his father, and just did as told. He exited the cave and to keep his mind off unpleasantness tried to focus on each singular movement: putting his foot in a pock of sandstone, breaking down sticks, piling them on his shoulder, stepping through fern, dragging thick sections of birch he found not far from the rock, and up the cliff, back down, feet moving, hands on hot rocks, stacking logs high on the burgeoning fire.
He dragged the quilt down the calcite corridor, Mr. Augusto’s head knocking against the damp floor. Vernon pulled tenderly, as if dragging a man asleep and trying not to wake him. He became intensely aware of his own skin, the cloth on his fingertips, blisters crinkling the balls of his feet. Soon he felt heat from the fire on his neck, and he tugged the body, as if entering a furnace, through the cavern’s mouth.
The fire lashed flames the size of small trees and the oval of blue sky was overcome by the smoke and the cathedral walls now reflected firelight instead of sunshine. His father approached and they stood with the body in the quilt between them.
“Help get it on the fire, son.”
“You mean Mr. Augusto?”
“That’s right,” and his father solemnly nodded. “Help get Mr. Augusto on the fire. We got to burn him up.”
Vernon stood very still. “I know you hit Mr. Augusto more than one time,” he said. “You says you hit him only once, but that ain’t the truth.”
His father covered his mouth with his good hand. “Took one hit to switch him off,” he finally said. “Just like I says. But then I was more mad with him dead than when he was alive.”
His father straddled the quilt, struggled lifting Mr. Augusto’s feet with his one hand, and Vernon grabbed the quilt up under the shoulders. They awkwardly dropped the body and the fire was momentarily smothered and the break in the smoke brought a flash of bright light. Then the sun was gone again and the flames grew livid as his father stirred the logs. Vernon sat on a granite bench, covering his nose to the smoke and facing his shadow flickering on the wall.
“Vernon,” his father said, standing at his shoulder. “I want you to take your mama out tonight.” He handed Vernon a folded wad of dollars. “Get her a nice steak. Take her to the picture show.” He sat down beside Vernon, cradling his black-fingered hand tight to his ribs. “When you come back home tonight, Mama’ll go and meet me at the old McAlester Road. From there we’re gone.”
Vernon wondered if the money his father had given him was from Mr. Augusto’s wallet, and allowed himself to peek behind at the fire. His eyes blinked against the heat, the quilt fabric burned away in spots to expose the body. Mr. Augusto’s arm stretched to the edge of one bench, his shirt cuff wriggling with fire yet the hand untouched, the flames reflecting hard off his gold watch. Waves of smoke scorched Vernon’s eyes. He turned back to the wall. His father had slumped forward, as if poised to be sick.
“You’re going to die, ain’t you, Pop?”
His father raised himself straight. “Maybe I am. I don’t know. I just got to get to somewhere I can get my hand worked on and nobody’ll ask questions.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.”
“I got to.”
His father watched smoke billow black into the sky, then leaned into Vernon. “Listen to me, son,” he said. “I been thinking on what to do with you, and I want you to listen close.” Vernon wiped his stinging eyes, tried to focus on his father’s mouth. “Tomorrow,” his father said, “I want you to pack your belongings into a bag and walk yourself into town to the Baptist church. Go on to Pastor Gould and tell him everything. Tell him how I killed a man. How you had to carry the body. How I made you help burn him up. Tell him you need the Lord. They can’t turn you away; you’re fruit to be picked or go rotten. You go it straight, son, and they’ll give you a life. You’ll be a symbol to them, of how
He dragged the quilt down the calcite corridor, Mr. Augusto’s head knocking against the damp floor. Vernon pulled tenderly, as if dragging a man asleep and trying not to wake him. He became intensely aware of his own skin, the cloth on his fingertips, blisters crinkling the balls of his feet. Soon he felt heat from the fire on his neck, and he tugged the body, as if entering a furnace, through the cavern’s mouth.
The fire lashed flames the size of small trees and the oval of blue sky was overcome by the smoke and the cathedral walls now reflected firelight instead of sunshine. His father approached and they stood with the body in the quilt between them.
“Help get it on the fire, son.”
“You mean Mr. Augusto?”
“That’s right,” and his father solemnly nodded. “Help get Mr. Augusto on the fire. We got to burn him up.”
Vernon stood very still. “I know you hit Mr. Augusto more than one time,” he said. “You says you hit him only once, but that ain’t the truth.”
His father covered his mouth with his good hand. “Took one hit to switch him off,” he finally said. “Just like I says. But then I was more mad with him dead than when he was alive.”
His father straddled the quilt, struggled lifting Mr. Augusto’s feet with his one hand, and Vernon grabbed the quilt up under the shoulders. They awkwardly dropped the body and the fire was momentarily smothered and the break in the smoke brought a flash of bright light. Then the sun was gone again and the flames grew livid as his father stirred the logs. Vernon sat on a granite bench, covering his nose to the smoke and facing his shadow flickering on the wall.
“Vernon,” his father said, standing at his shoulder. “I want you to take your mama out tonight.” He handed Vernon a folded wad of dollars. “Get her a nice steak. Take her to the picture show.” He sat down beside Vernon, cradling his black-fingered hand tight to his ribs. “When you come back home tonight, Mama’ll go and meet me at the old McAlester Road. From there we’re gone.”
Vernon wondered if the money his father had given him was from Mr. Augusto’s wallet, and allowed himself to peek behind at the fire. His eyes blinked against the heat, the quilt fabric burned away in spots to expose the body. Mr. Augusto’s arm stretched to the edge of one bench, his shirt cuff wriggling with fire yet the hand untouched, the flames reflecting hard off his gold watch. Waves of smoke scorched Vernon’s eyes. He turned back to the wall. His father had slumped forward, as if poised to be sick.
“You’re going to die, ain’t you, Pop?”
His father raised himself straight. “Maybe I am. I don’t know. I just got to get to somewhere I can get my hand worked on and nobody’ll ask questions.”
“I’ll go with you.”
“No.”
“I got to.”
His father watched smoke billow black into the sky, then leaned into Vernon. “Listen to me, son,” he said. “I been thinking on what to do with you, and I want you to listen close.” Vernon wiped his stinging eyes, tried to focus on his father’s mouth. “Tomorrow,” his father said, “I want you to pack your belongings into a bag and walk yourself into town to the Baptist church. Go on to Pastor Gould and tell him everything. Tell him how I killed a man. How you had to carry the body. How I made you help burn him up. Tell him you need the Lord. They can’t turn you away; you’re fruit to be picked or go rotten. You go it straight, son, and they’ll give you a life. You’ll be a symbol to them, of how
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