Isaac: you could give him two random numbers, tell him to multiply them in his head: 439 times 892. He could tell you the answer in a few seconds. He just saw the answer, he didn't even do the calculation. Divide them—it was the same. Once she'd sat with a calculator, testing him, certain he must have memorized certain combinations of numbers, certain there was some trick. But there was no trick. There's parts of me I don't understand, he said, and shrugged.
Her boyfriend from freshman year, Todd Hughes, the physics major, had loved Isaac, seen his brilliance, offered to help with the applications. Isaac had sat next to Todd for most of the weekend. But she'd gotten bored with Todd. Or maybe he had just come too soon, she had been too young. You should have stayed with him just for Isaac, she thought. You're the only one in this family who isn't making any sacrifices. Simon, who had met Isaac that same weekend, had formed no real impression of him, and Isaac had formed no impression of Simon.
There had been a time once, through most of high school, when it had seemed to her that if she closed her eyes and thought about it long enough, she could see exactly where Isaac was. Because you knew his routine, she thought. There was no magic in it. She continued to drive along the high road that followed the river.
Alright, she thought. She pulled over at the place by the river and turned off the car and looked out over the grass and the gorge rising steeply out of the water and the way the river bent quickly out of sight, unknowable. She put her head on the steering wheel and closed her eyes and thought about her brother.
9. Isaac
From the dark woods, through the screen of leaves, he could see two people standing at the edge of the Wal- Mart parking lot, where it was well lit. They were young men, around his age, wearing their blue vests. Happy for the diversion—chase the shoplifter. Tell all their friends they nearly caught you. But following you into the dark …
He turned and continued farther into the woods, reaching a stream after a few hundred yards, the water shining in the faint moonlight that came through the canopy. Old tires and mattresses, beer bottles. No one coming down here after you. There's a path on the other side.
He wasn't sure of the direction but he followed the flowing water. That was easy, he thought. You knew you needed that coat, didn't have to think about it. Allow things to happen and they work out fine. Overthink, get self- conscious, that's when your mistakes happen. Staying in that old factory when the Swede showed up, then going back to move the body. Deciding to sleep in that clearing near a person you didn't trust. Letting go of your knife while he robs you of everything, instead you grab his coat, then chase him down the street. What would you have done if you'd caught him—used your powers of rhetoric?
If Poe were here he wouldn't have let you do that, keep sleeping near the Baron. No, if Poe were here I wouldn't have even met the Baron. Except Poe is not here. You will probably never see him again. Think about that, Watson—all those people are gone to you. There was a hollow feeling that started in his stomach and quickly spread through the rest of his body. Keep walking, he thought. It'll pass.
A mile or so later it felt safe enough to stop. He'd crossed under several bridges, it was a different neighborhood, less trash along the stream. Time to get cleaned up. One last look around. See—you're alone. He stripped off his old clothes. There were lights from distant houses but it was very dark along the stream, comforting. Everything changing. Used to be afraid of the dark, now it makes you feel safe. Remember being a kid, sleeping out in the yard and leaving the tent fly open so you could see the house. Different story these days.
Alright, stop dawdling. Get that scraggle off your face. He set the stolen toiletries on a rock by the water and stripped down until he was just wearing his new pants, then splashed the streamwater on his face and hair, lathered and rinsed, rubbed the shaving gel onto his cheeks and neck and shaved by feel. Picked a cheap razor like you were paying for it. Make another pass to be sure. He relathered his face and shaved a second time. Dry off quick—tainted water, a trillion bacteria per gallon. Smells like fuel oil. E. coli. A new man, washed clean by filth. Where's your undershirt?
He dressed carefully, tucking his new clean shirt into his clean pants, pulling the fleece on top and then the jacket. All the energy bars had fallen out of his pockets, probably while he was running. Forgot to close the zippers, he thought. An entire day's worth of food. He shook his head. Doesn't matter. Focus on the good—clean hair, clean face, clean clothes. In a minute you'll be warm again.
Still following the stream, he passed behind a long apartment complex and under another busy roadway, then a second development, town-homes with backyards that came down to the water. Suburban dreamland, creek in your backyard. Meanwhile there's a dark side—a conduit for wanted men.
He stopped to look at the houses just up the hill, the people oblivious in their good lighting. Woodsmoke in the air, cozy fires. A teenager on her back porch talking on a cellphone; a dozen or so people in the house next door, some sort of party, all oblivious to Isaac walking through the darkness, fifty yards away.
Theoretical situation: let's say you had to choose between you and them—those people there, total strangers. Press the red button, drop a nuke. That's not a useful question, he thought. Okay so imagine they had to answer—if they had to choose between themselves and you? No mystery there, especially now. Strange body means nothing. Call the police, half minute of angst and back to your chardonnay Worry more about your Labrador. Alright Watson, keep moving. No rest for the weary.
Up on someone's porch, a dog began to bark. Speaking of—thinks you'll steal his kibble. The people at the party looked through the window toward Isaac, but didn't see him. Meanwhile pooch knows you're here—the supposedly dumb animal.
He kept walking. Don't think about these people, your day has been bad enough. Spared the rod spoiled the Baron. Seemed like the only choice but maybe it was not—six dollars in your pocket and the police have seen your face. He felt a shiver go through him. Ended up in gun-sights. Cop could have shot you dead. Would have been legal, a fleeing felon. His compassion made the trigger too heavy—you reminded him of his son. Only luck you've had in years.
Two days and you'll be out of food and money, presuming something doesn't happen before then. Can't beg on streetcorners—they know your description. Most likely they have your pack as well, your name. Not to mention any fallout from the Swede. Interstate warrant.
Keep on like this and they'll find your body in the bushes. To them just another mystery, to you no please, then a whispered sorry kid, feel your life fading out. Maybe not tomorrow but eventually. Don't pretend it's one way when it's another. You need to start doing things differently.
He kept walking, glanced around him in the darkness. No one is watching, just you. Might be too late anyway. You might have already traded yourself for the Baron.
— — —
Much later the stream teed into a broad clearing for a powerline. It was clear and flat and with the starlight and faint moon he could see a long way in both directions, the land stretching out on either side of him.
Polaris behind you—going south. Sit a minute. He found a place in the tall grass and relaxed, looking into the distance, down the long swath cut for the powerlines. He closed his eyes and the afterimages quickly resolved into faces. He opened them again and looked around in the darkness. There was nothing. Big deal, he thought. He put his head on his bony knees. He could see men sitting around a fire. You're just tired, he thought. But the faces wouldn't go away, it was the Swede and the others and something else as well, a dim shape just outside the light. Then the Swede was standing there, fully lit in the glow from the stove, saying he must have already took off. Last words. Small choices—you came in a different door than you went out. Knew not to go back in the same way.
Only reason you and Poe are alive, that small choice. Your own body trying to keep you breathing—go in the other door. Hard-wiring. Old as gravity. Look what you did to the Swede: no pre
meditation, no knife, gun, or club. A found object. A natural part of you, the lower level. Built into every man woman child, you tell yourself you don't need it but look around you. Your friend over the stranger. Yourself over the friend. Highest stakes and you are still here and the other guy is not.
Then what is the point? He took a deep breath. Need to get moving again. He was exhausted, his legs had stiffened and cramped in the few minutes he'd been sitting, but he stood up and began to walk.
Here is the point: keep setting one foot in front of the other. Stay warm. What you did in that store you'll have to do again, maybe not tomorrow but the next day. Pretend you're different but you're not. Still have to eat.
You need to admit this. Stop walking. No, I would rather not. Put my faith in the kid, he'll figure something out.
He continued to push through the tall grass. Above him the sky was broad and dark and he could no longer see lights from any houses.
There is no kid, he thought. There is only you.
10. Grace
She'd barely slept and the light had been coming in the window awhile now, morning again, there was no point. She called in sick to work. She had to think. She found herself standing by Billy's door; the hole he'd punched and covered with masking tape, some tantrum or other, she didn't remember the reason, she pushed the door open and went into his room. There was a stillness, sunlight and old dustmotes. Feel of a tomb. She eased herself into his bed, the smell of him still strong, her boy and the man he'd become.
The childish feel of the place, old posters sagging, piles of things clumped together, clothes and shoes and hunting magazines, school papers he'd labored over, a curtain rod that had fallen down months ago but he hadn't bothered to put back up. She should eat but she wasn't hungry. She had done the best she could, it had not been enough. She would never know the reasons but she had not been good enough, she would never understand it. He had made her life simple, she saw now— how many times did you keep going just for him. A reason for living the same as a reason for dying. The heaviness she felt, she could not imagine herself getting up.
His hunting bow leaning in one corner, his rifle next to the bed, the only two things he religiously took care of, he always waxed the bowstring and oiled the rifle and kept them both on their respective mounts on the wall, wooden pegs he had made himself. She got up and lifted the Winchester, cocked the hammer, she didn't know if it was loaded or not. She didn't check the chamber, just held it in her hands and felt the weight. It was a game she could play, loaded or not. If it turned out to be loaded it would not be her fault.
After a time she put the gun down and her hands began to shake. She needed to leave the room, leave Billy's room, but she didn't want to. She sat back down on the bed.
She would have to get rid of the gun, give it to Harris. But maybe it was too late, the thought had entered her mind, a slow undermining, like water along a river, or the way an old mineshaft could suddenly collapse a house. It took the earth out from under you and then …
Except there was still Harris. She wouldn't be alone. But without Billy she wondered if she would get quieter and quieter, shrink until there was nothing, it had always been borrowed time, it was all built on hope. Underneath all the bullshit about choosing to be happy, there was hope. Meaning doubt. The heart doing its skip jump that everything was about to change.
It was faith she was talking about, always thinking better things were waiting when really it was a rat's nest, one of those knots you couldn't untie.
She stood up and opened Billy's closet, nothing was on shelves, it was all a tall pile that was barely held back by the closet door. It would all have to be thrown away, he was never coming back.
Except I didn't hurt anyone, she said out loud. Why should I be the one to pay for it. That was true—she hadn't hurt anyone. The work she did at the women's shelter—she had helped a lot of people. On Billy's dresser there were a few old beer bottles, she didn't know how long they'd been sitting there, she picked up one by the neck, hefted it, she wanted to throw it through the window, she wanted to scream and smash everything in the room. But there was no one there to see it, or hear her. If no one heard your sounds then you did not really make them.
I am a good person, she said out loud, I have always done the right thing. She was the kind of person who went out of her way for people. And Billy, it was self- defense, she could not stop thinking that. Self-defense, she had seen his neck. One of those people, probably the man who'd died, had been trying to cut her son's throat. It was self- defense but no one was saying that. He would go to prison, lose his life for nothing. And the ones who put him there …
Say it, she thought. Say what you're thinking. Say what you're meaning now. She went into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror, washed her hands and face. I am a good person but it is not fair what is happening to my son. And Harris can find that man. Good person or a good mother, there was not supposed to be a difference. But there was. It was not the same thing. Except it was. It was self- defense, it was this man, this homeless man, a no one, Harris said, or Billy. There was no question about it, it was not how you were supposed to think but there it was, it was the other man for Billy.
— — —
She took a long bath and used the sandalwood bubble soap she'd been saving for a year now, a present from the women at the shelter. What would they say? But they would all do the same thing, any mother would, there wasn't a choice about it. She called Harris and he promised to come over.
11. Harris
There was something wrong with Grace, she was sitting on the couch as if surprised to see him there, for a second he wondered if Virgil had come back but his truck wasn't outside. Then he thought no, she must be drunk.
“I didn't hear you come up,” she said. She patted the couch next to her.
“Bad day?”
She nodded.
“Anything I can do?”
She shook her head. “I guess I just got to thinking it was a sign, Billy and all. Like I gave it my best and …” She shrugged.
“It's not a sign. It's still early.”
“You don't have to lie about it anymore.”
“He's a good boy” he said. “Things will start going better for him.” He said it and it didn't even feel like a lie, Billy being a good kid, it was just something he wished were true.
“Thanks,” she said.
“I mean it.”
They kissed a little but there wasn't any heat in it. He had a moment of panic, he wanted to shake her, he had the feeling he was going to lose her again. They were both just sitting there on the couch staring at different things like an old couple.
“Let's go out somewhere,” he said. “I'll take you to Speers Street.”
“Nah,” she said. She lifted her hand and brought it down hard on his, almost a slap. She squeezed it.
“There's still a lot that has to happen.”
“I know what's going to happen to him, Bud.”
He started to contradict her but there was no point, Billy was not going to be saved, in fact he was going to drag her under as well, he was going to drag all three of them under. There was a sudden rush of anger and he crossed his arms over his chest as if to squeeze it out of himself. The looks she used to give Billy, it had always made him jealous, he was embarrassed to admit it but it was true, he had been jealous of her son. A guilty thought came to him: it would have been better if the boy had died—she'd be able to move on, believe what she wanted. Now the boy both existed and didn't exist, he was there but being kept from her, she would never be able to stop thinking about him. The only torch she could carry.
She interrupted his thoughts: “You're lucky you're alone.”
“Grace,” he said. “Poor Grace.”
“I'm serious, it's not worth it.”
“Let's get out of here. We could go up to the city, even. We could go to Vincent's, we haven't been there in years.”
She leaned over, hugging herself. “I ju
st want my stomach to stop hurting.”
“Have you eaten anything?”
“I can't.”
“You need to.”
She shook her head.
He rubbed her back, then ran his fingers up and down it, gentle, and closed his eyes and felt the fabric of her blouse.
“I know I'm lucky,” she said. “I'm sorry I'm being so dramatic.”
“No, come here,” he said. She leaned into him, put her head on his shoulder, and he closed his eyes again.
“Maybe I need to make love,” she said. “I think that's what I need.”
They kissed some more and it was awkward and he half- wanted to stop but she wouldn't let him. It was a long time before they were both ready and then it took a long time to finish. He felt drained and she got up and she went to the bedroom and came back wearing a bathrobe; he sat awkwardly on the couch without his clothes. After a while he put his undershirt over his lap.
“Not to beat a dead horse,” he said. “You should try to eat.”
“I just want to lie down.”
“Okay.”
“I need to give you these things before I forget.”
She got up again and came back with the lever- action rifle, he recognized the old .30-30 that was Billy's, and an old single- barrel shotgun.
“It's probably better if you take these.”
He stood up naked and looked into her eyes but there was nothing in them. She handed the guns over impassively. He set them in the corner by the door.
— — —
After lying in the bed awhile they slept together again, not awkwardly but as if by routine, she was responding to his touch but it was not the same, she had retreated to some place the signals barely reached. When they were done they lay there holding hands. She would never get over this. He would have to make a decision.
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