Darkness the Color of Snow (13 page)

“Nah,” Matt said. “I want to watch the fire.”

“I'll go,” Paul said.

Katie regarded him. “How much do you think you get for a few beers?”

Paul kicked dirt at the fire.

“Come on, Matt. Let's go,” she said.

“No. I'm going to stay here.”

“No. Let's go to the car. Fuck me, Matt. Giving your skinny friend a blow job didn't really do it for me.”

“No. Not tonight.”

“You afraid Vanessa Woodridge is going to find out you fucked me? Or do you only fuck her, now?”

“Drink your Jägermeister. It'll warm you up.”

She held up the empty bottle. “It was a little bottle.”

Matt frowned. “Why don't you go get us a ­couple of fresh beers?” Katie turned and stalked back to the Jeep.

Ronny and Bobby took turns jumping on the broken pallet, breaking more boards loose. Ronny stacked them on the fire as it continued to blaze and grow.

“There's a ton of burnable shit here,” Paul said.

“Go down and get some,” Matt said.

“Why? Why bring it up here?” He kicked the chair until he broke off one of the three remaining legs. He picked it up and set one end of it on the fire. He waited a minute, watching intently, then picked it up. The end that had been in the fire was burning brightly. “We can take the fire down there.”

“This is good,” Matt said.

“She wants to warm up. We'll take her down there. It'll be plenty hot.”

“We're not going to set fire to the dump.”

“Why not? It'll be cool.”

“Because I said no. That's why.”

“Shit, man. We'll have a huge fire. Way better than this piddling little piece of shit.” He kicked some dirt onto the fire, knocking it down until it blazed up again. Ronny threw a ­couple more pieces of the pallet onto it.

“This is good,” Matt repeated. “Fucking firebug.”

“Pyromaniac,” Bobby said. “That's what they call it. Fucking pyromaniac.”

“So?” Paul said.

Katie came back with two beers and handed one to Matt. “Last of the beer.”

“Shit,” Matt said. “That was a fucking suitcase.”

“I guess we're drunk,” Katie said.

“You are. How many did you have?”

“Not enough. I'm drunk and still horny.”

“Ronny. Take care of her.”

“No. You,” Katie insisted.

Matt shook his head and ignored her.

“That's right,” Katie said. “You only fuck Vanessa Woodridge.”

“Shut up.”

“I want to go home.”

“Fuck him.” Matt pointed at Ronny. “He should be ready again.”

“Or me,” Paul said.

Katie looked at Ronny and Paul. “I want to go home. This sucks.”

“You suck.” Everyone laughed.

“We're out of beer. I don't want to stand around, watching some junk burn. It's cold. I'm freezing my ass off. Take me home.”

Matt threw his beer can into the fire. They could hear the spilled beer sizzle into steam. “All right. Let's go. Everyone in the car.”

Paul looked at the still-­burning chair leg. He ran to the edge of the pit and threw it as hard as he could. They could see the burning end flare then subside, the glowing end turning circles in the air before it fell into the pit.

“Fucking Paul. What the fuck did you do that for?”

“It's not going to hurt anything. You saw it. It was out.”

“It wasn't fucking out. That whole pile of shit is going to catch. Come on. Let's get out of here.”

They got back into the Jeep and Matt wheeled it around and headed back down the dirt road, lights off. When they reached the top of the hill, he stopped. They looked back. There was a second glow beyond their fire. “God, fucking, damn it. There goes the best spot we ever had.” He reached across Katie and tried to backhand Paul, but was blocked by Katie.

“Hey, watch my fucking boobs.” She punched Matt in the arm. “That fucking hurt.”

“Shit,” Matt said. “Goddamn and fucking shit.” He gunned the Jeep back toward the state highway.

By the time they got back to Lydell, Katie had fallen asleep between Ronny and Bobby Cabella. Matt turned the car off the highway and onto the frontage road, down a ­couple of miles, then stopped at Katie's house.

“You're home, Katie.” Katie stirred, murmured something, and went back to sleep.

“Shit. She's out like a light. Get out and dump her,” Matt said. “Fucking drunk whore.”

“We can't just leave her.”

“OK. Why don't you go up to the house, ring the bell, and ask her daddy to come out and get her?”

“Can't just leave her,” Ronny repeated.

“You're getting to be a pain in the ass,” Matt said. “Do what you want with her. You got two minutes. Then we're out of here.”

“Come on,” Ronny said to Bobby. “Let's get her up to her house.”

“Her old man is going to come out here with a shotgun or something. Let's just leave her in the yard.”

“We'll take her to the door. Leave her there.”

“No. The yard.”

“We'll just leave her by the door and get the hell out of here.”

“One minute.”

“OK. Let's go.”

Ronny got her under her arms and pulled her out of the car. She stirred again and said something he couldn't make out. “Get her feet,” he told Bobby.

He didn't give Bobby time to argue, but started backpedaling toward the door as fast as he could, forcing Bobby to keep up. When they got to the door, he let her down gradually, just as he heard the Jeep accelerate and pull out onto the dirt road. Ronny reached up, rang the doorbell, and then he and Bobby ran like hell down the road toward the taillights that were already receding ahead of them.

K
ATIE HAD DRIFTED
off somewhere. No one seems to know or care where or why. He wonders about her sometimes. About what happened to her. Is she still drinking, still a slut for attention? Is she still alive? Nobody ever mentions her. It's as if she never existed.

Except that he can't forget her or forgive himself for leaving her there, passed out at the front door of her house. It makes him sick and ashamed when he thinks back on it. Leaving her was Matt's idea, and he had done it because Matt told him to. But he had done it. He, not Matt.

It seems like he had no mind of his own back then. And then he turned on Matt to save himself after the gazebo fire. And he went on and found Gordy, and now he does what Gordy tells him to do. Has he changed, or has he just found a better person to follow? Did he actually push Matt Laferiere into the path of the white car? He wonders if getting Matt killed was just one last try to rid himself of Matt and the boy he had been.

H
E WALKS BACK
to the pond. The trail is pretty clear of snow, except for patches that are shaded for most of the day. The ground is frozen, but barely. At several points, he can feel it give way under his boots. The pond has a thin layer of ice, but near the middle and around the edges there is water. At the edge of the pond he can see the tracks of deer and, probably, dog, though possibly coyote. No one would be tempted to try this ice. He watched a volunteer firefighter, two years ago, crawl out onto a pond wearing chest waders and pull out a Labrador after it fell through the ice. He had felt vaguely jealous that he was not the one who had accomplished the rescue, but glad enough to see the dog safely on the shore.

It's over twenty miles to Warrentown, but he thinks lunch will be more comfortable there where he isn't really known as he is at Edna's. The drive will eat up a bit more of the day, too.

At Applebee's, he sits at the bar because it seems too lonesome and stupid sitting at a booth or table by himself. He orders a twenty-­ounce beer and turns his head, if not his attention, toward ESPN on the big screen next to the bar.

“You think Brady is the best quarterback in the NFL?” a guy two stools over asks him.

He doesn't really know all that much about football, but he knows the local area, which is close enough to New England that Patriots–Giants is a significant issue. “Yeah, probably,” he says. “But the Mannings are good, both of them, and Aaron Rodgers is pretty close to Brady.”

“No question,” the guy answers. “No question at all.” Ronny isn't sure what there's no question about.

“But you got to look around them,” the guy goes on. “I mean a quarterback is only a quarterback. He can do only so much. A lot of what makes a quarterback is who he's got around him. Brady, he doesn't have the team around him that he used to have. But he's still good. Is he as good as he used to be? You tell me. And Rodgers, he's got a real good team around him. Does that make him better than Brady, or Brady better than him? You got to ask these types of questions. I'm telling you. I really think about this stuff.”

“I can tell.”

“You know, you sit on your fat ass all day, just watching football, engaging nothing but your eyeballs, what good does that do anyone? Nothing. You're just watching your life get pissed away. You got to think about it. Even if it's only football, you've got to think. These guys here”—­he waved a hand around the bar—­“they aren't thinking. They aren't using their brains. They're just watching and throwing back beers. That's not good. I'm telling you. No matter what it is, you've got to engage with it.”

“I can see your point.”

“So, the Rodgers–Brady thing. I mean, it matters, though it doesn't seem like it should. Nothing in this world matters until someone thinks about it. It's like the stool in the dark. It isn't there until you trip over it. Then it's there, and it matters. You don't trip, it's not there.

“So maybe having a better team around him makes Rodgers a better quarterback than Brady. Obviously, it makes the team better and makes Rodgers look better, but what if he is actually better because of that team? I mean how much of any one guy belongs to himself and how much belongs to the team? I mean we're all free individuals, only we're not. We can't just do what we want. I mean, look, I can drive a hundred and ten down the wrong side of the road because I've got free will, no? No. Something of me belongs to the world or the country or the town or something. I mean I have to do what's best for it. I mean
have to
. I'm not a hundred percent free. And that part of myself that is free is that way because of the town or country or whatever. I could have been born a Roman galley slave a ­couple of thousand years ago rowing a fucking boat around the Mediterranean. Then what part of me belongs to me? None of me. I'm just another part of the boat. I'm just another fucking oarlock or something.

“But what if I fuck up? I mean, say I push when I should pull. Aren't I then not part of the boat, but some force outside of the machine? Am I not then a human being with free will? Maybe it's fucking up that makes you human, makes you
you
. Ever thought about that? So Brady is the Patriots until he throws an interception, then he's Tom Brady, human being. Maybe if you don't fuck up, you don't really exist.”

“How are you guys doing over here?” the bartender asks. She's looking hard at both of them, trying to gauge their sobriety. Ronny gives her a small, tight smile and a little shrug. Innocent bystander to the guy's rant.

“Great,” the guy says. “We're doing great. We're about to solve the whole free will problem as it relates to professional football. What are you doing?”

“Pouring beers.”

“Right. So, who's doing great? We are.”

“How about you?” she asks Ronny.

“I'm fine. Barely following the conversation, but fine. I would like a burger, though.”

“Bourbon burger, Philly burger, Cowboy burger? You want a menu?”

“No, just a burger. A regular burger with fries.”

“Cheese?”

“No, just mustard and ketchup.”

“You got it.”

“And another tall one.” The talker pushes his glass forward.

“Afraid not, Lou. I think you're at your limit.”

“How many have I had?”

“A few. Quite a few.”

“Do I need a cab?”

“Wouldn't hurt, Lou.”

“Call one, then. Young man, it's been a pleasure talking to you. You're a bright young fellow. I predict you'll have a lot of success in your life.”

“Thank you.”

“Cheryl, I'll be on the bench inside the front door. Tell the cabbie. I'm not going out in this weather.”

“H
E'S A CHARACTER
,” Ronny says when the bartender brings his burger and fries.

“He's a sweet guy. Really. Talk your ear off?”

“He was talking. I couldn't really keep up with much of the conversation.”

“He was a big shot over at Masters and McLellan. Practically ran the place. Then he made some sort of mistake and that was it. He got fired. Then he got drunk. Practically lives here until we have to throw him out.”

“He's a real cooperative drunk. I've never met anyone quite like that. He must be the best drunk around.”

“He's sweet. But he's a drunk. A drunk's a drunk when it all comes down to it.”

“I suppose, but I've known quite a few. None like that guy.”

“Yeah,” she says. “It could be worse. It could always be worse, and generally, it gets worse.”

A
FTER
R
ONNY LEAVES
the station, Gordy prints out the report and puts it in the new folder, 417 Hit and Run. They're three days from the December town council meeting. He needs to be writing his report, but as he thumbs through the folders—­citations, arrests, investigations—­he knows he can't do it.

“Going home?” Pete asks.

Gordy hasn't even thought about it. “No,” he says. “I'm going to ride around for a bit, show my face and see if I can stop any incipient crime waves.”