the day, driving down to Albuquerque. Angela staring at the sheriff with eyes that held only one concern, one question, always:
What did he know?
It’s nothing, said the sheriff, I gotta go get my little brother out of jail, be back as quick as I can. It had stunned them—the first time since they’d known him that the sheriff had not seemed to be entirely theirs, devoted exclusively to their needs. They could not object, they could not blame the sheriff, but neither could they bear it, this abandonment, because within it was the message that, in time, the investigation, the manpower, the reporters, the world, would all move on.
“God damn it, Billy,” Emmet said, leaning forward in his rocker, clutching the armrest with one hand. “What in the hell is the matter with you?”
“What? Nothing’s the matter with me. What’s the matter with you? I’m just trying to be friendly here.”
“Why don’t you go be friendly somewheres else?”
“Jesus Christ, I didn’t mean nothin. He knows that. Don’t you, Grant.”
Grant sipped his coffee. “We’ll see you later, Billy.”
Billy looked from one to the other and shook his head. He flicked his cigarette into the dirt and went nimbly down the steps. A moment later the El Camino roared and a red stain of taillights spread over the dirt at the corner of the house. The tailgate came briefly into view and then lunged forward, throwing up red fans of dirt. They heard the car progressing down the drive, heard it idling at the county road, revving throatily, but there was no squealing of tires, and after a few seconds the sound of it faded away altogether.
Across the way, over the doors of the machine shed, the automated farm light had come on, lighting up a scrim of grit in the air they could taste.
“I gotta say I’m sorry for that, Grant.”
“No you don’t, Em. I got a boy too. He’s just young.”
“He ain’t that young. And I’m too old. I was already old when we had him. I wonder if that’s why.” Emmet stared into his coffee. Grant stared out at the night. A bat dove blackly into the light to snatch a moth and wheeled away again. Soundless as a thought.
“I’ll say one more thing,” said the old man. “Though I know a man ain’t supposed to say such things aloud. But if it come down to just one of these boys coming home, yours or mine? I’d of voted for yours.”
10
The truck , a long-bed blue Chevy, moved down the interstate under a low moon and the fading vault of stars. No crew cab, three years old, in good shape. No bumper stickers or decals. No gun rack. It held cruise control steady at 77 mph, two miles over, all its bulbs alight and nothing out of the ordinary but the out-of-state plate. The driver was heading north and if there was another passenger or any kind of luggage or possessions in the cab with him, these were stowed out of sight. Ten miles from the upcoming town on a steep grade, the Chevy swung into the left lane to pass a flatbed hauling a tremendous black stone, a monument of some kind, and then it swung back into the right lane again, and the silver SUV that had been following did the same and bloomed with flashing lights, red and blue, red and blue, strobing soundlessly in the dark predawn.
The officer sat back there running the plates. In the truck, the boy squinted at the headlights in the rearview and pushed the mirror out of true.
Out over the desert the moon had struck a black edge of sky, the flat of a mesa, and sat flat-sided itself in a field of stars. Tossed, unknown stars; a strange heaven. With his head half out the window he looked and looked, disbelieving, almost dizzy, until at last there was Pegasus, and from there the others: Cepheus, Cassiopeia, and Andromeda, the king’s daughter, chained to her rock. Naked, forsaken, watching the sea. He was not a great student but he had learned the stars. The idea that they’d been there, in their places, long before their names, long before the first eyes saw
What did he know?
It’s nothing, said the sheriff, I gotta go get my little brother out of jail, be back as quick as I can. It had stunned them—the first time since they’d known him that the sheriff had not seemed to be entirely theirs, devoted exclusively to their needs. They could not object, they could not blame the sheriff, but neither could they bear it, this abandonment, because within it was the message that, in time, the investigation, the manpower, the reporters, the world, would all move on.
“God damn it, Billy,” Emmet said, leaning forward in his rocker, clutching the armrest with one hand. “What in the hell is the matter with you?”
“What? Nothing’s the matter with me. What’s the matter with you? I’m just trying to be friendly here.”
“Why don’t you go be friendly somewheres else?”
“Jesus Christ, I didn’t mean nothin. He knows that. Don’t you, Grant.”
Grant sipped his coffee. “We’ll see you later, Billy.”
Billy looked from one to the other and shook his head. He flicked his cigarette into the dirt and went nimbly down the steps. A moment later the El Camino roared and a red stain of taillights spread over the dirt at the corner of the house. The tailgate came briefly into view and then lunged forward, throwing up red fans of dirt. They heard the car progressing down the drive, heard it idling at the county road, revving throatily, but there was no squealing of tires, and after a few seconds the sound of it faded away altogether.
Across the way, over the doors of the machine shed, the automated farm light had come on, lighting up a scrim of grit in the air they could taste.
“I gotta say I’m sorry for that, Grant.”
“No you don’t, Em. I got a boy too. He’s just young.”
“He ain’t that young. And I’m too old. I was already old when we had him. I wonder if that’s why.” Emmet stared into his coffee. Grant stared out at the night. A bat dove blackly into the light to snatch a moth and wheeled away again. Soundless as a thought.
“I’ll say one more thing,” said the old man. “Though I know a man ain’t supposed to say such things aloud. But if it come down to just one of these boys coming home, yours or mine? I’d of voted for yours.”
10
The truck , a long-bed blue Chevy, moved down the interstate under a low moon and the fading vault of stars. No crew cab, three years old, in good shape. No bumper stickers or decals. No gun rack. It held cruise control steady at 77 mph, two miles over, all its bulbs alight and nothing out of the ordinary but the out-of-state plate. The driver was heading north and if there was another passenger or any kind of luggage or possessions in the cab with him, these were stowed out of sight. Ten miles from the upcoming town on a steep grade, the Chevy swung into the left lane to pass a flatbed hauling a tremendous black stone, a monument of some kind, and then it swung back into the right lane again, and the silver SUV that had been following did the same and bloomed with flashing lights, red and blue, red and blue, strobing soundlessly in the dark predawn.
The officer sat back there running the plates. In the truck, the boy squinted at the headlights in the rearview and pushed the mirror out of true.
Out over the desert the moon had struck a black edge of sky, the flat of a mesa, and sat flat-sided itself in a field of stars. Tossed, unknown stars; a strange heaven. With his head half out the window he looked and looked, disbelieving, almost dizzy, until at last there was Pegasus, and from there the others: Cepheus, Cassiopeia, and Andromeda, the king’s daughter, chained to her rock. Naked, forsaken, watching the sea. He was not a great student but he had learned the stars. The idea that they’d been there, in their places, long before their names, long before the first eyes saw
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