American Rust Read online

“I imagine I'll be extremely happy.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Quit it. I want someone to nag me, I'll talk to my mother.”

  “I'll talk to your mother.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You bring anything to eat?”

  “Some nuts.”

  “You would.”

  “Hand over your lighter.”

  “What would be perfect right now is a pie from Vincent's. Christ I was up there the other day, the house special—”

  “Lighter.”

  “I'd order us one but Nextel turned my phone off.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “That was a joke,” said Poe.

  “Extremely funny. Give me your lighter.”

  Poe sighed and handed it over. Isaac got the fire going. It grew quickly. It was a good fire. He kicked the door of the stove all the way open and then sat back and looked at his work with satisfaction.

  “You'll still be smiling when this place burns down on top of us.”

  “For someone who put two guys in the hospital—”

  “Don't go there,” said Poe.

  “I wouldn't.”

  “You know I think you're an alright guy, Mental. Just wanted to throw that out, in case you could consider my opinion.”

  “You could probably walk onto any football team out there. They've got lots of colleges, it's like Baywatch.”

  “Except everyone I know lives here.”

  “Call that coach from the New York school.”

  Poe shrugged. “I'm happy for you,” he said. “You're gonna make it, just like your sister. Right down to the rich guy you'll end up marrying. Some sweet old man, you'll do the circuit in San Francisco …”

  There was a pause as they looked around the hideout. Poe got up and found a piece of cardboard and set it down again to lie on. “I'm still drunk,” he said. “Thank God.” He lay back on the cardboard and closed his eyes. “Ah Christ, my life. I can't believe you're doing this.”

  “Boxcar Isaac, that's my new name.”

  “Loved by sailors.”

  “Duke of all hoboes.”

  Poe grinned. “If that's your way of apologizing, I accept.” He rolled onto his side and wrapped his football jacket around him. “Might rest my eyes a minute. Make sure you wake me up the second it stops raining.”

  Isaac kicked him: “Get up.”

  “Just let me be happy.”

  Isaac went back to watching the fire. Seems to be drawing—won't die of carbon monoxide. Kick him again. No. Let him be. Probably pass out. Anytime he sits still. Not like you—barely fall asleep in your own bed. Wouldn't even close your eyes in a place like this. Wish he was coming with. He looked around at the old machines, old rafters, cracks of gray light through the boarded-up windows. Poe is not afraid of people, that's the difference. Except he is in his way. Not physically afraid, is all. Meanwhile, look at you, already worrying, wondering if the old man's alright. When you know he'll be fine. Lee has a rich husband—they can get a nurse whenever they want. No reason as long as you lived there, but now that you're gone, a nurse will be found. Lee will buy her way out again. You put in five years and she puts in a couple of days every Christmas, her and the old man acting like it was fate. But still—look at it—somehow you're ending up the bad guy. The kid turns thief, abandons his father, his sister remains the hero and the favorite.

  He tried to make himself relax but couldn't. The kid would like a triple dose of Prozac. Or something stronger. He took the money out and counted it again, it was not quite four thousand dollars, it felt like an enormous sum, though he knew it wasn't. Things will only get harder, you've got Poe right here and you're still in familiar territory. Thought you'd planned for everything, your notebooks and school transcripts, everything you need to start over in California. Made perfect sense on paper, but of course now it's ridiculous. Even if the old man doesn't call the cops. Just pride keeping you out here.

  There was a noise at the other end of the building and Poe sat up groggily and looked around. There was a door they hadn't noticed. Three men appeared, stomping their feet and dripping, wearing backpacks. They were standing in the shadows, two tall men and one short one.

  “Y'all are in our spot,” said the biggest of them. He was substantially taller than Poe, thick blond hair and a thick beard. The three of them made their way around the machines and stood a few feet from the fire.

  Isaac stood up but Poe didn't move. “This ain't anyone's spot,” Poe said.

  “No,” said the man. “This one is ours.”

  “Dunno if you've been outside recently,” said Poe, looking at the puddles the men were making on the floor, “but we ain't moving.”

  “We can go,” said Isaac. He was thinking about the money in his pocket and he looked away from the newcomers. He thought the big blond lumberjack one might say something more but he didn't.

  “Who gives a shit,” said another of the men. “Least they got the fire going.” He took off his pack. He was the smallest and also the oldest, somewhere in his forties, a week's stubble, a thin nose that was very crooked, it had been broken and never reset. Isaac remembered that Poe had been messing around at practice once without his helmet, taken a hard hit that broke his nose, but he'd just grabbed it and straightened it himself, right there on the field.

  The three men looked like they'd been on the road a long time. The older one wrung out his watch cap and set it near the fire and his wet pants clung to his thin legs. He told them his name was Murray and they could smell him.

  “Do I know you?” he said to Poe.

  “Probably not.”

  “How would I know you?”

  Poe shrugged.

  “He used to play ball,” said Isaac. “He was tight end for the Buell Eagles.”

  Poe gave Isaac a look.

  The man noticed Poe's football jacket draped near the stove. He said: “I remember that. I used to change oil at Jones Chevy and we'd watch the games after work. Thought you'd be outta here. College ball or somethin.”

  “Nah,” Poe said.

  “You were good,” Murray said. “That wasn't that long ago.”

  Poe didn't say anything.

  “It's alright. Otto over there was Golden Gloves in his younger days. Coulda gone pro but—”

  “I was in the army,” said Otto. He was the tall Swede. Most of the people in the Valley were ethnic in some way or other: Poles, Swedes, Serbs, Germans, Irish. Except for Isaac's people, who were Scottish, and Poe's, who had been here so long no one knew what they were.

  “Otto is on leave from the VA.” Murray tapped his head.

  “Fuckin Murray,” Otto said.

  Isaac glanced over but Otto had gone quiet and was staring at the ground. As for the other man, he was dark and Hispanic- looking and a little smaller than Poe, he had a tattoo on his neck that said jesús in bubble letters. All three of the men were much larger than Isaac; the Swede, it now appeared, was close to seven feet.

  “You're lucky it was us come in,” said the Hispanic one. “They got some real lunatics around here.”

  “Jesús,” said Murray. “Stop being such a fuckin Mexican.”

  “Murray might want to shut his mouth,” said Jesús.

  Otto, the Swede, added: “Pretty soon it's a fuckin convention in here.”

  “These two ain't like that, they're locals.”

  The room seemed dark and small and the Swede picked up a long piece of lumber and rammed the end noisily into the stove. Isaac wondered how he'd get Poe to leave. The embers popped and shot across the floor and by the shadows on the wall all five men looked like sitting apes. This won't get any better, Isaac thought. Jesús jerked something from his pocket and Isaac flinched and Jesús burst out laughing. It was just a bottle of whiskey.

  “I gotta take a piss,” Isaac said. He didn't have to piss; he wanted to leave and he looked at Poe but Poe didn't get it.

  “Go on,” Poe said.

  “Those two usually piss together,” said Jesús.


  Isaac waited but Poe stayed where he was, staring at both Jesús and the Swede, he noticed Poe's jacket sitting there on the floor along with his backpack. Poe was in a definite mood, thinking he was indestructible. Isaac picked up the backpack, he could not afford to lose anything inside it, he held it by a strap and felt everyone watching him. He didn't know how to tell Poe to bring his coat. Finally he went out alone.

  It was nearly dark and the storm had broken temporarily, though more clouds were coming in—across the meadow he could see the trees swaying by the river. He wondered again how he'd get Poe to come out. Thinks it's still school. No consequences. As for the field, it was full of scrap metal, tall grass grown up around piles of train parts, huge engine blocks, wheels, driveshafts and gears. A handful of bats were cutting and darting over the piles of rusted steel.

  There was a patch of high clouds in the bloodorange light and he watched until the sun faded completely. He didn't know whether to go back and get Poe or if Poe would come out on his own. Poe was always doing these things. He'd nearly gone to jail for beating up a kid from Donora, he was still on probation for it. He can't resist a fight, not something you understand. Probably it's not his fault. Probably you can't be as big as him without having some kind of robot mentality.

  Suddenly there were raised voices from inside the building, then shouting and banging around. Isaac tightened the straps on his pack and picked an escape route across the field and waited for Poe to come running. But Poe did not appear. Keep waiting, he told himself, just sit tight. The shouting and noises stopped. Isaac waited a while longer. Maybe it's okay. No, something is wrong. You have to go back in.

  His hands were shaking but he took the money from his pocket and stuffed it deep inside his backpack and then quickly hid the pack under a piece of sheet metal. This is fine. The kid's got this under control. Don't go in empty- handed. He saw a short length of iron pipe but it would just get taken away from him. Underneath the other scrap—he reached his hand carefully through the stack of rusted metal to where a dozen or so industrial ball bearings were scattered in the dirt. He picked one up. It was the size of a baseball, or larger, cold and very heavy. Maybe too heavy. He wondered if there was something else. No, there's no time. Get in there. Don't use that same door.

  After coming quietly through the back door he could see what was happening. Murray was laid out on the ground. The Mexican was standing behind Poe holding something to Poe's neck; his other hand was down Poe's crotch. Poe had both hands in the air like he was telling the man to calm down. They were standing in the light from the fire with their backs to him. Isaac was in the dark, invisible to others.

  “Otto,” the Mexican shouted. “I ain't got all fuckin day.”

  “Your little buddy ain't outside,” said a voice. “He must of already took off.”

  The Swede came back from the other side of the building with his face shining in the firelight, grinning at Poe like he was happy to see him. Isaac found his grip on the bearing, felt how heavy it was, five pounds, six pounds, he rocked to his back leg and threw as hard as he could; he threw so hard he felt the muscles in his shoulder tear. The bearing disappeared in the darkness and there was a loud crack as it hit the Swede in the center of the head, just at the top of his nose. The Swede seemed frozen in place and then his knees went loose and he seemed to fall straight down, a building collapsing on itself.

  Poe broke loose and went running out the door; Isaac stood frozen for a second, watching the man he'd hit, the hands and feet were twitching slightly. Go, he thought. Murray was still lying on the ground but Jesús was now kneeling over the Swede, talking to him, touching his face, though Isaac already knew—knew from how heavy the bearing was, knew from how hard he'd thrown it.

  — — —

  They could barely make out the train tracks in the darkness. It was raining again. Isaac's hands and face were slick with mud and his shoes were heavy with it and he was soaked through but from sweat or rain he didn't know.

  You need your pack, he thought. No, you can't go back there. How bad is that guy hurt? That thing was really heavy, your arm hurts just from throwing it. You shouldn't have hit him in the face.

  Up ahead, they could see the lights from Buell; they were getting close. Poe turned suddenly and began to make his way through the brush toward the river.

  “I need to wash myself,” he told Isaac.

  “Wait till you get home.”

  “He touched me right on the skin.”

  “Wait till you're home,” Isaac repeated. His voice sounded like it was coming from somewhere else. “That water won't clean it anyway.”

  The rain was turning into sleet and Poe was wearing only his T-shirt. Soon he'll be hypothermic, Isaac thought. Neither of you are thinking straight, but he's in worse shape—give him your coat.

  He took off his coat and handed it over to Poe. After hesitating, Poe tried to put it on, though it was too small. He handed it back.

  Isaac heard himself say: “We should run so you can get warm.”

  They jogged for a while but it was too slippery. Poe went down twice in the mud, he was in bad shape, and they decided to walk again. Isaac could not stop thinking about the man lying there, it had looked like blood coming down his face but it could have been the light, or anything. All I did was knock him out, he told himself, but he was pretty sure that wasn't true.

  “We need to get to a phone so we can call 911 for that guy. There's one at the Sheetz station.”

  Poe didn't say anything.

  “It's a payphone,” said Isaac. “They won't know it was us.”

  “That's not a good idea,” said Poe.

  “We can't just leave him.”

  “Isaac, there was blood coming out of his eyes and the way he was moving around it was just reflexes. If you hit a deer in the spine it does the same thing.”

  “We're talking about a person, though.”

  “We call an ambulance, the cops will be right behind them.”

  Isaac could feel his throat get tight. He thought again about how the Swede had gone over. He'd made no effort to stop his fall, and then the way his arms and legs kept moving afterward. A person knocked out didn't move at all.

  “We should have gotten out of there when those guys showed up.”

  “I know that,” said Poe.

  “Your mom is friends with Bud Harris.”

  “Except technically the guy you hit wasn't doing anything. It was the guy holding me.”

  “It's a little more complicated than that,” said Isaac.

  “I dunno,” Poe told him. “I can't really think right now.”

  Isaac began to walk faster.

  “Isaac,” Poe called. “Don't do anything stupid.”

  “I won't tell anyone. You don't have to worry.”

  “Hold up a second.” Poe grabbed him by the shoulder. “You did the right thing, we both know that.”

  Isaac was quiet.

  Poe nodded up the road. “Anyway I need to cut off here to take the back way to the house.”

  “I'll walk you.”

  “We need to split up.”

  Isaac must have had a look on his face, because then Poe said: “You can go back to the old man's for one night; it won't kill you.”

  “That's not the point.”

  “You did the right thing,” Poe repeated. “In the morning when our heads are straight we can figure this all out.”

  “We need to be figuring it out right now.”

  Poe shook his head. “I'll meet you at your place in the morning.”

  Isaac watched as he turned away and made his way up the dark road toward his mother's house. He paused once and waved. Once Poe was out of sight, Isaac continued down the tracks in the darkness, alone.

  2. Poe

  He went up the muddy road toward his mother's trailer. He'd tried to keep his head on in front of Isaac, the last thing Isaac needed to see was Poe going batshit. But it was a definite possibility. At least it was dark, it w
as comforting, there was no one to see him like this, he thought about the way the knife had felt to his neck and the man's hand on him. The rain had picked up again, back into sleet and then flurries. He was extremely cold, he'd left his jacket at the machine shop where the big one named Otto was lying dead. He was so cold he would have given anything for a jacket or even the shittiest hat you could even imagine, he would give a gallon of blood for just a shit wool hat and good Christ anything for a coat, a plastic garbage bag, even. He thought he ought to run to get warm but he could barely manage a walk. He thought he would make it to the house. It occurred to him he had not split any of the wood for the stoves, as always he'd left it to the last minute then gone off with Isaac and the house would be freezing, out of wood and the electric heaters costing thirty a day, his mother would never turn them on and with her hands all rheumatoid she couldn't swing the axe.

  He hoped his mother wasn't too cold for having a shit son like him. Sitting in that doublewide with her hands all clawed up from the arthritis you are a shit a genuine shit who cannot even keep your own mother warm, a fucking chickenshit punk can't even keep his hours at a goddamn hardware store. He wondered what Isaac had thrown at that prick, something heavy, a big rock, it had smashed his face in he'd seen it. Pushed his forehead back into his skull. Puke if you remember it too much. Big fucking rock it must have been. Isaac and Otto, a match from heaven. Thanking Christ for his arm like that. Saving my life. Getting cockhandled by those bums and pissing your pants the cherry on top.

  Now the one night he needed the house to be warm it would be freezing, needed that heat for being an accessory to murder, really self-defense only it was murder now, walked away from the body but good Christ if anyone thought he would call the cops on those fucks with that dead one Otto a smile on his face wide as a goddamn stadium walking toward me, walking toward me while I had a knife to my neck and someone's hand crushing my nuts, not much question on what he was thinking about. Yes he thought this is what girls must feel like when a stranger puts hands on them. Not a feeling that goes away in a hurry.

  The thought of Otto lying there rotting a goddamn coyote eating his face it made Poe feel almost warmer, if you'd asked him that morning he'd never hated anyone but now by Jesus he hated the dead one Otto the way he smiled seeing Poe getting held literally by his balls and even more he hated the one with the beard who'd cut his neck and held him like that and as for the third one, the older one, he had not meant to kick him so hard. He couldn't remember his name, the older one who had tried to keep the fight from starting, the older one who smelled so bad. He wished he hadn't kicked him so hard. Yeah he was the good one. The one you hit hardest.