was lying on the couch. She hadn't eaten in three days and she hadn't heard any car come up the road.

There were footsteps at the back of the trailer and a short sturdy man appeared in the living room, taking note of her on the couch, then making a circuit of the house. She didn't recognize him. He went in and out of all the rooms before returning to stand next to her. Here it comes, she thought. This is the one they sent for you.

“I'm Ho,” said the man. “I'm a friend of Chief Harris.”

She stared. He wasn't wearing a uniform.

“I hear you have family in Houston.”

“Where's Bud Harris?”

Ho shook his head. “He's a busy man.”

She felt a wave pass over her and then fade again. She closed her eyes.

“Has anyone else come over here, or tried to contact you?”

“No,” she said quietly. “You're the first person I've seen.”

“That's good,” he said. “That's good news.”

“Would you tell me what happened?”

Ho cleared his throat and glanced around the room. “Your son is going to be fine,” he told her. “But you can't stay here.”

“When do I leave?”

“Tomorrow morning at the latest.”

“You know I haven't talked to my brother in years.”

Ho shrugged.

“Can't I see Bud?”

“You have to pack now,” he said gently.

She nodded. She was beginning to smell food very strongly.

“He said I ought to bring you something to eat.”

“He would.”

“I used to hear him talk about you.”

He knelt next to her and he must have noticed how dirty she was, she was suddenly conscious of it, but he didn't react. He lifted her gently and got a pillow behind her. He took a small container from a bag.

“Here,” he said. “Nice and slow.”

“I don't know if I can.”

But when he brought the food to her lips, she opened her mouth to accept it.

— — —

She stood looking out the window a long time, there was nothing moving, a quiet cool night. She closed her eyes and she could see her son walking, it was summer and the road was baked and dusty and he reached the end and there was nothing left. He was looking out over things, it was all gone, the trailer was a burned shell, even the trees around it had burned. Poe stood looking for a long time and then he was walking back down the road, toward a new place. Making his way toward her.

Acknowledgments

I am blessed with an extremely supportive family and for that I will always be grateful. All my love and thanks to them: Rita, Eugene, and Jamie Meyer; also Alexandra Seifert and Christine Young. Many other people were crucial to getting this book into its final form: my agents, Esther Newberg and Peter Straus, my editors, Cindy Spiegel and Suz anne Baboneau. Dan McGuiness of Loyola College, who first convinced me I could be a writer. Dan McCall of Cornell University, who has given me moral support and encouragement for over a decade. Jim Magnuson, Steve Harrigan, and everyone else at the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, Texas. Colm Tóibín, for his counsel on many matters. Wil S. Hyl-ton. For time and a quiet place to write: the Corporation of Yaddo, Blue Mountain Center, Ucross, and the Anderson Center for the Arts.

In Pennsylvania: Diego McGreevy and the Reverends Beckie and Joey Hickock, who opened many doors in the Mon Valley for me. The United Steelworkers, specifically Gary Hubbard, Wayne Donato, Rich Pastore, Ross McClellan, John Borkowski, John Guy, Andy Kahler, and Jan Finnegan. Paul Lodico of the Mon Valley Unemployed Committee. Finally, I'd like to thank the good people of Pittsburgh and the Monongahela River Valley, whose cooperation and kindness were crucial to the completion of this book.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PHILIPP MEYER grew up in Baltimore, dropped out of high school, and got his GED when he was sixteen. After spending several years volunteering at a trauma center in downtown Baltimore, he eventually got into Cornell University where he studied English. Since graduating from Cornell, Meyer has worked as a derivatives trader at UBS, a construction worker, and an EMT, among other jobs. Meyer's writing has been published in
McSweeney's, The Iowa Review,
Salon.com, and
New Stories from the South.
From 2005 to 2008 he was a fellow at the Michener Center for Writers in Austin, Texas.