Trow stuffed the meteorite back into his pack, not lightening his load after all. “Only way I’m handing over this puppy is if they promise to put it in a museum—because meteors belong to all mankind.”
The fire had burned from the footbridge at the east end of the park and petered out when it reached the river flats to the west. Within the burn stood a dead cottonwood, two limbs raised as if in surrender and blackened up to the armpits. The thicket below, where Screech and Dexter had set up their shake and bake lab, was now reduced to a charcoal scrawl. Elsewhere, charred matchsticks reared from nuclear white mounds of powdered ash. Ghostly stilts of smoke rose and dissipated like steam from hidden hot springs. A man with a long-handled shovel moved slowly over the ground, probing and occasionally turning something over.
“Doesn’t look good,” said Wesley. “It crossed to the island.”
The fire had swept through the camp settling for ruin rather than consumption, going for the plastics and artificial fabrics. Isaac and Wesley found their bicycles padlocked together with the trailer, the tires stinking, the grips, cable sheaths and derailleur components melted to the metal, the paint scorched, leaving the steel frames a powdery orange. Terrell’s corn steamed through the damp crate’s slats, giving off a roasted, sugary smell. The two tents were reduced to poles splayed over ash and lumps of carbon. Terrell’s camp now revealed the smoldering frame of a legless couch and a scorched flat screen TV draped with the bubbled black streamers left by his plastic-wrapped tipi. Indoors, they all might have died, overcome and suffocated by the chemical cloud.
“My generator’s toast,” Wesley growled. Except for the rotted boards, his wooden hut had burned to nails and old door hinges. He kicked still-warm coals. “Shit’s been moved. I think somebody’s already been through here.”
Isaac had so little to burn. The laces had disappeared from his shoes, their white leather turned blackened and hard. No sign of his jeans with his wallet and keys. His backpack was a stinking bundle, its straps missing, the plastic zippers fused. Jake’s bone-handled knife had survived and he used it to cut open the pack. He rooted for the metal Band-Aid box where he kept the glass eye and found it unharmed, still wrapped in a rag. What did it mean that his luck kept getting worse while the eye survived? The devil withstood the flames around him, too. Wishes granted by magic lamps only brought misfortune to the finders. Isaac hoped it wasn’t too late to locate the eye’s rightful owner and restore his equilibrium.
From what had been a place of shelter last night, he could see clear across the park. He watched Trow pick a jagged path toward the man with the shovel. Taking turns kneeling to examine the ground, the two might have been descendants searching for grown-over gravestones.
Wesley headed their way. “Finding anything?” he said to the shovel man.
“Just checking it out. You live down here?”
“We did.”
“Were you around last light?”
“Are you a cop?” Wesley asked. No cop would go dressed in work Dickies, Isaac thought.
“Public Works, Richard Diaz. My crew gets to clean up this mess. Sorry if you got burned out. We’ll be here in a few days with a brush hog, so if you’ve got anything to salvage do it now.”
“What’s the rush?” Wesley said.
Diaz shrugged. “People upstairs don’t want it looking like this.”
“Not like it was pretty before,” said Wesley.
“At least it was green,” said Isaac. “Tamarisk was better than this. Better than before.”
Diaz looked at him. “You remember.”
Isaac nodded. For decades, free tailings from the uranium mill had gone into road base, concrete, sandboxes and gardens. You’d get more radiation from the sun, from a watch dial, they said, but the government removed millions of tons of the material. The house next door to his family’s had to have its foundation re-excavated. Two kids in Isaac’s class died from thyroid cancer in their twenties. Now the worst had been removed, they said. But they couldn’t take back what was in the town’s bones.
Diaz swept his hand across the parkway toward the little houses. “Every day my mother wiped tailings dust off our dinner table. Some people think they can improve this place. I want it returned to nature.”
Isaac said, “We’ll never get nature back. A third of the river gets diverted across the mountains to Denver. This used to be the bottom of a sea.”
Diaz stared at Isaac, expecting more.
“Welcome to the club,” said Wesley.
Trow waved them over to the east end of the park, beyond the dead cottonwood. He toed a white clinker that looked like a cigar left to burn all the way down. He crumbled the brittle residue and sniffed his fingers. “Smells like sulphur.”
“A fusee,” said Wesley. He looked back to where the camps had been. A short dash away, the bike trail cut through to a road screened by Russian olive. A good place to start a fire and leave unseen. “They burn like hell and bright. That explains the light we saw.”
“There’s two more over this way.” Trow walked the edge of the burn. At the next spot, he uncovered the stub of a charred, red paper tube with a plastic cap stuck on the end.
Wesley’s slow head roll spoke his disgust. “No firebug sticks the striker cap on the butt of a flare after he lights it. This town got what it’s wanted ever since Amy Hostetter got hurt.”
“Long before that,” said Trow.
Sylvia stood in the Day Center kitchen watching the big room through the two-way mirror.
“I lost my storage unit key. All my keys,” Isaac said. Most of them keys to locks changed, to padlocks cut, to whole buildings gone. “I need my duplicate.”
She swept the look over him. “What were you doing down on the river? I thought you were gonna go full hermit up at Hefner’s place.”
“I’m on hiatus from househunting,” he said.
Sylvia yanked open a stuck drawer in her desk and retrieved a metal file box. She unlocked it with a little silver key from a jar of paperclips and began sifting through the assortment of keys inside. Some were labeled with chains or paper tags attached with string; others had names taped to the head; one old-fashioned door key hung from a rabbit’s foot. All jumbled together like spare change.
“Remind me what yours looks like.”
That was disappointing. He’d marked his with a brass Samsonite tag he’d pried off a crushed suitcase found by the railroad tracks. “Samson-ite. You really should put them in little envelopes and file the names alphabetically. They’d be easier to find,” he said.
Sylvia shook her head. “This makes it easier to forget who hasn’t come back.”
Isaac approached the storage facility gate with his usual trepidation. He knew he looked suspicious entering on foot, so he came after the manager left and before night fell. He imagined his image moving from one monitor to another as the security cameras picked up his passage. He slipped under the metal door of his unit before it had completely crawled up on its rollers and drew it down again. The light in the ten-foot cube didn’t work. He felt for the box of tent candles, lit one and set the can on the floor.
He could have navigated the whole space in the dark. One side of the unit stored things he might sell someday: picture frames, a birding scope, an imitation Persian carpet, brass door hardware, LP records, antique crocks and flower pots, a stained glass window, a French horn, dog clippers, a fox stole, baseball cards, rusty but serviceable tools, hammock chairs, children’s books, a skateboard, stuffed animals. All thrown off the back of the speeding consumer express. On the other side, his archives and keepsakes stored in plastic tubs: his books and notebooks, extra clothes and camping gear, clips of his published letters to the editor, and his documentation of Thomas Edison’s plan to rule America. At the back was a lozenge-yellow Raleigh Record, the bike his brother Joe had bought for him at a yard sale. The old road bike was impractical for carrying cargo or navigating rough ground. He’d almost turned it down. He didn’t want his family�
�s well-meaning concern. It made him feel too responsible for their happiness.
Joe’s bike would have to serve. He pumped the tires. In the morning he’d find out if the tubes were any good.
Isaac unrolled a sleeping bag in the narrow pathway between the shelves. The concrete was cool, the air sweltering. He extinguished the candle, raised the door a crack and propped it open with a coffee can full of glass doorknobs. If caught sleeping here he’d be evicted. He had already lost years of archives, what his father had called a trash heap. No potentate can bear libraries. If their contents agree with him, they are redundant. If they fail to mention him, they are outdated. And if they oppose him, they must be destroyed. Just like Isaac, tyrants want to reorder the world’s too-muchness. But burning was so much simpler.
The Clarion ran a picture of smoke rolling through the park, with the fire crew standing watch. The caption treated it as a brush fire with no mention of the cause. The newly displaced moved to other camps, abandoned buildings and loading docks, brushy areas near bike trails, boat launches and railroad tracks, even the old city cemetery. A silent game of musical chairs played out daily as rousted campers were forced to move on. With the surge, the churches activated their emergency program designed to handle the winter influx at the shelter. Borrowed cots and bedding were set up in gyms or classrooms. Volunteers from the host church stayed overnight as monitors. Isaac had sampled overflow in years past but could not bear the close communion of snorers, farters, sighers and insomniacs. Hoping to join Wesley, Isaac tried without success to find where he had gone. Sleeping in staggers, he spent more uneasy nights in his unit, awaiting the rough hands that would mean the end of everything.
Talk at the Day Center speculated about Jimmy Johncock’s whereabouts. Word on the street was the cops wanted to talk to him about the fire, so JJ’s disappearance made sense, but there were no secrets here, only half-truths, lies and misinformation. Someone always knew something and would spill it in trade for harm, advantage or plain old drama. By the time an arrest showed up officially in the Blotter, known here as the Friends and Family section of the newspaper, the subject was often back on the street. JJ hadn’t appeared either place, but he seemed to be off the hook when the Blotter ran a short update on the fire investigation:
Investigators attributed last Tuesday’s Las Colonias fire to careless handling of fusee-style flares used by vagrants to ignite damp firewood. Since no property damage resulted, officials said no charges were likely.
Damp firewood? No property damage? No charges? No wonder so many people believed in intrigue. The truth wasn’t ever sorted out in the newspaper.
Isaac watched Gravy fly a new sign on the corner of Fifth by Whitman Park. He held a spiral notebook sideways and flipped over one page at a time so the message changed like a digital billboard:
“Actions speak louder than words, bro,” Gravy said. “Gotta keep things moving and changing.”
A cop pulled up to say Gravy was disrupting traffic with aggressive solicitation.
What about the Two-Dollar Tacos guy dancing in a chicken suit outside El Pollo Loco or the Lady Liberty outside the tax office? Gravy wasn’t asking for money. What about the Spiderman guy hyping cell phones? It was a good question, Isaac thought.
“Stay out of this,” said the cop. “That’s commercial speech. Spidey’s selling, not panhandling. Besides, effed is profanity.”
Gravy kicked the argument up a notch, protesting that he wasn’t soliciting. He was a street entertainer creating awareness of social issues. “Furthermore, effed is only a rhyme and a rhyme is not a crime and you have a dirty mind.”
At this point the clash became one of principle, which meant nobody was budging and the cop was going to win. At least he could write a ticket Gravy wouldn’t pay and then a warrant would be issued. It was like a Get Into Jail Free card the cop could slap on Gravy whenever he wanted. Or, Gravy could argue himself right into the squad car and shorten the process considerably. Gravy closed his notebook and moved to a park bench.
The cop pointed to the curb and said, “Don’t let me see you here again.” But he knew he would.
Isaac asked Gravy if he’d seen Wesley. The kid was still amped up, jab-combing his fingers alongside his head, as if the cop had messed with his hair.
“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”
Isaac wasn’t sure he was. He was really looking for peace and quiet and hoping Wesley would know where to find it.
JAYzus!
Isaac’s father Carl loosens his chokehold on the steering wheel and slaps a palm twice on the dash. JAYzus CHRIST!
Isaac cowers in the back seat on the passenger side. Joe is safe in the middle, Jake untouchable behind their father.
Keeee—the air crackles as Carl raises his hand to grasp the lightning bolt—RRRRIST!
The dashboard compass lurches hard NE to SW and back, then quivers, unable to escape Hurricane Carl.
Isaac, go get your mother!
Isaac has to go, last in, first out. That’s why the boys race for the back seat on Sunday.
We’re going to be late for GOD-whump!-DAMN-whump!-CHURCH! - whump!
Three whumps against the cloth headliner, the roof of the Dodge like a bass drum. She must be able to hear from the kitchen.
Isaac pushes the front seat forward and hunches out. He thinks he might throw up. His shoulders stay bent as he crosses the carport to the kitchen door. He slides sideways through the smallest opening to keep dust from blowing into the house.
His mother is on her knees in her church dress, scrubbing a brown spot where the linoleum pattern has been worn away in front of the stove.
Come on, Mom, it’s time to go.
She looks up sharply. Isaac knows to wait. His father knows not to come in.
We’ll get there. We always do.
She draws the stiff brush back and forth across the floor three more times, then swills it in the pail and raps it against the rim. When she stands to put the brush under the sink, her knees are marked with two rosy hearts.
WOMPWOMPWOMPF. Let’s GO-O-O!
Joseph! Your baby brother can’t do a simple task. Not one goddam thing I ask him to do.
BAP BAP BAAAAAP.
Isaac tries to take her hand.
Please...
I have to put on my hose, sweetie.
He watches her to the bedroom door. He scans the kitchen, notices the Fat Chef cookie jar’s torso is askew and he sets it right. A car door slams. The kitchen door rattles open.
Thanks a lot.
I tried. You know how she is.
Joe mock-harelips it back to him. I tried. You know how she is. You wimp. Where is she?
Changing. Putting on her nylons.
Great. If she’s not out in ten seconds, you have to go get her.
I can’t. She’s getting dressed!
BAP-BAAAAP!
She could be back there sewing on buttons!
She doesn’t do it on purpose.
Ten...nine...
It’s not my fault.
Eight...seven...
The bedroom door opens. His mother steps into the kitchen wearing the same indigo dress, now with white pumps and a white straw hat that matches the wicker handbag draped on her wrist.
Are we ready?
As Isaac and Joe hesitate, she stoops to pick up the pail of water.
Let’s go, your father’s waiting.
Isaac scurries ahead and Joe follows Marian, herding so he’ll earn the credit for extracting her. Jacob sits in back with arms crossed, above everything.
It’s a miracle, their father roars.
He cranks the Dodge, then revs the engine loudly. Marian crosses the carport with her pail, to where a clematis climbs one of the corner posts. She slowly trickles the clear water around its roots.
FAUGH! MARIAN!
A forearm slams against the tilted back of the front seat. It rebounds upright against the broken catch and returns to the folded position.
Remind me to bring that pail into the kitchen when we get back, Carl. I don’t think I have time to put it away now.
No one but Carl speaks on the ride to church. His flaming words decry drivers and pedestrians who impede him, unneeded stop signs, unresponsive traffic lights, illogical speed limits, the decision to build the new church in a distant location, thus forcing him to break the law—points he accentuates with brake-stomping stops and smoking accelerations.
Well practiced, Marian and the boys brace against whiplash as Carl screeches to the church entrance. They emerge and he peels off to find the last damn parking spot!
A row at the front remains open to the last minute. The Samson pew.
As the priest enters from the vestry, Carl thumps triumphantly in his seat. Marian half turns so the boys see her tight-lipped smile.
Each parent seems to say: What did I tell you?
Moderate winters, affordable home prices and easy access to the outdoors make this valley an attractive retirement destination.
—“Home” with Meg Mogrin, Grand Junction Style
“Lew Hungerman’s coming in a jet?” Meg said.
Eve Winslow paused on the other end of the line. “Isn’t that what you say when you meet someone at the airport?”
“I say meet his flight. His plane. You said his jet.”
The mayor huffed. “Okay, word girl. He’s landing at the charter hangar. I don’t know if it’s a jet. Maybe it has propellers. Or it’s the company flying saucer. Anyway, Dan, Vince and I are picking him up at five-thirty. Come.”
“Gawd, you’ll need a limo.” Meg imagined the delegation holding up a placard for MR. HUNGERMAN. “You don’t want to look desperate.”
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