Philipp Meyer - American Rust

An employee in a smock passed by, giving him a long look. Isaac de-toured around to the other side of the store, the pharmacy aisles, found a razor and a travel- sized soap and shaving cream. Perhaps some deodorant. Plan for the future. In another section of the store he picked up a handful of energy bars. Same ones Lee eats. Kid gives his highest endorsement. Don't take more than you can carry, though. Now sporting goods — wall full of hunting knives. Put one in the cart. Four inches. The kid knows the truth: man without a knife is not a man.

Back in clothing he found a clean pair of pants, button- down shirt, socks, underwear, a pack of T-shirts. Fresh new smell. A few aisles away he took the thickest coat they sold, blanket- lined heavy canvas. Practically a sleeping bag, this coat. Get another fleece as well. The kid appreciates quality. Now a hat and maybe a second one. Sleep like a king in two hats. The kid, he is concerned with his future. A maker of preparations. Here comes a meddler.

A different employee, a short thin woman in her late sixties, came over and asked if he wanted to try anything on.

“No ma'am,” he said. “I know my sizes.” He smiled at her.

“Yes, sir,” she said. She stood there. Thinks she sees through the kid. Suspects him of plans. Meanwhile he could be her grandson, but she doesn't care — her loyalty is to the company. Company over humanity. Head to the checkout. Act like you're buying.

He waited at the cash register, listening to a man ahead of him talking on a cellphone. The store is busy, he thought, and the kid is small and unthreatening. He sends out vibrations — a hundred ten pounds of love. No reason for suspicion. Plenty else to look at.

The queue was moving slowly and finally the employee watching him went and did something else. Isaac broke out of line and pushed his cart toward the dressing rooms. Hope they're unlocked. Get in quick. There's one.

Piling all the loose items onto the coat, he carried everything into the small room, locked the door, then stripped off all his clothes. He began to put on the new pants. Hold on, change your underwear. Small dignities. He undressed fully and paused in front of the mirror — the sickly kid, his hair filthy, a week's scraggle on his face. Your standard refugee. Any skinnier and the wind will take him to Kansas.

He dressed himself in the new clothes, then put his old clothes back on overtop of them. Look about the same. Maybe lumpier. Knife in your belt, soap and razor in your pants pocket, energy bars in your jacket. Ready for combat. Handsome Charlie. Hang the coat on your shoulder like you own it. The kid can be slowed but not stopped. Those above would prefer he froze — their money, his life. But they have not walked in his shoes and he holds no hard feelings. Truly a generous kid.

He checked both ways as he left the dressing room, then walked quickly toward the exit, already beginning to sweat from the extra clothing. Beating them at their own game, he stares at the linoleum, not nervous. Long lines of people wasting money. Exit right. Thirty seconds. Uh- oh. Here's trouble. Time to put on the coat.

“Sir,” a woman's voice was calling. “Sir you need to pay for that.”

Don't turn around. Act like you don't hear. Get that coat on. He felt a surge of adrenaline as he approached the doors, keep walking, he thought, keep walking you are nearly there Sir, he heard, sir we need to speak to you, and then people were yelling and something came over the loudspeaker, all employees report for a code seventy- six.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw someone running and then he started to run himself. The only thing between him and the door was the old man in his blue vest, the store greeter, they locked eyes, Isaac was running at him full speed and finally the man stepped out of his way.

He stumbled against the doors and lost ground but then he was out into the parking lot, it was wide open, what is the shortest distance go right. They're behind you. Pull that cart to slow them. No, don't. He was running all-out toward the wooded area at the edge of the lot. Past idling cars, past people with shopping carts, he heard footsteps just behind him. He felt his muscles burning and he saw every step he would take. Reach the woods and you're safe. Just get to the woods. Something brushed against his coat, a person's hand, but he heard them stumble and fall behind. Still there's someone else.

At the very edge of the parking lot he heard the footfalls slow and cease and he jumped the high curb without slowing, plunging into the grass and running downhill, you're going to fall, he thought, but he kept his footing. Then he was into the woods, safely into the darkness, still running.

His daughter had gone to sleep and Henry was sitting in the wheelchair in his bedroom, trying to get the nerve to get into bed. It had been the den, a spare bedroom, maybe the nanny's or the maid's.

There was a handrail at the head of the bed but still. Usually the boy gave him a boost. Now it was a gap he had to make, grab the rail with one arm and try to heave himself over, legs dragging along behind him. He'd made it the last five nights but only barely. If he fell, he'd spend the night on the floor. Freeze to death, probably. He had not wanted Lee to help him. Better to manage on his own. It would cost.

He was worse off than he thought, the boy being gone forced him to admit that. Even if he made it onto the bed it would take him forty- five minutes to get undressed, planning his strategy and levering himself, move the first leg a few degrees, then the other leg, bend the knee so much, then the other knee, hope the first knee doesn't pop back while you're doing the second. He was weaker and stiffer, like having rigor mortis. I'll sleep in the chair, he thought. But that was not a real option. He wouldn't be able to keep it from her much longer, the truth of his condition. He needed a bath, he hadn't had one since the boy left, he knew she could tell. The way she looked at him when she said good night, like kissing a baby. That was bad enough. Put you in a home. Isaac wouldn't, it had never crossed Isaac's mind, but his daughter was practical. Her heart ran a couple degrees colder.

It is the boy distracting you. Gone six days. Bums must have got him. Then he thought: No, he's tougher than he looks. Not to mention your four thousand dollars in his pocket, slim motivation to come home. Christ, he thought. He felt the pressure come up inside him, he needed to hit something, he punched the arm of the chair, he punched the mattress, he squeezed his jaw as tight as he could make it, he would break his teeth. Then he caught a look at himself in the mirror, face twisted and red, a tantrum.

Calm down. Read some. He rolled his chair to the other side of the room, under the lamp where he couldn't see the mirror. He picked up the TV Guide. It was his own fault, the mattress was too soft and he couldn't get a purchase, the bed was older than both his children. Wedding bed. He could feel the springs in his back as he slept but he would never get rid of it. It was Mary's last bed, it would be his too, there were times she still came to him in the night.

Truth was he was close. He was stealing his days. An old pine, weak in the roots, its own weight pulls it over. Everything inside him was going on strike, kidneys, liver, and pancreas, they were yanking out parts of his guts, appendix, gall bladder, there was nothing he was allowed to eat. No alcohols or fats. No salts. Lee's lunch yesterday, all the cheese and dairy, he'd spent half the day on the throne. Shitting your guts out. She'd wanted to take him to the movies, but he'd had to pretend to be tired. Didn't tell her the real reason. Got her out of the house to make your movements in peace.