Desperation Road(10)

“Where to?”

“Over there. Behind the fire station.”

“What fire station? Out by the mall?”

“The one downtown.”

“Shit. That station’s been shut down five, six years. Don’t reckon they care if we burn to the ground down here. Gotta sit next to all the new shit, I guess. Make sure some insurance man don’t get all worked up. The station down here is apartments now. You believe that? Couple of gay dudes bought it and fancied it up. Think it was even on some TV show. You sure you in the right spot?”

“I’m sure. It’s been a while. Over behind the place you’re talking about. Michigan Avenue.”

“That’s better. Street names are still the same far as I know,” the man said and he flicked his cigarette out the cracked window. “So what was that back there? You get on that guy’s wife or something?”

“Nah. Nothing like that.”

“Just old blood.”

“Old bad blood.”

“They seemed pretty damn serious. Weird looks on their faces. Especially that tall one.”

“Yeah. Especially,” Russell said.

The Toyota weaved through downtown. Women in heels leaving their bank jobs for the day and walking to their locked cars with black purses hanging from their arms. An OPEN sign shined in a café window and a pack of grayhaired men stood outside its door smoking. They passed the old fire station and the flagpole was gone from the front yard and a dogwood stood in its place. A wrought-iron balcony stretched across the upstairs floor and plants hung from hooks and their vines leaned lazily across the balcony railing, swaying in the late afternoon breeze. The red brick had been painted dirty gold.

“Pretty, ain’t it?” the man said. After the old station they left the downtown buildings and came upon a neighborhood. At a four-way stop Russell pointed right onto Michigan Avenue.

“About four down, I think. On the right. Or the left.”

“Yeah, I’d say it’s one of them.”

It was five down on the right. Russell lifted his hand and said stop.

“Don’t look like nobody lives here,” the man said.

“Nobody does.”

The man looked at the house and he looked at Russell. “You sure you okay? I see a lot of weird shit get on and off that bus but I never seen a guy jumped before.”

“I’m fine.”

“Want me to run you over to the doctor or something?”

“Hell no.” He shook his head and then the man’s hand and he opened the door and stepped out onto the sidewalk. He tossed away his cigarette and then he lit another one and he dropped the duffel bag to the ground. Stared at the house. Well, he thought. Home sweet fucking home.





8


THE HOUSE WAS LIKE THE OTHER HOUSES ON THE STREET. A CARPORT on the right, a porch in front, a porch in back, a thin walkway leading from the sidewalk to the door. Hedges under the front windows. An iron handrail up the front steps. Russell finished his cigarette and stood and opened the mailbox and took out an envelope. His name was scribbled on the front and he opened it and took out a house key.

Under the carport sat an old Ford pickup that was once red but only patches remained, as it had mostly faded to orange. He walked over to it and ran his hand along the truck bed. Patted her like she was a horse. A single crack spread across the width of the windshield and there was a small dent in the tailgate. The tires were worn and the truck bed was rusted in each of the four corners. A spare tire lying in the back. He opened the door and sat down behind the wheel. The bench seat was split here and there, slithers of foam sticking through the splits. A note was on the seat and he picked it up and read She’s gonna need some love. He folded the note and tossed it down on the floorboard. The key hung from the ignition and he pushed in the clutch and gave it a turn and the engine strained but hit and he gave it the gas. It paused, gave a quick backfire like a popgun, then roared and in the rearview mirror he saw a gust of gray flow from the tailpipe and out across the driveway and he let it run for a couple of minutes.

He walked up the steps of the front porch and dropped the bag and he unlocked the door and walked in. The hardwood floors had been refinished dark like espresso and the fireplace in the living room had been bricked up. He walked from room to room and saw that all the walls had been painted a fresh coat of white. Random bits of mismatched furniture appeared in each room—a bed and a dresser in the bedroom and a coffee table and a beige couch and a bookshelf in the living room. In the kitchen he found a table with two chairs and on the counter sat a coffeemaker and a microwave. Next to the microwave was a new pack of cigarettes. Then he opened the refrigerator and found a six-pack of beer. Dear old Dad.

He took a beer and he opened the back door. The backyard grass was high and a wheelbarrow was overturned in the middle of the yard. An empty five-gallon paint bucket and some rollers and brushes were in one corner of the porch. A white plastic chair in another. He sat down on the steps and held the cold beer bottle to his eye and he tried to relax. Closed his eyes and breathed the heavy, free air. A bead of water trickled down the bottle and along his cheek and disappeared into the two-week-old beard he had begun as part of his new world. He then opened his eyes and opened the beer. Tiny insects danced across the tops of the high grass and oak trees kept out the lowering sun. On each side of the narrow yard the neighbors had erected six-foot-high fences to keep their cookouts to themselves. He rubbed his eye again. Felt the knot on his head. Felt his ribs. Then he lay back on the porch and stared at the cobwebs surrounding the porch light. A butterfly was trapped. Fighting but losing. A dog barked from somewhere and then another joined.