The Summer That Melted Everything(11)

I always thought he had too demanding a job for someone like him. We are all sensitive to a degree when it comes to the great terrible things in the world, but he was torn apart by them.

Some cases affected him more than others, like the one with the little girl who was beaten to death by her addict parents. He’d stare at those bloody crime photos over and over again, long after he put the parents away. Then one day he said he was going out.

He drove a few miles outside of Breathed to a roadside bar and said the types of things you should never say to a biker gang. He was bedridden for six weeks. When I asked him why he did it, he used his one good hand to write I wanted to see for myself on a pad of paper because his mouth was wired shut.

His jaw would heal, as would his swollen eyes, cracked ribs, and broken kneecap. The bruises would go on their way, the blood would stop lifting to the surface, and his arm would eventually come out of that cast. But he’d still have the scar at his hairline where the beer bottle had been broken. He never tried to hide this scar. He’d brush his thick brown hair back so there’d be no chance of not seeing it. He did just this as he strolled between me and the boy.

“I feel like someone forgot to tell me just how hot it was to be today.” He removed his suit jacket and draped it over his arm. He kept his back to us as he looked toward the house. “And who, may I ask, are you?”

The boy didn’t answer, so Dad turned to see why, his blue eyes squinted.

“He’s the devil, Dad.”

“Now, Fielding, it isn’t polite to call someone the devil without just cause.”

“I’m callin’ him the devil ’cause he is the devil. Or so he says. Go on, tell ’im.” I gave the boy a gentle push toward Dad.

The boy stood there a moment, digging his dirty toe into the ground before confirming in a washed-out voice, “It is true. I am the devil.”

The grasses at Dad’s palms fluttered as he tried to recall ever seeing the boy before. “Where are you from, son?”

“Originally, I am from the above. But now, well, now I’m from the below. Fallen there.”

“Fallen? Salinero v. Pon, is it?”

“What’s that?” the boy asked, not used to Dad and his court case references.

“Oh, Salinero v. Pon? Well, it was a case where a man fell from a window, and all because weight was removed. Will you argue like him, I wonder?” he asked the boy in all seriousness. “That the reason you fell is because someone removed your weight?”

“I wish my defense could be so easy,” the boy answered in the same seriousness.

“Mmm-hmm.” Dad thrust his hands on his hips. “I’m going to tell you right now, son, I am prepared to believe you, no matter how outrageous it may seem. I am the one who wrote an invitation to the devil in the first place. It would be lousy of me not to believe my invitation has indeed been answered. I did think I had prepared myself for every devil imaginable. Not one of my imaginings looked like you, though.”

We all three turned to the back porch, where Mom was hollering for Dad.

“What’s goin’ on, Autopsy? Who’s that boy?” She hovered her foot over the porch steps but would never take them.

“You boys stay here.” Dad shook his head and muttered about the heat as he left.

Meanwhile, the boy hadn’t stopped staring at Mom. “What’s her name?”

“Stella. If you wanna see her, you’ll have to go to her. Porch is the farthest she’ll come.”

“Why?”

“She’s afraid of the rain.”

“It’s not raining.”

“Naw, but it might start.”

He looked up at the blue sky, knowing it would not rain.

“What’s the date?” He dropped his eyes back to the porch, where Mom and Dad stood talking.

“June twenty-third. Why?”

“The days … they’ve been blurring together.”

“Just hang a calendar on your wall.”

“The walls of hell are not like other walls. I tore a picture of the ocean out from a magazine and hung it on my wall once. An ocean is a good life place. Everyone always seems happy there. And for a moment, I was happy with my picture, but then the blue sky turned gray. The waves, once calm, took a turn to rage. Then came the screams. As I looked closer, I saw the screams came from men drowning in the water.

“All I wanted was a picture of a good life. What I got was a reminder that there is no good life for me. That was the last time I hung anything on my walls. Imagine what would happen if I hung a calendar.”

I shook my head in awe of him. “Say, what are we supposed to call ya? I mean, we can’t just call you the devil all the time. Ain’tcha got a nickname or nothin’?”

He rubbed his palms until I thought he was going to start a fire. “I suppose you can call me Sal.”

“Where’d that come from?”

“From the beginning of Satan and the first step into Lucifer. Sa-L.”

“All right. Sal. I like it.”

Dad called us to the porch, where I informed him and Mom of Sal’s name.

“Welcome, Sal.” Dad placed his hand on Sal’s shoulder before saying he was going into town to speak to Sheriff Sands and would be back shortly. By his orders, we were to stay with Mom, who held out her arms toward Sal, waiting for him to come up the porch steps, where she could yank him into her.