Philipp Meyer - American Rust

Now he is alone, knowing what he did to her, that you don't forgive him. Alone, his daughter forgave him so she could leave. No I forgive him for that it's the act he puts on. Because he has to. What his insides must look like. Same as what you did to the Swede, part of you will die so as not to understand it. Cold white hollow at your center. Kept warm by others or it leaks out into the world. What makes a man: love honor morals. Someone to protect. Man alone the rational animal. A man alone is a rational animal. Strip away what's decent. Hang on to your knife. Keep on until you're stopped.

You keep going like this or you can lean here, lean a little farther, hurt for a half second and then nothing. I am not afraid of that, he thought. It is the unfinished business. Leaving plenty of it. It is only Poe. Only Poe that is not what you thought when he pulled you out of the water.

I am lucky he thought I am lucky they cannot see me like this. Walk then. Start walking. Alright. I will get off this bridge. I will get off this bridge I will choose something.

On his third day in the hole, the same short pudgy guard came back again and rapped on the bars and told him to cuff up.

“I ain't gonna talk to him,” said Poe. “Today or ever.”

“You got to sign your papers. Until you sign your papers, you don't even got a fuckin lawyer.”

“I ain't signing nothing.”

“Christ,” said the guard. “And I wondered why you were in here.”

The guard stood waiting, just in case. Poe decided he would ask the question. He would let himself ask it. Finally he said, “Can he come down here?”

“Fuck no your lawyer can't come down to no fuckin SHU. They got a fuckin room upstairs all laid out for it.”

“Well I ain't moving. He can come and see me.”

“You are one stupid- ass convict, you know that.”

“I ain't convicted yet.”

“Well something tells me you will be.”

“Tell him to mail me those papers.”

“Suit yourself,” said the guard. “But anyway, it's a woman, you should probably know that about your own goddamn lawyer. She's not bad-looking, either.”

“How long am I gonna be down here, anyway?”

“Not too long,” said the guard. “Not too long.”

He listened to the man's shuffling footsteps disappear. The other inmates on the block called out to him but the guard passed them by as if both deaf and blind. Poe decided he had not done badly. He had not caved in, his second chance he had not taken it. But he didn't know the third time, he was not sure he could say no again. He sat back in his bunk. He could hear one of the J-8s, the loonytoons, shouting for help that would never come, he had been shouting for two days straight.

There was no good answer. It was him or Isaac. There was no way they could both come out of it. The day they took him out of isolation was the day Clovis and the others would be waiting for him. One way or the other he was spilling his guts — shank or lawyer it was his decision. As soon as the lawyer knew who really killed old Otto, from there it would go to the DA and then it would be Isaac in these shoes and not him. But maybe Isaac would have some way of coping with it better than he himself did. It was a distinct possibility. Though smaller, he might be better equipped. Mentally stronger. You're just scared, he thought. If you stay scared you know what you'll pick.

He closed his eyes and ate the last section of orange he'd saved from breakfast, the eating would distract him. He lay and chewed and waited for the empty feeling to be interrupted, he was either empty or full, overfull, there was no in- between. The truth was people died every minute. Were dying. The only real miracle was the human perception that it would not be him. But it would be. It was the only certainty. It was back to the darkness, a cycle. It was back to the darkness, a cycle, a comfort. There was no point to the putting off. It was a spiral of shame, shame of being wrong, of being wrong that you were the source of all existence, when really, when you were born, you were the same as a name on a gravestone. A gravestone of the future. A born destiny. Only now his name would be put upon the list of men. There was a list kept somewhere and his name would be recorded it was an honor.

Except it wasn't. It was only dying. It was dying and being afraid. No matter how many sums in your favor, hero or coward it did not matter, it would not change the truth of your own death.

He was a good person. His choices had done some good. If he had gone away to Colgate, if he had not been living in Buell, he would not have been home the day Isaac decided to walk out on the thin ice over the Mon. That was the one brave thing he had done. Isaac had gone maybe ten feet, it was obvious the ice wouldn't hold him, then he just dropped through and Poe had run out after him and dropped through as well, felt the ice give way and had his moment of panic and stayed on course. He had saved Isaac English. It was the best thing he had done. Isaac had not had it easy but he was a good man — rarity, that combination — you were not supposed to say it, it was not the American Way to admit it, but generally the harder you had it the more of a piece of shit you were. Except the rich were even worse, they didn't understand life, the stories Lee told her rich friends looked at the world the same as a retarded person, as a person with actual brain damage, that was how they understood life, it was no wonder that the world was such a fucked- up place. It was nearly all of them, it was all people, really, that were pieces of shit. He himself was lucky that way, not rich and not poor. And Isaac, when he'd changed his mind about taking his own life, he had come to Poe. Poe had gotten him warmed up and then given him an ear and listened to him, they had sat there talking all night. If that wasn't a sign, he didn't know. It showed you there was a reason for all of it, despite nearly killing that boy from Donora, he had saved Isaac English. It was a sign and fuck all the rest of them, Harris, the DA, and all the rest who were coming after him that he hadn't even met yet, he wouldn't tell them a fucking thing, this was the one thing in his life he was not going to fuck up.

He was at the end of his rope it had not been a long one. He didn't know what he expected. More warning, like a cancer, only there had been warning, there had been many warnings, it was only that he had not been capable of seeing them. And so here he was, it was inevitable, it could not have gone another way.

There was nothing in the hole he could use for a weapon and besides they would search him anyway. He would figure something out when he got back to the general population, find a piece of metal, sharpen his toothbrush handle, make a razor out of a Coke can, it was better than nothing. He would take as many of them with him as he could.

Sunday night and she was going slightly crazy she'd already talked to Simon, she didn't think she could read a single word of another book, she needed to get out of the house. She searched her planner for phone numbers, found Joelle Caruso and Christy Hanam. She called them both and they agreed to meet at Joelle's uncle's bar.

The bar was busy for a Sunday, nearly all faces she knew from high school, or at least the older and younger siblings of people she'd known. She was struck by how big all the men were, more than weight- room big, it was steroid big, sitting in overlarge T-shirts with the sleeves cut off, their arms crossed, muscles on display. But what else was there to do? Many of the women, it seemed, were starting to soften, barely into their twenties, maybe they weren't welcome at the gym. Lee was glad she'd worn a sweatshirt and no makeup.