The Light Pirate(38)
“Just say I’m reliable. And a hard worker. And…I don’t know. Congenial.”
“I guess.” She hoists a branch into the chipper, which chews it up and spits the wood chips out into the underbrush. He studies her face, but it’s a vault. She picks up another branch, this one bigger than her entire body. He steps forward to help but she says, “I got it,” and it’s clear that she does. The muscles up and down her arms come into focus underneath her skin as she heaves it into the mouth of the woodchipper. She wipes the sweat away from underneath the band of her hard hat. “You hear about Braylen?” she asks.
“Braylen who?”
“Tropical storm. Down by Cuba.”
“Oh, right,” Lucas replies. “Braylen—they ran out of alphabet again, huh.”
“Running out every year. Got that overflow list now. They were saying it’ll probably be a Category One by tonight. Maybe Two, even. Growing fast. Could be another big one.”
Lucas isn’t convinced. “Nah, I reckon it’s too late for another real big one.” Brenda just laughs and laughs. She laughs so loud Kirby stops what he’s doing and looks down at them. “What?” Lucas says. “What’s so funny?”
“You think the weather gives a fuck about the calendar? This is what it is now, kiddo. You and your dad.” She shakes her head. “Thinking the rules still matter.”
He’s quiet then, because he knows she’s right.
Chapter 38
That night, Kirby considers their barren fridge and proposes ordering pizza for dinner. His kids’ response to his suggestion is lackluster, so he says it again, louder, to remind them that it is their duty to be delighted.
“I’ll call it in,” Lucas volunteers. They don’t need to discuss the order; everyone knows it’s two large pies so that they’ll have a slice each left over for breakfast: the first with half plain cheese, half pepperoni, and then the second with absolutely everything. Kirby tosses Lucas his wallet and migrates to the living room, where he turns on the TV. A weatherwoman is announcing Hurricane Braylen’s progress through the Bahamas: A Category Two as of this evening…We expect to see northwestern movement and an increased wind speed overnight.
In the kitchen, Kirby hears Lucas hang up and mutter, “Weird.”
“What’s weird?” he shouts.
“It just makes that error tone.”
“You try it again?”
An exasperated sigh. “Yeah, Pop. I tried it again.”
“I’ll drive down,” Kirby says, heaving himself out of his chair. “Order in person.” The truth is, he’s happy to go. Lately, the only time he has to himself is when he’s sleeping, showering, or shitting. Actually, it’s not just lately, he realizes. It’s been years. The truck’s engine is still warm from the drive home from the job site. As he pulls out of the driveway, he clicks off the radio station Lucas likes. Kirby prefers the silence. It’s dark by the time he gets to the little strip where the pizza place is, and when he pulls in, there are no other cars. A CLOSED sign hangs inside the door, and a big piece of poster board is taped in the picture window.
GONE NORTH
GOD BLESS
Kirby gets out of his truck even though he can read it fine from the front seat. Peering in through the darkened glass, he tries to remember the last time they ordered from here. It couldn’t have been more than a few weeks ago. The tables are still there, lurking in the darkened dining room, laid with red-and-white checkerboard vinyl as if the restaurant might open at any moment, the shakers full of red pepper flakes and Parmesan cheese still crowded around the napkin dispensers.
The loneliness that washes over him when he sees this, the ghost of the pizzeria where he’s taken his kids for a decade, is so intense he puts a hand on the window to steady himself. When he turns back to his truck, he notices a figure sleeping on a pile of cardboard in the corner of the strip mall and can’t help but approach. He’s overcome with a peculiar need: to wake them, speak with them. They are the only ones here. The road is empty. The parking lot is empty. For a moment, it seems like he and this sleeping figure are the only two humans left in Rudder. “Hey,” he calls. “You know what happened to the pizza place?” Even before the words are out of his mouth, he realizes the futility in the question. But he just wants to say something. He wants to see the color of this person’s eyes, to hear their voice, to know that something as simple as asking a stranger a question and receiving an answer is still possible. The figure twitches and turns over, eyeing Kirby. His forehead is smudged with dirt and a beard has taken hold of his face, sprouting along his cheeks and neck in uneven snarls. His eyes are a crisp, lucid green. Something at his feet moves and Kirby realizes it’s a dog. A dirty gray pit bull with a long, sloppy pink tongue.
“Says right there in the window,” the man grumbles. “Can’t you read?”
“I can,” Kirby says. “I just…I was just curious. If you knew anything else.” He feels bad now for waking him. It must be hard to get any sleep like this: outside, on cardboard and concrete. He slides a five-dollar bill out of his wallet. “Here,” he says, thrusting it down at the man, who takes it.
“What’s this for?” he asks. His dog whines softly, licking its human’s hand.