Q Road (30 page)

David now lifted his head out of the ditch and spotted George standing with Officer Parks. David knew he would never again visit the Harland house but would only watch George from a distance like this. The fire had been chewing at the roof for some time, but without warning, the roof collapsed into its center. David had been keeping an eye on the weathervane at the top, holding on to the slim hope that the big hoses could put out the fire, but as the roof collapsed and the weathervane sank, the fire roared like an engine and sent a round of sparks fifty feet from the building. Since the firefighters were watering the flame at the base, the fire grabbed strength at the top. The tar and asphalt burned off as dense black smoke, and the corrugated sheets of tin beneath glowed red and slid inward as though the roof were a ship sinking into a sea of fire.

George looked away from the barn, in David's direction. David ducked but he figured George could sense exactly where he was hiding, the way he'd sensed where the cows were the time they got loose and went down to graze by the
Glutton.
George had known just where to find the nest of woodchucks that were destroying a section of his soybean crop this August—Rachel staked out the area for two weeks and shot five. To avoid being seen, David
pushed his face deeper into the ditch. When he opened his eyes, he saw poison ivy. The ditch was carpeted with its flaming red leaves. Because he was extremely allergic to poison ivy, he usually took care to avoid it, especially after the terrible case he'd gotten all over his feet and legs in June. George had given him capsules to take every four hours and Rachel had wiped lotion on him in a way that was so plain and medical, it wasn't even embarrassing. David had stared at her while she was rubbing it onto his ankles, and even after she stopped, he didn't look away from her face. He tried but couldn't. She was only five years older than him, but he'd wished in that moment that she were his mother.

“You're a goddamn jerk for getting in poison ivy again,” Rachel had said. “Will you try not to scratch it, at least?”

He'd nodded yes, still unable to look away, as though she needed to utter some magic words in order to release him. But she hadn't seemed to know the words either, and finally she shoved the tube of cream into his hand and picked up her rifle and walked off toward the garden, leaving him sitting on the section of wooden fence beside the stock barn.

Now David stared into the ditch, at the leaves like small poisonous flames. This morning had been so perfect, and tomorrow he and George would have baled more straw, and because driving the tractor didn't get him out of breath, he could have accepted if George invited him to dinner.
Damn!
he whispered.
Goddamn!
But swearing didn't work for him the way it did for Rachel. David longed for his skin to sizzle, longed for a pain worse than any he'd known, a pain that would dwarf the throbbing of his ankle and his shin. Such a pain would be over quickly enough because the fire would steal the last of his oxygen. Then George might know how sorry he was, and that he couldn't bear to live for what he'd done. If David's body had burned, George might at least have known that David had tried with all his strength to stop the fire. If David did somehow die tonight, he hoped that it would be George who came
upon his body in the morning, and he hoped George would carry him away in his arms. David grabbed the woody stalks of poison ivy with both hands and tugged upward, squeezing, breaking, and pulling loose the triple red leaves, then crushing them and wiping them on his arms, neck, and face. He would give himself the worst case of poison ivy ever. The combination of itching and pain would be unbearable. He might go blind. He broke off more leaves and rubbed them under his long-sleeved T-shirt, onto his chest, against his ribs and stomach, until he had to rest from the exertion.

On some bright days, David used to imagine that the barn was so full of energy it might take off like a rocket ship, but he had always intended that after flying into space, it would return whole to its place on George's land. A big support beam collapsed with a whoosh of flame, and David felt the fire's heat on his skin, and the air grew thinner.

THE TAYLOR COW BARN HAD NEVER BEEN PAINTED SO
bright a red or with such virgin white trim as it was now, with
BARN GRILL
lettered on each side. It was a theme park version of a cow barn, of course, no more useful farmwise than those Rust-Oleumpainted implements displayed on the float stones around the outside, constituting Milton's farm museum. As Steve the salesman approached the Barn Grill, however, he thought he'd never seen a place so old-fashioned and inviting. That was why he'd moved out here to the country, after all, to take comfort in buildings and objects that had histories, and to get in touch with a more traditional life. He'd stayed alone on Rachel's boat for hours enjoying the smallness of the space, fantasizing that Rachel would come back and make love with him. He'd been imagining himself living both at home with his wife and on the boat with the girl, imagining that each time he arrived at either place, the woman there would be glad to see him. As dusk fell, though, he'd grown
restless and hungry, and by the time he made his way along the river and under the golf course fences, he was ravenous. A sign tacked to the front door read,
BE RIGHT BACK
, but all that contemplation of a new polygamous life made Steve feel as though anything were possible. If he no longer had to make love to only one woman, then he shouldn't have to wait for a sandwich, either. When he noticed a side window propped open a few inches, he found an old metal milk crate to stand on and pushed the window the rest of the way up. He tapped at the screen until it came loose and fell out, and then he jumped up and dragged his belly over the sill. He lowered himself, then fell to the plank floor, face first. He recalled such acrobatics being easier years ago, and he swore he smelled animal dung while his face was in the floorboards. He stood up, straightened his pants, and replaced the screen, and only then registered that he'd just committed breaking and entering. Milton should have engaged the safety-lock feature, Steve told himself. Before he could consider going back out the window, though, somebody was unlocking and opening the front door.

“Surprised to see you,” Milton said. “Did I lock you in when I left?”

“No,” Steve said. “I mean, yes, I was in the bathroom.”

“I didn't see you come in. Sally was acting strange so I took her home. I guess she must be all broke up about her kid starting the fire.”

“It's quiet for a Saturday,” Steve said.

“Oh, everybody else went up to look at the barn—somebody had packages of hot dogs they were going to cook over the fire. What can I get you?”

“A draft would be fine, and I've got to have some kind of a sandwich. I'm starved.”

“Ham and cheese coming up. Give me a few minutes.”

When Steve looked around the room, he noticed for the first time that the three main vertical supports had been chewed on—Milton
had stained and finished the wooden posts but hadn't sanded out the big animal tooth prints, maybe from horses or cows. Steve got up and and ran his hands over the bite marks. From there he noticed that the dartboard did not have a red bull's-eye at the center, but a locket-sized picture of horned Satan. Steve reached out and touched a plaster relief of Christ's head and pricked his finger on the crown of real thorns. He returned to his seat, and as he dabbed blood on his napkin, Milton placed before him a grilled cheese and ham sandwich, the bread perfectly browned.

“Cooked with butter,” Milton said. “I just ate one myself.”

“So what's up with that Rachel?” Steve took a long draw of beer and set it down on the bar. “Why won't she even wave hello to a person?”

Milton said, “She's a different kind of girl, all right.”

“Does she really own the boat? That camper thing?” Steve bit into the sandwich.

“Yep. The
Glutton
was her ma's boat, but as long as her ma stays gone I guess it's Rachel's.”

Steve finished his beer and pushed his empty glass toward Milton. “Think she'd rent that boat out to me?”

“The girl does like money.” Milton refilled Steve's glass and took five dollars. “I wish she'd open her heart to Jesus the way she opens it to cash.”

“What do you think she'd say to a hundred bucks a month?”

“I'm guessing you'd get her attention.”

“That girl's got quite a garden across from my house up there.” Steve took another bite and swallowed. “What's with those mounds?”

“You're taking quite an interest today,” Milton said.

“I'm just curious.” Steve was the kind of guy who could usually trace the lines of a human drama in a few minutes, from a conversation or just the evidence lying around on a kitchen table. Today,
though, he'd taken in more than he could make sense of. “Good sandwich,” he said.

The bell on the front door jingled as a tired-looking Officer Parks came in and sat on a bar stool, leaving one empty between himself and Steve. He'd changed out of his uniform and was wearing jeans and a quilted flannel shirt. “You guys haven't seen Sally's kid yet, have you? I was so sure he couldn't have been in that barn, but now I'm starting to worry.”

“He'll be okay, praise Jesus.”

“Amen,” Parks said. “Another thing is, I can't figure out what happened with those cigarettes I found in the barn. They were on my dashboard.”

“That fire was something,” Milton said. “Nothing burns like hay.”

“Some of that was straw,” Parks said.

“Straw burns even hotter,” Milton said.

“Fire marshal told me flames were over a hundred feet high.”

“Does that kind of thing happen very often?” Steve asked. “A barn burning, I mean.”

Milton said, “One time I saw a barn burn up north but it was empty. Say, Tom, didn't George's grandpa burn down a barn behind his house?”

“That's what my dad told me whenever he was warning me against baling hay too green,” Parks said. “Hey, that's a good-looking sandwich you're eating.”

“It is good,” Steve said, wiping his hands on a napkin. “Nothing like a pan-grilled ham and cheese.”

“Maybe I'll have one of those,” Parks said. “I haven't eaten anything since breakfast.”

Milton said, “That fire makes me think about how George is just resisting the future, holding on to his farm. Of course, Rachel wouldn't go for him selling.”

“Speaking of Rachel,” Parks said, putting some bills on the bar.
His eyes were on the last corner of Steve's sandwich as he spoke. “You know, Milton, how I been wondering about her ma's disappearance?”

“Yep. You got yourself a real mystery there.” Milton drew him a beer and took a buck. “If you don't mind my saying.”

“Well, everybody thought Johnny was gone long before Rachel's ma, but I'm thinking Margo and Johnny disappeared at the same time three years ago.”

“That's just after my parents moved to Florida,” Milton said. “I can't believe Margo is gone as long as all that. Did I ever tell you she threatened to shoot me?”

“Well, I'm thinking pretty seriously they've run off together. Margo and Johnny.”

“You tell George that?”

“I didn't have the heart to tell him that his brother run off with his wife's mother. Sounds too much like one of them country-western songs.”

Steve said, “That would make George what? Married to his niece?”

“Sounds downright Old Testament-like,” Milton said. “You know, I've been thinking of offering to give George a hand in the mornings next couple of weeks, before I open up for lunch. Since he's got nobody helping him.”

“What about Rachel?” Steve asked. “She seems like a capable girl.”

“She don't even drive,” Milton said. “But she might be willing to work down here for a few hours at lunchtime if I'm helping George. She's good with money, and she's an honest girl. I've been trying to save her soul for Christ, but I don't know how well it's working.” He stopped and looked at the two beers on the bar. The liquid shone golden by the light through the window. “Sometimes I wonder about this whole idea of serving up the spirit of the Lord alongside these other spirits. I can't say for sure that I've helped save one soul.”

“Well, this place sure is an inspiration to me,” Steve said, raising his glass. “I've always felt better every time I've come here. Here's to the Lord.” He lifted his glass just to show his good humor, but when he took a drink, he felt a little jolt pass through him.

Two guys in John Deere hats came in and ordered beers and asked for the darts, which Milton handed to them in a shoe box. Then two golfing couples came in.

Parks, meanwhile, sitting there on his bar stool next to Steve, felt himself starting to break open. He'd been so full of jealousy toward George that he hadn't considered offering to help. When Milton returned to the bar, Parks said, “That's real nice of you, Milt, to offer to help George. Especially since you don't believe in farms anymore.”