Mark Spragg - Bone Fire

When they’d finished breakfast they stood out in the bright sun on the sidewalk.

“I guess first thing we ought to do is get a room,” McEban said.

“Can we wash the truck?”

McEban pulled the toothpick from his mouth, staring down at the boy.

“In one of those places with the spray hoses,” Kenneth said. “I’ve always wanted to.”

They took a room with two beds at the Super 8 on Lincolnway off I-25, then found a carwash on Missile Drive. There were a few others but the boy liked the idea of a road named after something that got shot into the air.

He sprayed the truck with soapy water and clean, alternating between machine-gun and laser-sword sounds, and when they were nearly out of quarters McEban parked at the vacuum stands and sorted through the clutter on the dash while Kenneth sucked up the gravel, gum wrappers, dried mud and horseshit from the floormats.

On Capitol Avenue he stood at the curb waving to the people on floats and horseback, to the older kids in the marching bands, and when the men came zigzagging down the street throwing handfuls of candy from little scooters tricked out to look like turtles, he fell to his knees and filled his cap with packages of M &M’s, wrapped taffy and miniature Baby Ruth and Butterfinger bars. There were people sitting on coolers and in lawn chairs, and at the corner a woman slouched in her chair cradling a baby in her lap. When she smiled he offered his cap, and she took a piece of candy.

“Thank you,” she said.

Her shirt was lifted up from her waist and he could see the bottom curve of a breast, the baby’s mouth pressed into her. She held a hand above his head to shade the side of his face, his cheeks contracting and relaxing as he suckled, an eyelid fluttering.

Then people were folding their lawn chairs and milling out into the empty street, the sidewalks draining. He looked around for McEban.

On the drive to the rodeo grounds he kept busy raking through his candy, finding the pieces he thought might melt.

“Did you get any Junior mints?” McEban asked.

“There’s some SweeTARTS.”

“I don’t want anything sour.”

He somehow got his cap back on his head even though it was still half-filled with candy. “Did my mom do that with me?” he asked.

A fire engine from the parade pulled alongside them, and the driver was drinking a beer.

“You mean like the lady at the parade?”

He nodded, feeling his face warming.

“Yes, she did.”

He leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. He tried to imagine what it must have been like, if his mother would’ve tasted different than other women, but the embarrassment only deepened.

The rodeo lasted all afternoon and they ate plastic boats of corn chips topped with cheese and chili, sipping cans of warm Coke.

They went to the carnival in the evening, and McEban bought a roll of tickets that allowed them to go on any ride they chose, and they tried the Kamikaze and the Gravitron, and felt pukey and brittle afterward and were satisfied to use the remaining tickets racing around and crashing into each other in bumper cars. The man who took their tickets at the gate had a tattoo of vines and flowers that covered his whole face and the sides and top of his shaved head, and Kenneth tried not to stare but he couldn’t help it.

The next day they went to the parade again, then to the rodeo in the afternoon. It was two days now and they hadn’t seen a single person they knew.

McEban tapped him on the top of the head. “You okay?”

They were walking back across the parking lot, weaving through the cars and the press of people, the sun glaring off the rows of hot metal.

“I don’t remember where we parked.”

“But you’re having a good time?”

“It’s harder than I thought it would be.”

McEban stepped in front of him, squatting down so they were on the same level. “You need to go home?”

He shook his head.

“You look like you do.”

He thought he must have the dumb expression he got sometimes. He made his face perk up. “I’m having a really good time.”

“You’re sure?”

He nodded, smiling, and when McEban stood up he took his hand and that helped. It made it not so noisy and crowded and hot.

That night they went to an outdoor concert to hear a singer named Taylor Swift and were surprised she was a woman. She had long blonde hair and wore cowboy boots and a shimmery black dress. She danced across the stage while she sang, at times so vigorously he thought it was a miracle the dress didn’t fly off, or parts of her out of it. He especially liked her arms. They were thin and long and whiter than her pale hair, and when she reached up over her head while she was dancing it was like she was pointing out something special in the dark sky above them.

The next morning he had diarrhea, felt dizzy and weak, and his stomach hurt. McEban got him settled back in bed and told him not to open the door to anyone, that he’d be gone just a little while, and when he woke again McEban was sitting on the edge of the bed unwrapping a thermometer. There were plastic shopping bags on the floor between the beds.

He held the thermometer under his tongue while they watched the clock, and when he didn’t have a fever they sat together at the table by the bathroom door, using plastic spoons to eat chicken noodle soup from white paper containers. Then he got back in bed.

That evening he felt well enough to sip a ginger ale and they went out for dinner. McEban made him order mashed potatoes and a chicken breast without the skin.

The next morning he was fine, but they decided to skip the rodeo and spent most of the day parked out on Happy Jack Road watching the jets take off and land at the Air Force base. In the late afternoon they sat in the back of a bookstore, taking turns reading in whispers from King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.

At dinner he told McEban he was ready to go home.

“I’m with you on that,” the man said.

They were waiting for the lemon pie they’d ordered.

“I kind of mean now.”

“Are you feeling sick again?”

McEban held his hand against the boy’s forehead, and then the back of his hand against the side of his neck. “You don’t feel warm.”

“I don’t want you to be mad.”

“I’m not even a little bit mad.”

The waitress set down their desserts and freshened McEban’s coffee.

After she left McEban said, “I can’t remember who we’re supposed to go listen to tonight.”

“It was Def Leppard.” Kenneth finished his milk.

“Are they girl singers or boys? We got fooled last night.”

“I don’t know. I just liked the name.” He was patting the meringue down flat with his fork. “I’m kind of sick of sweet stuff,” he said.

“You don’t have to eat it.”

“You never said anything about the trouble I got in.” He was sitting very straight in his chair.

“Was that one of the reasons you thought I was mad?”

“It was the main reason.”

McEban looked over at their waitress, acting like he was writing on the palm of his hand so she’d know to bring their check. “I hate to disappoint you,” he said, “but I pretty much forgot about you being an ex-con.”

“Rodney and I stayed up and watched a prison movie one night. It was the only movie we watched the whole time I was there. Don’t you think that’s kind of weird?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Did you know donkeys kill more people every year than plane crashes?” He was relaxing again.

“Was that in the movie?”

“It’s just something Rodney knows about. Like Walt Disney being afraid of mice. He told me that too.”

They went back to the room and took off their boots and napped for an hour. Then they packed and checked out and started north.