| Firewood by Chris Riley |
| Chris Riley won a fellowship
in fiction from the Massachusetts Council of The Arts with his short
story, FIREWOOD. The story was also short-listed in the Pirate's Alley
Faulkner Contest. The droning of the plane’s engines brought Eddie awake with a shudder. He lay on his stomach, motionless, eyes shut, flattening himself into the earth, trying to remember if he was in low terrain or lying exposed on high ground. He felt no heat from the sun, though the light filtering through his eyelids told him it was daylight. Perhaps he was under cover, protected. He tried to remember how many days he’d been lost. Three? Five? If only he could get himself to think straight. The noise drew closer and he felt the throbbing through the ground now, working its way into his thighs, his stomach, his chest. He pushed his face down, forcing the grass up against his eyelids, into his nose. Grass. He went limp. “No planes,” he crooned, “no planes, no planes.” After a while, he lifted his head and opened his eyes. He was lying at the bottom of a grass covered embankment. To his right, a massive oak thrust high above him; and to his left, at the top of the embankment, an eighteen wheeler thundered by. “No planes,” he whispered He rolled over slowly, grimacing at the pain in his lower back. His grandfather walked up to him and stood there looking at him, waiting, as though he’d asked a question and hadn’t heard the answer yet. Eddie tried to say something, but his lips wouldn’t move. The old man folded his arms across his chest and began rocking back and forth on his heels. “Didn’t I tell you to never sleep on bare ground?” Eddie nodded. “Told you, didn’t I. Told you a twenty year old man lay down on bare ground, he wake up forty in the morning. Earth sucks the life out of you. And it don’t give it back.” Eddie wanted to grab onto the old man’s leg. Maybe things would set themselves right if he could feel that knot-hard strength one more time. But before he could move, the old man shook his head slowly and walked away. Eddie shut his eyes. One of these days, he’d do something right. Look in someone’s eyes and see something besides disappointment. He listened to the traffic humming above him, the buzz of a bee, glanced over his shoulder at his mother. She was kneeling in the grass, bending forward, supporting herself on one hand and pushing the small red shovel into the black dirt with the other. Her straight blonde hair hung down around her face. The flowers sitting beside her were purple and blue and white and some of them had faces. She didn’t turn around when Eddie moved near the fence, and with one more glance over his shoulder he wriggled through the hole and was out on the other side. He came into a different world, dense and green, unbroken by the hard wire squares of the fence. The trees here were white and their skin pulled off in long strips he could curl around his finger. Where the trees stopped the grass started, different grass, long and rough against his bare legs, and taller so he had to part it with his hands to take a step. The grass began to bend ahead of him, then it straightened and bent again, a dance beckoning him forward until gradually the grass grew into tall dark trees that made the sky disappear. He turned, looked at the way back to the fence, but the trees were all around him now, an unbroken circle. Voices hummed through the branches above him, and as the trees closed in, he began to cry. Somewhere, far off, he heard his mother calling, but by then the trees were holding firm and wouldn’t let him go. He woke up sweating, looked at the sun through his fingers and judged it to be about one. He stood up, broke a small branch from a low-hanging limb and brushed away the marks he’d left in the dirt, until he remembered he didn’t need to do that anymore. He dropped the branch, relieved himself, and started up the embankment to the road. The breeze from the passing cars felt good, and a momentary happiness flared in his belly, standing there with his thumb out, staring back at the faces whipping by. He didn’t realize someone had stopped until he heard the horn. A silver pick-up was backing toward him. “Hey, you want a ride or not?” A man stuck his head out the passenger window, motioned with his thumb to the back of the truck. Eddie walked over and climbed in. The driver slid the rear window back, and the two men up front both turned and looked at him. “Goin about forty miles to 118 into Manchester,” the driver said. “Where do you want out?” “Manchester’s fine,” Eddie said, “thanks.” The driver pulled the window shut, the two men exchanged a glance, and in the reflection on the glass, Eddie saw the face of the man who’d been following him, that look in his eyes. He turned away. “Hey Eddie, want one?” He reached for the cigarettes Hondo held out to him, had a hard time lining up the match and the cigarette tip, with the truck bumping along the beat up road like a fucking mustang. P.K. stretched out and braced his sneakers against the tailgate. “You think your old man saw us back there?” “Nah.” Hondo crumpled the empty cigarette pack and tossed it over his shoulder. Eddie watched it bounce away behind them. Sharon sat up, squinting into the wind, her hair streaming back from her face. “Even if he did,” she said, she shrugged, “he wouldn’t do nothing. He’s cool. Now if it was my old lady,” her top lip curled into a sneer, “we’d all be dead.” “Ooooo, big deal,” Mickey piped up, “one skip day and we’re criminals.” They all laughed. Everyone always laughed at Mickey. She inched over near Eddie. “What’s a matter, Ed...how come you’re so quiet? Just cuz Pam couldn’t come? You gonna be a grouch all day now?” He shook his head. “Nah. It’s not that. It’s not Pam.” “Then what?” “I don’t know,” he glanced back at the glass, looked away. “It’s this guy. He’s been following me. Crazy looking. Some kinda queer or something.” P.K. looked up. Hondo leaned toward him. “Eddie, how come you didn’t say something?” He looked over at P.K. “We’ll get the fucker. Right? We’ll ream his ass.” P.K. smiled. They all smiled. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? The guys. All of them together. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the truck cab. The sun was hot. Everything felt okay now. The truck pulled onto the beach road and his head banged against the window. “Hey,” he yelled, “watch the goddamn potholes, will ya.” The faces in the back of the truck looked back at him. It was dark under the tarp, except for the point of red fire which flared briefly beneath each pair of eyes. He took the joint from the guy next to him, breathed the sweet smoke deep into his lungs. There was no noise in the back of the truck. No talk. Only the continuous jarring motion, the silent red illumination around and around the circle of faces. When his turn came again, he had his hand out for the reefer. He inhaled greedily, and the surrounding jungle receded a little more. “Goddamn spaced-out hippies.” The faces of the two men came into focus. He couldn’t remember the truck stopping or their getting out. He cleared his throat. “We here already?” “We been here a while,” one of them said. “You feelin okay?” “Yeah, sure. I’m fine.” He climbed down over the tailgate. “Thanks for the lift.” He looked around, picked a direction, started walking. Then he stopped and looked back. “Where did you say this was?” “Manchester.” They said it together. “Oh yeah. Manchester.” He raised a hand and walked away. Manchester, he thought. Manchester. Manchester. Sometimes, when things got loose, it was good to concentrate on one word. Manchester. Manchester, England. Manchester, New Hampshire. Melissa Manchester...whoever she was. Some girl he’d known, maybe. In California. Sounded like a California name. Like nothing. Like California was nothing. Like everything was nothing. “Manchester’s nothing,” he said. Two girls walking by stared at him. One giggled, and he smiled at them. They were young and pretty and self-conscious, and he stopped because he wanted to talk to them, but they moved away, whispering, glancing back. He walked along the sidewalk, stopping in front of the first store he came to, studied the display on the other side of the glass. After a while, his eyes focused on his own reflection, and at first he didn’t know himself. Then he smiled, and the eyes glowing out of the tanned leather face in the window smiled back. He touched a hand to the tangled brown hair on his face and head and swore softly. He went along the street, stopping at each store, standing for a long time at each window, staring at the faces on the other side, and then moving away. He stopped in front of a fruit stand, ran his eyes up and down rows of oranges and apples and bananas. “Apples,” he said, “Macintosh, Delicious, Rome, Cortland, Green, Crab ...” People near him moved away, and he picked up three apples and put two back. He crossed the street and sat down on a bench, crunching the warm apple between his teeth, licking the juice off his lips. He watched the people walking by, measuring them by their response to his stare, lifted a hand to those who stared back. But no one outstared him. No one ever outstared him. Beside him, Murph was slumped down in his wheelchair, his face buried in one hand. A bus stopped on the other side of the black iron fence and half a dozen people got off. “Jesus Christ.” Murph shifted in his chair. Then he spit toward the fence. A woman walking away from the bus frowned. “Why in hell they stick us out here...” he spit again, ”...must be how they get their goddamn kicks.” Eddie stared through the fence at the sidewalk. It didn’t bother him the way it bothered Murph. For him, it was like a game, because he could make anyone who looked in look away. “What the hell do you care? So it’s check-out-the-freaks time.” Phil flipped his eye patch up. Eddie stared at the purple gash of skin. “C’mon Murph,” Phil said, “give ‘em their money’s worth. Show ‘em your stubs.” “Fuck you,” Murph said. Phil chuckled. Then he looked at Eddie. “You with us today, spaceman?” They both looked at him, and his fingers tightened on the chair arms as he tried to force the words through his teeth. Only spit came out and they looked away. Phil lit two cigarettes, passed one to Eddie. “So what do ya think, Murph,” he said. “She gonna show today?” “What the fuck do I care?” Murph growled. Eddie wanted Phil to knock it off, wanted him to leave Murph alone. Always needling him like that. Hey, Murph, what’s happened to Lizzie? Used to have to kick her outta here, now she shows maybe once, twice a month. Know what I think, Murph? I think she’s tryin to tell you something. Laughing. Like maybe she’s found someone with legs. Bastard. Phil was a goddamn bastard. Eddie tried to get it out, just that one word, felt the rage rising in his gut like thick shit. He took a deep drag, and jammed the cigarette into the soft white skin on Phil’s upper arm. “Goddamn fuckin sonofabitch!” Phil grabbed his arm. “Crazy goddamned bastard!” People walking by looked over. “Did you see what he did? The crazy bastard burned me with his fucking cigarette!” He lifted his elbow to look at the bubbly blackened spot. “I’m gonna kill him. I’m gonna fucking kill him!” “Shut your goddamn mouth and leave him alone,” Murph hissed. He gave Eddie a long look. Out on the sidewalk, a girl wearing a mini-skirt walked by and the three of them went silent, still. The sun was sitting on the horizon and long shadows stretched across the square when Eddie got up from the bench and started walking again. He headed toward a small diner set back from the road and went around to the back. A man and a boy were working in the kitchen. They stopped talking, looked up when Eddie walked in. “Hey,” Eddie said. The boy just looked. After a second, the man half-nodded. “I need a meal,” he said, looking from one to the other. “Got no money. Anything I can do to earn some food?” The man started shoving things around on the grill. The sounds of the fat sizzling and the smell of potatoes and onions frying made Eddie’s mouth water. “Nah,” the man said, “nothing around here you can do.” Eddie stood there for a second, then he nodded, turned to leave. “Here.” The man grabbed a paper bag and shoveled a hamburger from the grill into it, along with a handful of fried potatoes. “Give this to him.” He held the bag out to the boy, who walked over and handed it to Eddie. “Thanks,” Eddie said, “preciate it.” But the man had already turned back to the grill and seemed not to hear. There was a full moon rising as he walked away from town. He scanned both sides of the road until he found the cemetery, always easy to find. The old one. Right on the edge of the square. He walked around until he found a long flat slab buried in the ground, and sat down. The stone was still warm from the sun, and he ate the cold hamburger and fries out of the bag, lay down, crossed his hands under his head. He stared at the moon for a while, watching it grow smaller as it rose, caught Maryanne out of the corner of his eye coming toward him across the cemetery, the whiteness of her body luminous against the dark air. She made her way slowly to his side, knelt on the ground. They looked at each other for a long time and then Maryanne leaned forward and took one of his hands, held it against her cheek. She kissed it, slid it down along her body until his hand cradled her breast. He fingered the smooth firm flesh, the swollen nipple, waiting for the heat to rise in his groin. Finally she let his hand slip out of hers, stroked his cheek, smoothed his beard. “It’s been too long, Eddie. I can’t wait any more. I need you. Now.” He watched the moon travel down her cheek, reflected in a tear. “I just begin to feel you’re coming back, and then...” she opened her hands to the air, “you go away. You just go away.” She leaned forward and kissed him on the lips, a touch like a breath. Then she stood up and walked away and he closed his eyes, let the night wrap itself around him like a blanket. He tried not to tense, tried to make himself relax, not move. Then the prodding came again, and his mouth went dry, his heart began to pound...so loud he knew they’d hear and know he was alive. He waited for the blade to pierce his skin, cut its way into his body, but then the prodding stopped, and, finally, he opened his eyes. It was morning and an old man was standing over him, a cane held across his body. Eddie stared at his hands, at the gnarled knuckles, the misshapen fingers. “Figured you was dead,” the old man said. He looked around. “Good place to die, though, huh? Convenient.” Eddie sat up. His clothes were damp, his muscles felt numb. “My wife.” The old man pointed his cane at the slab. It took Eddie a while to put sense to it, then he scrambled up, stepped back from the stone, mumbled sorry. “Guess it don’t matter,” the old man shrugged. “Did kinda surprise me, though.” He looked Eddie up and down. “Come over every morning before breakfast, you see. Live over there.” He pointed his cane toward a house barely visible through the trees. “Coffee be getting to a boil.” He nodded. “Welcome to join me if you want.” He walked away, not waiting for an answer, and Eddie watched him limp along for a while before he followed. He set his feet into the damp crushed grass the old man’s footsteps left. It was a slow, cramped gait, but it gave him something to think about until they reached the house. The old man gestured him through the door with a bent finger. “Moved pretty good before my legs started to go,” he said, setting the plates of hash and eggs on the table, hanging his cane on the back of the chair before he sat down. “Everything takes longer now.” He tore off a piece of bread and pushed it into the yellow center of one egg. The yolk oozed up onto the bread, and he lowered his head and raised his fork until they met, pushed the bread into his mouth. Eddie waited for him to go on, but the old man was concentrating on the food now, bending and lifting, bending and lifting, and Eddie looked down at his own plate, remembered he hadn’t had much to eat in a long time. The old man finished first, waited until Eddie was done. Then he stood up and shuffled over to the window near the sink. He motioned Eddie over, tapped the glass. “See that wood out there?” Eddie looked at the heap of logs in the backyard, nodded. “You want a job, I need it split. Can’t do it no more myself. Can’t do nothing no more myself. Anyway—after, if you want, you can clean up.” He motioned to a door off the kitchen. “Tub’s in there.” He shuffled back to the table, lifted the cane off the chair, went over to the door. “If not,” he said, “good luck.” A cap hanging on the back of the door swung in place after he was gone. Eddie looked around the kitchen. There was a familiar feel to it, like the room where his grandfather had slept. A dead feel. He looked at the cat lying in a half circle of sun on the linoleum. The cat looked back. “Eddie?” His mother half-turned toward him in the chair, leaning forward, her head and upper body silhouetted against the white window behind her. “Wait a sec,” he said, waving the report card, running past her into the bedroom. He wanted Gramps to see it first. “Eddie!” Her voice tried, but it was the room that stopped him, the empty stripped room. He went over to the table, picked up the breakfast dishes, carried them to the sink. There was something he was thinking of doing. He looked around, then out the window, and his eyes focused on the wood in the back yard. He lifted his arms over his head and brought the maul down. The log split open and fell, one half to either side of the splitting stump. At first, it had been almost impossible to direct the maul head, but as the morning passed, he’d found a rhythm, a sense of balance. He liked the monotony of it. Picking up each log, finding its balance point on the stump, lifting the maul, bringing it down. Again and again and again. For the first time in a long time, his mind was quiet. “I said, think you’ve done enough for one day?” He turned to the old man. “Done more in a morning, than I used to do in a month.” Eddie looked. He was right. The mound of split wood was nearly as tall as a man. “Guess I got carried away.” “Better go get cleaned up,” the old man said. “You got any other clothes?” “Nah, these are okay.” He bent down, picked up the shirt he’d thrown on the grass. “Okay for you, maybe. Hard on someone sitting at the same table. There’s a pair of pants and a shirt in the toilet. Should fit you. You’re welcome to use ‘em til you get yours washed.” He started to walk away, stopped, turned back. “You got a name?” “Eddie. Ed.” “Mine’s MacQuade. Call me Mac. You like beans ‘n franks, Ed?” “Sure. They’re fine. Anything’s fine when you’re hungry.” “Good. Cuz it’s Thursday, and every Thursday it’s franks ‘n beans.” Then he grinned. “Friday Saturday Sunday, too.” He headed back toward the house. Eddie tried to remember the last time he’d sat in a tub. When he was a kid maybe. In a tub like this, with feet and worn spots showing circles of dull black. He soaped his hair and beard for the fourth time and finally got lather. The water in the tub was dark, scaly, so he pulled the plug and filled it again. Woody had been the one for clean. Wishing for hot water and soap the way the rest of them wished for pussy. He lay back, letting his head rest on the rolled porcelain edge. Christ, Woody hated the muck. And the goddamn swamps. More than anyone. But he didn’t want to think about that now. He closed his eyes, tried to make it go away. Woody’s face. The dirt in his eyes, the dirt in his mouth. The blood. He slid down into the tub until the water closed over his ears, but he couldn’t stop Woody’s voice, shoot me, Ed, Jesus Christ, make it stop, Jesus Christ, shoot me! He slid down until he was lying on the bottom of the tub, stayed there until the pounding in his head was louder than Woody’s begging, and then he came up gasping, climbed out of the tub and looked at himself in the mirror. The glass was old, like everything else. Circles of yellow discoloration distorted his face as he moved, and he tried to remember if he cleaned Woody off before or after he was dead. He turned on the sink faucets full, so the water splashed out of the bowl, onto him and onto the floor. Why the hell couldn’t he do it? One squeeze. A thing that should have been so easy. Mac was talking to himself when Eddie came into the kitchen. He leaned against the doorway and listened to the old man argue with himself about the beans. Finally, he said, “I like brown sugar myself.” Mac didn’t break his rhythm, the spoon kept making its arc around the edge of the pot. “As for me, I always preferred ketchup, but Ruthie, that’s my wife, she always favored brown sugar. Now that I’m doin the cooking myself, I suppose I could use ketchup, but...” He poured in some brown sugar, stirred, lifted the pot off the stove and carried it to the table. He looked at Eddie. “Well, looks like you left a good part of yourself back in the tub.” Eddie rubbed at his hair. “I can’t remember the last time I got clean.” “Yup. Living on the road’s dirty business.” He handed Eddie a plate. “Usually, I eat outa the pot, but since I got company, guess I gotta use some manners.” They ate their meal in silence, and after he was finished, Mac stood up and went out onto the porch. After a while, Eddie followed. There was a light breeze stirring the trees, and far off Eddie could hear the low, constant hum of the highway. The moon was beginning to rise through the branches, and the outside shapes were disappearing into night. They sat in silence for a long time and when the moon was high and the damp was beginning to cling, Mac stood up. “There’s lotsa things need doing around here, if you wanna stay a while. Cot over there’s comfortable enough.” He pointed across the porch. “Used to sleep out here myself last summer, when Ruthie got bad.” He disappeared into the house and Eddie listened to the tap tap of the cane across the linoleum, and when that stopped, he sat staring into the dark, listening to the night sounds around him. He could leave now, head for the highway. But he knew Maryanne was out there waiting for him with her hungry eyes and arms. He stood up and walked across the porch, sat down on the edge of the cot. He was too tired to make the road tonight, and the old man was no danger. After a while, there was a rustling in the grass and he knew she was coming. He lay down and closed his eyes. If he was lucky, he’d be asleep before she got there. Eddie took another forkful of eggs and hash, chewed, held it for a second in his mouth, made himself swallow. “Jesus Christ.” Mac was lowering his head to his fork, held the motion, raised his eyes to Eddie’s. “Something wrong?” “Jesus Christ, Mac. It’s the egg that goes in the pan, not the fucking shell. The fucking shell goes in the fucking garbage.” Mac chewed slowly, swallowed. “Little egg shell ain’t gonna hurt ya.” Eddie snorted. “Little egg shell? Little? I’m shittin whole eggs here, for christ’s sake.” Mac gave him a long look. “Think I liked you better when you smelt bad and kept your mouth shut.” They looked at each other for a second, then Eddie leaned back. “Course if I had to choose...” he shook his head, “guess the flies in the beans is worse.” He picked up his fork. “Ah, quit complaining.” Mac reached for the salt. “Damn things are everywhere. Have to kill em somehow. Anyway, you don’t look like you’re sufferin much.” When they were finished, Mac stood up. “Guess I’ll go take a look at the garden.” After he stacked the dishes in the sink, Eddie followed him. “Told you you planted them too close.” Mac pointed the cane at the squash hills. “Way too close,” he muttered, limping up and down the rows. He said it every day. Sometimes, he said it twice a day. “Should’a done it myself.” He pushed the tip of the cane against the bright green swiss chard. “Don’t know why I bothered with this stuff. Ruthie always wanted it, you see. She made a strudel.” He shook his head. “Best damn thing you ever tasted.” He turned and looked toward the house. “Last year this time, she used to sit in a chair by that window. Watched it grow most the beginning of the summer.” He rubbed his chin with his crooked fingers. “I always figured she’d be better by the time it was ready to pick.” He looked at Eddie. Eddie looked down at the chard. “After a while, though...” He sighed. “She went in a bad way, you know. Real bad. Had a dog once they wouldn’t let suffer that bad. It wasn’t right. Wasn’t a way anybody should have to go.” Eddie could feel Mac’s eyes on him. He glanced up, then down again. “You know what I mean?” Eddie nodded slightly. “Anyway...” Mac coughed, spit. “You gonna fix those windows, or you gonna stand here all day looking at these hills you planted too close?” Eddie followed him into the shed. “Caulks here. Putty. Points. Glass over there.” Eddie put everything into an old wooden milk box. Mac leaned his cane against the workbench, took a plastic bag off a shelf, opened it, unfolded a yellowed oily rag heavy with the smell of gun oil. Eddie looked at the long-bore pistol. “You, uh, planning on shooting out the windows soon as I fix them?” “Good little pistol,” Mac said. “Gets me five, six rabbits every year.” Eddie watched the stiff hands fold around the barrel. Mac held the gun out to him. “You know guns?” Eddie nodded. “Here. Heft it. See how she feels. Go ahead.” Eddie took it. The handle slid into the hollow of his hand. “My grandfather had one,” he said, “just like this. He got me out of bed one night and told me to follow him outside, that he had something to show me. We went out the back door into pitch black, and then he turned the flashlight on the stone wall. There was a porcupine sitting there. Just sitting there. Staring at us with these goddamn ugly little eyes.” Eddie shook his head. “Then he handed me his gun, this gun, and he said, ‘Kill it. Go on. Aim for its head.’” Eddie wrapped both hands around the gun handle, raised it slowly, aiming at the back wall. “Goddamn ugly porcupine eyes staring back at me.” He lowered the gun. “And I couldn’t fucking do it.” He set the gun back in Mac’s hands. “My grandfather gave me a good long look before he blew the thing's head right fucking off.” He smiled. “Guess that’s when he knew the kid was never going to do anything right.” Mac rubbed the stained rag over the barrel. “Guess you do things about as good as anyone.” Eddie picked up the milk box. “So...you going hunting?” “You got something against it?” “No. Christ, no. It’s just...” “Just what?” He shook his head. “Nothing. Nothing.” He stepped out of the cool shed into the hot sunshine, headed for the north side of the house. What the hell did the old man think he was going to do with that thing, anyway? Here he could hardly make it from the kitchen to the porch without stopping, and he was going to hunt rabbits? Like shit. Goddamn senile old bastard. “Mac! Hey Mac!” Eddie braced his foot against the two-by-four he’d nailed into the roof. “Christ, Mac, you hear me?” The top of Mac’s head finally appeared below. He turned his face up, shaded his eyes with one hand. “What the hell are you yelling about now?” “The knife. I dropped it. Down there.” “The what?” “The knife,” he said, raising his voice. “It fell. See if you can find it.” He stepped back from the edge, waited, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. Christ, what was he doing down there anyway. Then the ladder swayed slightly and he peered over the edge again. Mac was on it, gripping the sides with both hands, struggling to raise his leg to the second rung. He struggled, rested, struggled, then he gave up and rested his forehead against a rung. What’s the use, Ed, if I can’t do the things I done all my life? What’s the use? Eddie swore, swung around and yelled up toward the peak of the roof. “Never mind. Mac? Never mind the knife. I’m coming down. Too goddamn hot up here.” He counted to ten, slid one foot backwards until it connected with the ladder, climbed down slowly. “Christ, it’s hot up there.” He pulled his teeshirt off over his head, wiped it across his face, looked over to where Mac was leaning now against the porch railing. “You find it?” Mac held up the knife. “I was just bringing it up when you came barrelin down.” “Yeah, well. A person can take just so much sun, you know? Fry your brains. And I don’t have that much left as is.” He bent over, started picking up pieces of shingle and tar paper while Mac went up the porch steps. He watched him go into the house, his right leg dragging along the floor like it was dead. Legs don’t hardly work no more. Have all I can do to lift em outta bed in the morning. Don’t feel like a man if I can’t do the things I done all my life. You know what I mean, Ed? You know? “So, when you plannin on leaving?” Eddie turned and looked across the dark porch at the red glow of the pipe. He sniffed the tobacco smell, breathed it in. “Pretty soon. Couple’a days, I guess. So I can stay ahead of the weather.” “Nice in California, huh? Summer all the time there?” “Yeah. Some parts. It’s a good place to spend the winter.” “You already know where you’re goin, huh?” Eddie nodded. “Yeah. I know.” They were quiet for a while. “The house is in good shape, Mac. Roof’s tight, and the windows. And you’ll be warm. Lots of firewood.” “Yup. You really went to town on that firewood. Got more than enough firewood.” “When you get em, make sure to throw a couple of those rabbits in the freezer. For when I come back this way. Maybe in the spring.” There was a brief flare from the old man’s pipe. “Yup,” he said, “I’ll do that. I’ll do that for sure.” Eddie woke up soaked in sweat. The porch was quiet, dark. The sense of the nightmare held on to him. A real thing. A taste in his mouth, a smell in the air. He breathed it in, punishing himself with it, jerked his eyes shut as the sudden sharp explosion echoed in his head again, pinning him to the cot. When he could finally move, he sat up, drew his knees to his chest, started rocking back and forth. He shouldn’t feel like this, shouldn’t feel terrible. He’d finally done something right. Woody would be quiet now. And his grandfather wouldn’t have to look at him and shake his head. He’d finally given them what they wanted. Given them all what they wanted. He leaned his head against the wall. Christ, he felt awful. Sick and awful. It was the dark, that was it. Things would feel better in the morning. Things were always better when the sun came up. He pressed his arms against his stomach, trying to stop the nausea, buried his face in his hands. The oily smell took his breath away and he retched, took fast shallow breaths, retched again. He’d leave in a while, as soon as the sky showed gray. It would feel good to be on the move again. He raised his eyes and stared across the porch, seeing the red glow of Mac’s pipe brighten, then die out. “Jesus Christ, Mac,” he whispered. “All that firewood. All that goddamn firewood.”
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