Ron Rash - Burning Bright

There had been a time the boy could have made that comment formidable, for he’d been broad-shouldered and stout, an all-county tight end, but he’d shucked off fifty pounds, the muscles melted away same as his teeth. Parson didn’t even bother showing him the revolver.

“Well, you can wait here until the sheriff comes and hauls your worthless ass off to jail.”

Danny stared at the fire. The girl reached out her hand, let it settle on Danny’s forearm. The room was utterly quiet except for a few crackles and pops from the fire. No time ticked on the fireboard. Parson had bought the Franklin clock from Danny two months ago. He’d thought briefly of keeping it himself but had resold it to the antiques dealer in Asheville.

“If I get arrested then it’s an embarrassment to you. Is that the reason?” Danny asked.

“The reason for what?” Parson replied.

“That you’re acting like you give a damn about me.”

Parson didn’t answer, and for almost a full minute no one spoke. It was the girl who finally broke the silence.

“What about me?”

“I’ll buy you a ticket or let you out in Asheville,” Parson said. “But you’re not staying here.”

“We can’t go nowhere without our drugs,” the girl said.

“Get them then.”

She went into the kitchen and came back with a brown paper bag, its top half folded over and crumpled.

“Hey,” she said when Parson took it from her.

“I’ll give it back when you’re boarding the bus,” he said.

Danny looked to be contemplating something and Parson wondered if he might have a knife on him, possibly a revolver of his own, but when Danny stood up, hands empty, no handle jutted from his pocket.

“Get your coats on,” Parson said. “You’ll be riding in the back.”

“It’s too cold,” the girl said.

“No colder than that trailer,” Parson said.

Danny paused as he put on a denim jacket.

“So you went out there first.”

“Yes,” Parson said.

A few moments passed before Danny spoke.

“I didn’t make them go out there. They got scared by some guys that were here last week.” Danny sneered then, something Parson suspected the boy had probably practiced in front of mirror. “I check on them more than you do,” he said.

“Let’s go,” Parson said. He dangled the paper bag in front of Danny and the girl, then took the revolver out of his pocket. “I’ve got both of these, just in case you think you might try something.”

They went outside. The snow still fell hard, the way back down to the county road now only a white absence of trees. Danny and the girl stood by the truck’s tailgate, but they didn’t get in. Danny nodded at the paper bag in Parson’s left hand.

“At least give us some so we can stand the cold.”

Parson opened the bag, took out one of the baggies. He had no idea if one was enough for the both of them or not. He threw the packet into the truck bed and watched Danny and the girl climb in after it. No different than you’d do for two hounds with a dog biscuit , Parson thought, shoving the kerosene can farther inside and hitching the tailgate.

He got in the truck and cranked the engine, drove slowly down the drive. Once on the county road he turned left and began the fifteen-mile trip to Sylva. Danny and the girl huddled against the back window, their heads and Parson’s separated by a quarter inch of glass. Their proximity made the cab feel claustrophobic, especially when he heard the girl’s muffled crying. Parson turned on the radio, the one station he could pick up promising a foot of snow by nightfall. Then a song he hadn’t heard in thirty years, Ernest Tubb’s “Walking the Floor Over You.” Halfway down Brushy Mountain the road made a quick veer and plunge. Danny and the girl slid across the bed and banged against the tailgate. A few moments later, when the road leveled out, Danny pounded the window with his fist, but Parson didn’t look back. He just turned up the radio.

At the bus station, Danny and the girl sat on a bench while Parson bought the tickets. The Atlanta bus wasn’t due for an hour so Parson waited across the room from them. The girl had a busted lip, probably from sliding into the tailgate. She dabbed her mouth with a Kleenex, then stared a long time at the blood on the tissue. Danny was agitated, hands restless, constantly shifting on the bench as though unable to find a comfortable position. He finally got up and came over to where Parson sat, stood before him.

“You never liked me, did you?” Danny said.

Parson looked up at the boy, for though in his twenties Danny was still a boy, would die a boy, Parson believed.

“No, I guess not,” Parson said.

“What’s happened to me,” Danny said. “It ain’t all my fault.”

“I keep hearing that.”

“There’s no good jobs in this county. You can’t make a living farming no more. If there’d been something for me, a good job I mean.”

“I hear there’s lots of jobs in Atlanta,” Parson said. “It’s booming down there, so you’re headed to the land of no excuses.”

“I don’t want to go down there.” Danny paused. “I’ll die there.”

“What you’re using will kill you here same as Atlanta. At least down there you won’t take your momma and daddy with you.”

“You’ve never cared much for them before, especially Momma. How come you to care now?”

Parson thought about the question, mulled over several possible answers.

“I guess because no one else does,” he finally said.

When the bus came, Parson walked with them to the loading platform. He gave the girl the bag and the tickets, then watched the bus groan out from under the awning and head south. There would be several stops before Atlanta, but Danny and the girl would stay aboard because of a promised two hundred dollars sent via Western Union. A promise Parson would not keep.

The Winn-Dixie shelves were emptied of milk and bread but enough of all else remained to fill four grocery bags. Parson stopped at Steve Jackson’s gas station and filled the kerosene can. Neither man mentioned the shotgun now reracked against the pickup’s back window. The trip back to Chestnut Cove was slower, more snow on the roads, the visibility less as what dim light the day had left drained into the high mountains to the west. Dark by five, he knew, and it was already past four. After the truck slid a second time, spun, and stopped precariously close to a drop-off, Parson stayed in first or second gear. A trip of thirty minutes in good weather took him an hour.

When he got to the farmhouse, Parson took a flashlight from the dash, carried the groceries into the kitchen. He brought the kerosene into the farmhouse as well, then walked down to the trailer and went inside. The heater’s metal wick still glowed orange. Parson cut it off so the metal would cool.

He shone the light on the bed. They were huddled together, Martha’s head tucked under Ray’s chin, his arms enclosing hers. They were asleep and seemed at peace. Parson felt regret in waking them and for a few minutes did not. He brought a chair from the front room and placed it by the foot of the bed. He waited. Martha woke first. The room was dark and shadowy but she sensed his presence, turned and looked at him. She shifted to see him better and Ray’s eyes opened as well.

“You can go back to the house now,” Parson said.

They only stared back at him.

“He’s gone,” Parson said. “And he won’t come back. There will be no reason for his friends to come either.”

Martha stirred now, sat up in the bed.

“What did you do to him?”

“I didn’t do anything,” Parson said. “He and his girlfriend wanted to go to Atlanta and I drove them to the bus station.”