Read Online Volt: Stories by Alan Heathcock - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Alan Heathcock
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someone can come out of the fire and become righteous. You’ll be a symbol and they’ll take good care of you always ’cause folks need something to believe in. I’ll be a symbol, too.”
Then he was quiet and draped his good arm around Vernon’s shoulders. His head lolled, then Vernon was looking into his father’s gray eyes. “This thing we done, Vernon,” he said. “It’s outside of so much. I’ve worried about all the things that’ll change. But I been thinking about them things what can’t be touched. Ain’t a woman in the world more beautiful than your mother. I was thinking about how much I loved her, and how that ain’t changed, and that got me thinking about my heart and how when it rains your skin and hair gets wet and cold, but your heart don’t know if it’s raining, or hot, or windy. It just keeps on beating.” He lifted his arm back from around Vernon. “That’s how I like to think about it, at least. It ain’t all clear in my mind yet.” He motioned toward the cave entrance. “Go on, now. Take your mother out tonight and try and just forget about me.”
In a gesture they’d often shared when Vernon was a child, his father kissed his cheek. Vernon touched his father’s hair, then rose and did not look back. He was barely conscious of his movement as he wandered up and out from the tunnels.
He mindlessly negotiated the sandstone facade. He walked the woods thinking he should climb back to the cave, that there was more to be said, that he should stay and help his father. But the ground passed quickly beneath him and he did not slow until wire patching his boot soles snagged the grass of the dense sedge prairie.
Vernon turned to face what was behind him. Above the tree line rose the smoking sandstone peak. Black smoke smeared the sky like an oily thumb dragged down pretty paper. In that smoke were brass buttons and blood. Vernon’s eyes burned from smoke. His hands and arms were beaded with soot-black sweat. Smoke clung to his hair, his clothes, his skin. He tasted smoke on his teeth.
Flames flared behind Vernon’s breastbone. He coughed and he spat and wheezed. He became light-headed. He dropped to one knee. Sedge swayed in his eyes and he could no longer see the peak. He saw only smoke-hazed sky. The sky had been sullied for so long Vernon couldn’t recall a day without smoke. He lay on his back in the grass, but could not quell the heat in his chest. Wind-blown smoke swirled in the sky above where he lay, higher, swirling higher, and though he longed to believe his father, to understand him, he knew smoke was not rain and had found its way to his heart.
He watched the sky and thought of all the fires the world had ever seen, fires from wars, fires from bombs. So much smoke. Where has it all gone? New smoke curled beneath wisps of old, drifting ever higher, higher. Where does it all go? He inhaled deeply and his insides burned, and Vernon knew all that smoke was now just the air we breathe.
PEACEKEEPER
Spring 2008: There were more direct routes to the Odd Fellows Hall, on a dry knob north of town, but Helen Farraley could not see below the muddy floodwater, couldn’t risk wrecking the boat on a tree or chimney or telephone pole. Who knew what was just below the surface? The streets of town were lined with ancient oaks, the leafy tops of which stuck out from the water like massive shrubs. Helen steered the boat through the channel between them. The others in the boat sat silent as they passed their neighbors’ homes, slate-shingled Victorians under water to the second-floor windows. Helen trolled high above the town’s main street, Old Saints Road, and the treetops dropped away as the land sloped into the valley’s low.
They passed the SuperAmerica gas station, only the hump and peak of the SA on its road sign visible. The others stared into the muck water as if they might see the pumps or store below. Afloat in the current were random lumber, tree branches and strips of
Then he was quiet and draped his good arm around Vernon’s shoulders. His head lolled, then Vernon was looking into his father’s gray eyes. “This thing we done, Vernon,” he said. “It’s outside of so much. I’ve worried about all the things that’ll change. But I been thinking about them things what can’t be touched. Ain’t a woman in the world more beautiful than your mother. I was thinking about how much I loved her, and how that ain’t changed, and that got me thinking about my heart and how when it rains your skin and hair gets wet and cold, but your heart don’t know if it’s raining, or hot, or windy. It just keeps on beating.” He lifted his arm back from around Vernon. “That’s how I like to think about it, at least. It ain’t all clear in my mind yet.” He motioned toward the cave entrance. “Go on, now. Take your mother out tonight and try and just forget about me.”
In a gesture they’d often shared when Vernon was a child, his father kissed his cheek. Vernon touched his father’s hair, then rose and did not look back. He was barely conscious of his movement as he wandered up and out from the tunnels.
He mindlessly negotiated the sandstone facade. He walked the woods thinking he should climb back to the cave, that there was more to be said, that he should stay and help his father. But the ground passed quickly beneath him and he did not slow until wire patching his boot soles snagged the grass of the dense sedge prairie.
Vernon turned to face what was behind him. Above the tree line rose the smoking sandstone peak. Black smoke smeared the sky like an oily thumb dragged down pretty paper. In that smoke were brass buttons and blood. Vernon’s eyes burned from smoke. His hands and arms were beaded with soot-black sweat. Smoke clung to his hair, his clothes, his skin. He tasted smoke on his teeth.
Flames flared behind Vernon’s breastbone. He coughed and he spat and wheezed. He became light-headed. He dropped to one knee. Sedge swayed in his eyes and he could no longer see the peak. He saw only smoke-hazed sky. The sky had been sullied for so long Vernon couldn’t recall a day without smoke. He lay on his back in the grass, but could not quell the heat in his chest. Wind-blown smoke swirled in the sky above where he lay, higher, swirling higher, and though he longed to believe his father, to understand him, he knew smoke was not rain and had found its way to his heart.
He watched the sky and thought of all the fires the world had ever seen, fires from wars, fires from bombs. So much smoke. Where has it all gone? New smoke curled beneath wisps of old, drifting ever higher, higher. Where does it all go? He inhaled deeply and his insides burned, and Vernon knew all that smoke was now just the air we breathe.
PEACEKEEPER
Spring 2008: There were more direct routes to the Odd Fellows Hall, on a dry knob north of town, but Helen Farraley could not see below the muddy floodwater, couldn’t risk wrecking the boat on a tree or chimney or telephone pole. Who knew what was just below the surface? The streets of town were lined with ancient oaks, the leafy tops of which stuck out from the water like massive shrubs. Helen steered the boat through the channel between them. The others in the boat sat silent as they passed their neighbors’ homes, slate-shingled Victorians under water to the second-floor windows. Helen trolled high above the town’s main street, Old Saints Road, and the treetops dropped away as the land sloped into the valley’s low.
They passed the SuperAmerica gas station, only the hump and peak of the SA on its road sign visible. The others stared into the muck water as if they might see the pumps or store below. Afloat in the current were random lumber, tree branches and strips of
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