He rolls to a stop. The road is smooth and dry and the stop happens easily. It’s a two-way pause, the way he’s going and the way he came, with dirt roads intersecting across the middle. More than likely, farmers use it to get from one patch of land to another, perhaps home. He didn’t think farms of that stature exist anymore. He still isn’t certain. He rolls past. On the stereo plays a collection of music his father would have liked, bands from the seventies whose power in the social consciousness has faded but not dissipated. He nods his head along, his head, for once, devoid of thoughts.
The fields ends at a far tree line, and as he passes, he’s enveloped by a tunnel of trunks on either side, short and sturdy like a running back. Then they end, the trees, and it’s fields once more, rolling down like smooth waters as far as he can see. It reminds him of a movie he saw once, of a scene where two characters argue about whether they should marry. Their dance happens on a hillside, the whole of Massachusetts sprawling behind them. He liked that one. He cried when they fought. That was how he knew he liked it; it took real emotion to bring the same feeling out of him, for a reaction to come. On the off chance it happened, he thought it special. The movie was special.
He debates how much further to drive before turning around. In all, he’s been out for an hour; a half-tank of gas remains in the car; but it’s winter. Days are lost early. Snow falls unexpectedly. But the drive has done him good, and of that he has no doubts or regrets. He continues on.
A few minutes up the road, he spots a house and, behind it, a large pile of wood, charcoal gray from either the lighting or nature. He slows, then pulls off onto the side of the road, his left tires sticking a foot into the main thoroughfare. No one comes. He shuts off the engine. Cold seeps in, replacing the artificial warmth. What hits him as he steps out of the car can only be described as an arctic chill; he imagines himself canvassing a frozen tundra, bundled from head to toe, only now he’s wearing a light jacket and slacks and sneakers. He’s better dressed for a happy hour.
Up he climbs, the embankment barely three feet long and scarcely above his knees. He passes by the house, its own white paint chipped in massive chunks, the windows mucked, the screen on the porch torn in several long strips. Not a light in the house is on. Parked along the side is a station wagon, forty years old at least, its tires bald and grimy. The place feels deserted. Lonely.
A gust of wind bristles the wood, of house and pile, forcing a low groan. Old pipes: The sound is identical, bringing him back to his parents’ house, when those rusty tubes would clank and clatter through the night, struggling to carry heat throughout the house, not unlike the one standing at his back now. Once, the pile in front of him was a barn. He sees that now. Even the beams that remain are half-burned but massive, their grandeur held in every charcoal fiber. One stands above the others, tilted diagonally towards the sky, reaching over his head as he moves closer. Most likely, it was the central beam of the roof, although he has no way to be sure. It would be impossible for the person who built this to identify a scrap.
He’s saddened by this scene, but cannot pin down a reason why, for any of it.
Bang. The screen door rifles against the siding, loud as a gunshot. He turns, expecting the wind to have taken it. The wind did not. A man stands silhouetted against a new glint from above the doorway. His face is indiscernible. There’s something on the man’s right side, extending from his hip and hand to the ground, like a walking stick. “Thought I told you boys to get your asses home to your mothers,” the man shouts, his voice strained and weak. The threat feels empty. “I told you I’d shoot the next time I caught you fuckers.” What he thought to be a thick cane at the man’s side is, in truth, a double-barreled shotgun. He panics; he lifts his hands above his head; he calls out, “Please, sir, I’ll leave. Just don’t shoot.” He begins to shuffle away from the ruins.
“You sound older,” the man says. “You’re not with them boys?” The gun hasn’t moved from his side.
“No, sir,” he answers. “I wanted to take a look at the barn back there, that’s all.” He jerks his thumb behind him. “I’ll get going.” He doesn’t want to be here, not that he knows he’s trespassing, not that he knows he’s not alone.
The man grunts, and hobbles his way out. The man is using the shotgun as a cane, he notices, before the picture is painted, and he sees a grizzled man, lines searing his face, but a soft expression, notably in his large brown eyes. His hairline, receding, still held some mass, with streaks of gray and white interspersed. “Should’ve knocked,” the man says. “Bit rude of you not to. Wouldn’t’ve spooked you like that, if I known you wanted to take a look. Weird thing to want a gander at, though.”
“Caught my eye a little ways up the road. Back that way. I just… needed to take a look.”
“Something about ruins that’ll always bring people out,” the man chuckles. “Never understood it, but people’re people, and I’ve been shit at learning about ‘em. They do like being ornery, just for the hell of it, and whether they admit it or not. That’s one thing I’ve learned.”
“Yes. Right. Sure.”
“Got a name?”
“Carter.”
“Pat.” Pat switches the gun from his right hand to his left, then extends the former. They shake, hands firm and strong. Carter places his in his pocket. They slide familiarly around his keys.
“Didn’t mean to scare you, son,” Pat continues. “Gave me a real fright, though, a man standing there looking at a pile of rubble.”
“Me neither. You’re right, it was rude of me.” Carter is lambasting himself for not checking, for not enacting some due diligence before strolling on to someone’s land.
“No harm, no foul. You did nothing except step on some dirt. Doesn’t make much of a difference if you’re doing that here or fifty feet ‘attaways.” Pat sighs, and his shoulders sag. “Had some shit heads sneaking in all summer,” he recalls. “Kicked them out plenty, ‘course. They left the place a mess, and the racket—well, let’s say it would’ve driven a lesser man mad. The bastards kept coming, though. Good-for-nothing cops did jack about it, too.” He spits on the ground, away from the house and Carter, out towards the fields. “Never do, though, unless some poor son of a bitch walks into the station with blood on his hands. Anyways, the little shits were out here smoking one night. You could smell it from a mile away, and I could clean through my walls, that’s how bad it got. I went out, tell ‘em to go fuck off, when I start smelling something real. Like a campfire, the ones we built right near that barn, on cool summer nights. I liked that smell. Not that night, though. I ran out, fast as I could, but the kids were already bolting. They went through everything: the windows, the back door, under the sides. One ran right past me through the front. That’s when I saw the fire, already big, already eating.” His eyes begin to look watery, as if the smoke is once more filling the air. “My grandfather built that barn,” he continues. My daddy touched it up, back when people did that sort of thing, and back when I was young and lazy, like all kids. Now I’m just old and lazy, like all adults. Some things don’t change, but time goes by for the hell of it.”
Carter spent the time absorbing every word. The man, Pat, spoke well; he had a nice cadence to his voice.
He finally replies, answering, “I’m sorry about the barn. It must’ve been terrible.”
Pat says nothing. “How old are you, son?” he finally breaks.
“25, sir, two months ago.”
“I was a little younger than you when my dad painted this whole mess the most beautiful, radiant white you’ll ever see. My wife chewed Chiclets, and they weren’t even that white. Damn near 50 years ago now. Wasn’t much of a looker, not at the end, but most of us aren’t anyways.” He sniffs as he gazes at the scraps. Carter shifts his feet, his eyes unfocused. “You want a drink, son?” the man offers. “A little whiskey is good for a cold soul.”
“A glass couldn’t hurt.” He asks about his car, whether he should move it from the road or not. Pat gives him a sad smile, like there’s a memory lodged deep beneath the answer. “Better safe than sorry,” he says. “I’ll leave the door open for when you’re done. Leave here right behind Sally here.” Pat smacks the roof of the station wagon as he passes. Carter obliges, then follows his path, through a tight walkway behind the door and into the kitchen. There’s a decent amount of clutter for a man who, until this moment, Carter believed to be living alone. Dishes are piled in the sink, not an unhealthy amount necessarily, but enough to know this man hasn’t washed them in a few days. A full bag of garbage sits next to the can, which is also full, next to the door. From top to bottom, the fridge, pressed into a nook cut into the lemon-painted wall, is covered with magnets, of locales near and far, photos of children—a boy and a girl—in sports uniforms, soccer, softball, football, or in collared shirts, school pictures. The boy’s face is stern and sharp. He seems perpetually angry, or unnerved. The girl’s face appears more like the man fiddling across the kitchen: worn around the eyes, but it’s clear that her marks, even so young, are from smiling.
Both have the same hair, straight like straw, as the woman whose picture rests on the small table set in the middle of the room, a dining set with two chairs. She’s tall, as tall as Pat, he sees, and her smile is broad but tight, her lips clasped together. Pat and his wife are wearing smart outfits, khaki and collars galore, and their daughter stands between them in cap and gown.
There are other liveries strewn about the kitchen, a vase here, a glass figurine there, and more beyond the tiled floor, in the hardwood living room. A bookshelf rests against the furthest wall, straight back from the outcropping between the two rooms. Carter is curious about all of it, but not are as insatiable as the man’s seemingly absent family.
He doesn’t quite know how to ask about them. He picks up the frame, staring at it for a moment. “Everything alright?” Pat calls over his shoulder.
“Is this your family?” Carter asks.
Pat halts, but only for a heartbeat, before resuming his task. He collects a glass from the shelf above him, then one from the drying rack next to the sink. “Yes, it is,” he answers. “Or most of them. Diane, my wife, and our daughter Pearl. Pride and joy, that girl was. She got a full ride to Penn State, straight to main campus.”
“Pride must be an understatement,” Carter comments.
“Oh, you bet. That girl had her eyes set on the stars, and she was on her way.” He comes to the table, bearing full glasses and a freshly opened bottle of whiskey. A peek at the label reveals it to be a mix, cheap, bottom shelf liquor. Then Carter glances at the counter, sees the armada of empty bottles of whiskey, and eases himself into contention.
Pat places one glass on each end, the bottle in the middle. “You’re 25, you said, right?” he asks.
“Yes, sir. Recently minted.”
“I can’t imagine you’re much of a whiskey drinker, especially not neat. Beer and mixers, that about right?”
“I’ve had my bouts.”
“Well, to a new match, then,” Pat toasts, and they clink glasses. On his tongue, Carter tastes cigarette ash and manure, and the barn flashes through his mind. He withholds a cough. Pat’s eyes strain. “Wish I had something better,” Pat sighs. “This is all I had left. A gift, if you can believe it, from my boy. Miles. That’s his name. Doesn’t come around much. Surprised he even remembered my birthday. Isn’t that a shame?”
“It is.” Carter is amazed at how loose-lipped Pat speaks. He can’t imagine where it might go, should the bottle run dry, although the volcano in his stomach might run interference. He picks on something Pat mentioned earlier. “You said Pearl ‘was’ your pride and joy, right?” he probes.
“Yes. Yes, I did,” Pat says. “She passed, a few years ago. Same as my wife. We were driving, god, I can’t even remember where we were going. Truck comes out of nowhere, no lights on, plows them right about head on. It… it was rough.” He looks down at his glass, lips pursed, water filling the ravine beneath his tired eyes. “The truck was moving fast enough, it got me before I could break, get out of the way. All I got was a broken leg. Still can’t walk right. This was, oh, five years ago now.” He stops, takes a sip, then refills his glass, this time near the brim. “There was nothing I could do,” he continues, “and yet every day I sit here and wonder what there is I could have done differently. Do you ever feel like that? I assume no. The young are always so cocksure of themselves, especially boys.”
“No, actually. I do know,” Carter replies. “It’s a tough lot. I think about everything I have ever done, every person I have helped or harmed, and I play it out, from the beginning, and change things as I go. It’s why I was out driving today, actually. My mind was racing so much, I couldn’t work. I needed to clear my head.
“There was a girl I knew, once. She broke my heart.” He thinks of her face, Naomi, but mostly her eyes, buttery brown cookies amid a sea of milk. “But I spend a lot of time, lose a lot of sleep, worrying about her, postulating, and it’s a waste of time. What happened, happened. I can’t do a goddamn thing about it.” Carter can feel the heat sitting in his cheeks, and whether it’s the whiskey or the emotion, he knows he needs to cool down. He takes a breath.
“I suppose,” the man says, dazed by this deluge, “life doesn’t tend to discriminate by age. It comes for us all.”
“Amen to that.”
Pat sits back. “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” he muses.
“Mmm.” These are waters Carter does not want to tread, but the smirk spreading across Pat’s faces eases him, if only mildly. “Not a religious man, I take it?” Pat inquires.
“No, not in the slightest. My mother, she was, but that was a long time ago.”
“I only say those things to make the people around here more comfortable,” Pat explains. “Truthfully, I don’t care if the Lord is working mysteriously or with his dick out. He’ll find a way to fuck me over.” Halfway through his second glass, Pat begins to slur his words a little. There’s a measure of honesty to what he’s saying, Carter picks up on that, but his guard is down. He decides to put it back up. “I’m sorry about your wife, and your daughter,” Carter says. “It seems you really loved them, a lot.”
“I did. I did. But what do you have to be sorry for? You’re not a truck driving man, I can tell. You didn’t kill them. You’ve got clean hands. A city boy, through and through, perusing through the countryside, where the real people live.”
“I’m out on a drive,” Carter repeats. “I don’t live far, but I’m not a city guy, not anymore.”
“But it’s in your bones. What do you do, son?”
“For work?”
“Yes.” Pat finishes his glass, but leaves it empty on the table.
“Odds and ends. Whatever puts food on the table.”
“But you’re young. What do you want to be?”
“I…” Carter hesitates. “I want to write.”
“Write what? Stories? Articles? Poems, of which you’ll get paid nothing but people will clamor to read when you die?”
“I don’t understand. Stories, I guess. Fiction. Novels.”
Pat grunts. He stands, hurries out into the living room, and fiddles on the bookshelf. Carter watches him, pulling titles down, looking for something specific, tossing failures on the floor or hastily back on the shelf, until he finds it. “Take this,” Pat says upon returning. “It’s good. Pearl liked it. It’s yours.”
“Thank you, sir.” Carter hasn’t seen the title before, but it seems interesting. A slip of paper pokes up from the edge.
“Yes. Well. It’s nothing. Be sure to read it. Learn to love it. Learn to live in it.” They remain silent, Pat standing, Carter sitting, until, checking the stove-top clock, the younger man confesses his need to leave. Pat nods. Carter stands, and the two move towards the door. “Thank you, sir, for the chat,” Carter says. “And the whiskey. It was very nice of you.”
Nothing’s said in response. Pat looks him up and down, then gives Carter a sad smile. “You’re a good kid, Carter,” he says. “Don’t let life beat you down.” With that, he shuts the door.
Carter walks to his car. He climbs in, tossing the book onto the passenger seat. The paper slips out. It’s a piece of notebook paper, folded into a long strip, like a bookmark. Carter peers at its contents. It’s a poem, written by, as it says at the top, Pearl, age ten:
How I love the moon
Shining so soon
On winter nights
Full of delights
With frosty family fun
For everyone!
He smiles, rereading it once more. He thinks it’s quite good, for a child, maybe for most adults, too. Creasing it carefully, he slides out of the car and walks to the mailbox. He places it inside, careful not to rattle the box too much. It’ll be a nice surprise, he thinks, for Pat to find in the morning; or, perhaps, it’ll be traumatic. A ghost from the past at the bottom of that bottle. It’s a risk Carter’s willing to take, to prevent a guilty conscience over the theft of an invaluable scrap of paper tossed once, a while before he crossed the threshold, to be a bookmark. Turning the key, the engine turns over, and Carter backs down the dirt driveway, his wheel cranked to the left, and jumps onto the street. He puts the car into drive.