She shook her head. “There's a hospital across the bridge over in Charleroi,” she told him.
“I can pay.” He opened his wallet to show her. He could smell the food, frying potatoes and meat, he was not going anywhere. He was surprised to be standing up to her—in the old days he would have walked out immediately, gone looking for another place. “Put yourself in my shoes,” he said.
For a moment he wondered if he'd said too much, but then she sighed and pointed him toward the back of the diner, toward the bathroom. The other patron, a middle- aged black man with his lunch pail, looked up from his magazine at Isaac and then quickly back to his magazine. He sipped his coffee and didn't look at Isaac again.
To get to the men's washroom he had to edge by stacked boxes of paper towels and cooking oil, and once inside he locked the door and stood in front of the mirror. A corpse mucked up from the riverbed. Or a mass grave. His pants and coat were covered with mud and grass and his face was smeared with ashy dirt. He would not have let himself into a diner, or anywhere. One eye was badly swollen and his lip was split and it was hard to tell where the dried blood ended and the dirt began. After using the toilet he stripped and stood in front of the sink and mirror; his filthy brown face didn't belong to his pale white body pink scrapes along his ribs, the faint purple of developing bruises. He washed his hair and face in the sink, splashing dirt everywhere, thinking man the most fragile creation—them more than you. Now the cold towelwash, way to clean a corpse. Body's last bath. Special attention to crevices—probably they use a hose now, drip dry, automatic wash for bulk processing. Who knows who touches you after you're dead? He took another handful of paper towels and wet them and continued to bathe himself. Shivering already, water cools quickly. A tub a warm womb we take for granted—the nature of wombs. My mother bathed herself. Wonder if they cleaned her after. Like the bogmen—preserved in peat. Not Swede Otto—no baths at taxpayer expense. Pauper's grave too expensive. Incinerator his final warmth. Clear out your head, he thought. You're not there yet.
When he was finished he took out his knife and carefully soaped down the blade, rinsed it and dried it, then dried himself with the last of the wadded paper towel, he had used two entire rolls. The place had been very clean before he came in and he carefully wiped off the floor and sink before going back out into the dining room. He examined himself in the mirror. From the waist up, it was okay. The coat had kept most of the dirt off his shirt and sweater. Don't wear the coat into places, he thought. Take it off first.
When he came out of the bathroom the waitress was watching for him and she raised her bulk up slowly like her knees were going and brought him a menu and a cup of coffee. Sitting there in his booth, the entire back corner of the restaurant to himself, he was warm and clean and dry, it was a comfortable feeling. He added cream and lots of sugar and sipped his coffee and felt his head begin to clear. He would take his time. He would enjoy himself. He ordered country fried steak and hash browns, three eggs over easy, a slice of peach pie. She took the order and refilled his coffee and he adjusted it to his exact preference, sweet and creamy, almost like dessert. He looked around the diner, it was a nice place, it was really more of a restaurant, a few dozen tables with checkered tablecloths, they probably never filled it anymore but it was very clean and pleasantly dim, knotty pine paneling, a high ornate tin ceiling. The walls were covered with team photos of the Monessen Greyhounds football team, photos of Dan Marino and Joe Montana, the Valley's biggest NFL stars, and a few framed posters from bullfights in Spain, souvenirs of a trip someone had made twenty years before. The waitress came back with his food.
“Get any licks in?” She indicated his face.
“Not really.”
“That bad, huh?”
“There was a bunch of them.”
“You ought to just go home,” she said. “It won't get any better.”
“You always this nice to your customers?”
She smiled at him and he found himself smiling back. She had braces on her teeth.
“There you go. Don't take that crap off me.” She went slowly back to her table, leaving two plates of food in front of him. “I'll bring the pie in a minute,” she said.
He cut his steak into small pieces, the crispy fried outside and the meat inside rich and dripping juice, it was the best food he'd ever eaten. He forked some hash browns, fried hard with onion, mixed one of the eggs into it, it felt like he'd never eaten before in his life, he wanted to take small bites and make it last forever but couldn't help shoveling huge forkfuls, she brought his pie and refilled his coffee and the sharpness of the coffee was good with the rich food. When the plate was finally empty he went for the pie.
He sat back with his eyes closed, though he knew he couldn't fall asleep. It is a good life, he thought. It is a good life to walk into someplace and eat food. The waitress appeared again with a bowl of ice cream.
“On the house,” she said. “You clean up pretty good.”
After sitting for a while he could feel himself drifting off, it was so warm, he decided not to push his luck. He looked at the bill. She'd only charged him for the eggs and coffee, two dollars and eight cents. He looked up to thank her but she was already back at her table, daydreaming.
He thought about a tip, he needed his money to last, but left her ten dollars. Poor to the poor. He was going to spend it anyway.
Back on the street his bruises hurt less and he hadn't felt so good in years, he wanted to lie in the sun and take a nap. Once past the town he left the road and crossed the field to the train tracks again and then found a grassy secluded spot on the riverbank. It was sunny and he took off his shirt and shoes and sat out in just his pants. You need to keep moving. He shook his head. I might be dead tonight. Enjoy the nice things as they come.
He lay there and felt the sun on him. Simple pleasures we're wired for. A million years of evolution—appreciate a sunny day.
You are being tested, he thought. What's going to happen with the Swede? I can't think about that now, he decided. I'll get to Berkeley and I'll see. If something happens, at least I'll have done that. Eventually they'll find out what you did. Poe will talk. It's just the way he is. He can't help it. Even so, he thought. He's the best of them.
He closed his eyes. He wondered if his sister was still in Buell. What if she just drove by right now? I'd go with her. Have everything I need right here. He tried to will it, get into the car, Lee, and drive. Meet you by the side of the 906. But of course it was ridiculous. She couldn't hear him.
At her graduation he remembered how he'd felt sitting next to her. The principal had gone on for ten minutes, National Merit scholar, perfect SATs, got into Yale, Stanford, Cornell, and Duke. All four of you were there. That felt like the moment that everything seemed to make complete sense. You could see the exact moment you would be standing up yourself, felt like seeing through time. Very clear picture in your mind—watching her you imagined yourself. Remember that well. Then Mom was dead and Lee was leaving, you hoped she might stay, but of course. Who would—new life waiting—it became even more important to get out. Can't blame her.
He saw a large hawk, no it was an eagle, they were coming back. Things were always changing. Sometimes good and sometimes bad. Your only job was to wake up until you were stopped. He would. His sister had had it easier but there was no point in worrying about it. He would make his own way. He would be living in the mountains in northern California, green and much taller than the hills around here, they were actual mountains. Near an observatory. An observatory in the house, look at the stars anytime, the house would have a long porch that stuck way out over a cliff so it felt like you were floating in space. Like Lee you won't be on your own. Remember that visit to New Haven— everyone, in their way, was like you and Lee. It was difficult to imagine but his sister had done it and in most ways she had far less idea of what she wanted. He had always known what he wanted to do. Of course she'd still beaten him on the SATs. Forty points. Within the statist
ical error. In fact that was the first thing she'd said when he'd told her his score—well, it's within the margin of error. Sympathetic human person that she is. Except there was the thing with Poe. That was what screwed it all up. It would not have been a big deal, he knew everyone else she'd slept with in the Valley, there were two others, it hadn't bothered him, or not much, anyway. The thing with Poe somehow seemed like an indication of something much bigger. He couldn't think of exactly why, but he was sure of it.
Change of subject, he thought. Feel that sun. In California it will be like this most of the year. Dose of the ultraviolet. Heals bruises and kills bacteria. Ultra means you can't see it. No, it means very. Fuckin retard. He sat up and looked around. There were grass and trees all around and the river right in front of him. To the south was a big intermodal terminal, long piles of coal and cinders and other bulk materials, just to the south of that the three big bridges to Charleroi, and beyond the bridges he could still make out the cranes of the lock. There were barges log-jammed, waiting to pass through the lock chamber.
I'm past all that, he thought, to the north it's just woods. The sun was bright, he could feel it on his skin, prickling like fingers running over him, he didn't want to let himself fall asleep, it felt so good. There were four men fishing on the opposite bank and there was something about them sitting there, even across the river, he dozed off. Fishers of men. He woke up in the shade, the sun had crossed over the river and was low over the western hills, the fishermen were gone. Second day you slept through. You could just get a bus ticket, he thought, sleep and be moving at the same time. Right—leave a trail saying just where you're headed. But in a railyard he would need to ask someone anyway, figure what lines ran south or west. It was better than buying a ticket. He checked his wallet and he still had twenty- two dollars, plus the nearly four thousand in the envelope in his cargo pants pocket.
Walking again, his legs had gotten stiff while he slept and he made slow progress. It was long after dark that he passed under the Mon City bridge, the train tracks ran through a long industrial zone with brightly lit warehouses and he walked the treeline, at the edge of the light, passing dozens of old shipping containers, a house sagging into the water, tractor trailers sitting with their tires flattened and their paint weathered away. Across the river were the towns of Mon City and New Eagle, brightly lit, he was happy to not be on that side of the river. Ahead of him was a long dark stretch through high forest, the polished railtops caught what little light there was from the stars, glowing faintly. As soon as he was in the darkness he felt safe again. A few owls hooted but otherwise it was silent except for his footsteps and the drumming of a passing towboat and its barges. He thought he should feel thirsty but for some reason he was not. He would have to get a container for water.
On the other side of the river an enormous plume of smoke and steam rose from the West Penn Power station, its stacks several hundred feet high and the steam plume bright against the night sky. Dark piles of coal next to it, they might have been minor pyramids, several dozen barges coming and going in the river next to the plant. A few miles later, again on the opposite side of the river, he passed the Elrama power plant, even larger, well lit by yellow sodium lights, the main stack maybe five hundred feet tall, the billow of steam blotting out an entire section of the sky, clean and white- looking. Except it's burning coal, he thought. It is definitely not clean. Shortly after that he passed through a dark mine complex with a railyard and big coal tipple, the ground was black with it, the coal crunched underfoot. There were endless railcars loaded with it sitting motionless on the tracks, empty barges tied to their landing cells. Later he came to a brightly lit industrial park and to avoid being seen he cut up the hill into the woods away from the river until he reached a dark road that ran parallel.
There was a small dark hamlet, a fire station, empty and closed for the night. A few houses with aboveground pools, a porch light here or there but otherwise it was pitch black. The road was quiet and he could make out the stars well. Farther along he came to a bonfire in a yard next to one of the houses, two dozen or so people, probably half the town, standing around drinking. Someone was about to jump into a swimming pool, he could see by how white they looked that they weren't wearing any clothes, though it was cold out. He kept his head down and tried to pass quickly but they noticed him.
“Hey,” someone shouted from near the fire. “Come on down and have a beer.”
He ignored them but they called out again. He waved and put his head down, hoping he would quickly be out of sight.
“Who the hell is that,” he heard someone shout to him. “Is that Brian Foote?”
Isaac waved again and kept walking.
Two blocks later at the edge of town he heard a bottle break in the street and turned to see a group of figures following him, silhouetted against the light. There were four of them. Instead of waiting to see what happened he began running immediately, holding his backpack tight against him, ignoring his ankle and the bruises in his thighs and the sharp pain in his ribs, he could hear people yelling things and his legs ached with each step and the pack slapped but he didn't slow down.
When the road curved he jumped off into the woods and waited in the pitch black to see if he'd been followed. No one came. Many explanations—they thought you were someone skipping out on their party. Or they wanted to give you a repeat of last night's treatment. Still… He relaxed. Chased by bandits the kid perseveres—this time without injury. Yet, knowing he is the most interesting part of their evening, he fears they'll come after him with a car. There was a drainage that led up the side of the valley away from the river and he followed it. The stream was rushing with a good amount of force and he had to spend a lot of time finding dry footing in the dark. It wound up between steep hills and he quickly lost all sense of direction, felt a sense of panic and then relaxed again. Figure it out in the morning. Be able to see when the sun comes up. Soon enough he came out into a large clearing where the grass had been recently mowed. No lights or houses in sight. It was very soft and he lay down at the edge of it under a few overhanging branches to catch the dew.
Tucked into his sleeping bag he closed his eyes and saw afterimages, of what he didn't know. It looked like people walking. He saw the road he'd walked on that morning and the people on it. He opened his eyes. His face was cool but the rest of him was warm. It was a cold clear night. He saw the Swede again, standing there by the stove, his face half in shadow now. This is normal, he thought. Lying in his sleeping bag he reached out to touch the soft grass again, it was cool and damp and soft. He watched the stars and tried to forget about the Swede.
Knew you shouldn't stay here this long. Knew something bad would come of it. Told yourself you were biding your time but you knew. I had nowhere to go. Neither did Lee—she made a place for herself. Mr. Painter offers to introduce you to his father, professor at Cornell. A pretty sure thing, he told you.
I was not ready to leave yet, he thought. Different for Lee—easy for people to like her. Her mother dies and she leaves the place, the scar erased. Tells you she only thinks about home the way it used to be. Never occurred to her that you did not have that luxury. Beginning of sophomore year, suddenly you're alone in the house with the old man. Meanwhile Lee had the whole family waiting on her. Our Daisy Flower. Quiet in the house if she was studying, a big deal over her report cards. Leave yours out for him but he never says a word.
If he were in your shoes he would have put you in a home. Asked him that once, what if I got hurt same as you. Wouldn't answer. Still you stayed. Because that is not how I am, even to people like him. No, he thought, that is not the only thing. You wanted his approval. Because you wanted him to admit he needed you. No, I stayed because it would have been wrong to leave him on his own. But still you left. After five years, he thought. That was not a rational decision. That was not a decision that made any sense.
He closed his eyes. I am doing fine for myself, he thought. Better than yesterday. Tomor
row will be better than today. It was dark and peaceful and after watching the stars for a minute he found the ones he knew and fell into a fitful sleep.
7. Grace
She called Harris four times that day from Steiner's shop, but each time got his voicemail. She was working faster than normal, forcing herself to concentrate; she could not let her mind wander. At one point, Steiner came by her bench, took note of her progress, and smiled at her. She nodded back grimly and put her head down. Billy had killed someone. It was obvious—the way he'd come home Friday, now Harris taking him in for questioning, holding him overnight. She had barely slept. Harris had decided he wouldn't take her calls. She could try him from the office line, he wouldn't recognize that number, but then someone might overhear. She would have to wait until she got home.
Sometime later she was aware of a touch at her shoulder—Steiner again.
“Closing time,” he said. “You look like you're in another world.” He seemed concerned but she couldn't bring herself to look at him. It was Steiner. You never knew. He'd slept with Barb and Lindsay Werner, she knew that much. But if somehow he could lend her money for a lawyer, save Billy—of course she would. Between her son and her dignity, it was no contest. It occurred to her suddenly that it was a luxury to not have to do those things.
“I'm alright,” she said. “Trying to get us caught up.” She smiled at him.
He smiled back at her and squeezed her shoulder and she got an uncomfortable feeling, disgusted with herself.
“See you tomorrow then,” she said.
Getting her things together, taking the freight elevator downstairs, walking up the hill to where she'd parked the car, she felt sick. It was not possible anyway that Billy had done that. And if he had—she would have to scrape herself together, keep her chin up. Once you lost your dignity, that was it. Dignity is life.
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