Сигрид Нуньес - Salvation City

Yet even as self-loathing clotted his throat, the idea stayed with him. His mother would have found at least a hundred things wrong with PW. The way he smiled all the time would have got on her nerves. The way he said things like “good eatin’.” A Jesus freak. A preacher with a manicure and a handgun—his mother would have made so much fun of him!

But in Cole’s fantasy Pastor Wyatt swept Serena Vining off her feet. And she would have done what Tracy had not been able to do: make him forget Delphina.

The man dropped to the earth like a bobcat that had been watching them approach. They barely had time to take him in—straightening up from the crouch in which he’d landed, dressed head to toe in cammies, his cap and dark beard and mirror shades hiding most of his face—when two other men entered the scene from behind trees, one stage left and one stage right, like actors at the same cue. Same costume.

Each of the men was over six feet tall, slightly hunch-backed, and rail thin. Brothers? The first people Cole and PW had run into who were toting rifles instead of backpacks.

The one who’d dropped from the tree had a broad fleshy nose that reminded Cole of one type of mushroom he’d noticed sprouting in the woods. Cole was fascinated to see himself reflected so clearly in the man’s shades. It was like watching a video on a phone screen. PW was in the video, too, standing close behind him. They were both breathing a little hard from walking upslope.

The man spat an oyster onto the dirt between them, and when Cole jumped he knocked into PW, who placed a hand on his shoulder.

“Y-you b-boys lost?”

Besides the stutter, the man had a voice like a congested toddler. Growing up, he must have got laughed at every time he opened his mouth. Laugh at him today and he’d b-blow your b-brains out.

Before they could answer, one of the other men, who’d taken his cap off to reveal blond hair so dirty it was almost brunet, said, “You’re a good ways off the main trail.”

“I know that, sir,” said PW. It was his preacher’s voice: loud and firm. “There’s a knob up yonder overlooking a couple caves. We thought we might see some bear.”

“B-bear?” The first man shook his head. “Nossir. Y’all won’t see no bear.”

“No?”

“Like I said.”

“They still sleepin’,” threw in the blond, though he must have known this was false. He scratched his head vigorously before replacing his cap. “Law says you can’t hunt them anyhow.”

Cole didn’t understand what had made the man say that. The only gun they had was the pistol PW had brought along. At night he slept with it near his head. The rest of the time it was in his right jacket pocket.

A movement in the sky drew Cole’s eye upward. Red-tailed hawk, gliding. He was waiting for PW to explain that they weren’t on a hunting trip, but PW said nothing. Now the stutterer was looking up at the hawk, so Cole couldn’t see PW’s reflection anymore. But the hand on his shoulder had grown heavy as a saddle.

That morning there were only wisps of clouds, the kind people called God’s whiskers or angel hair. But suddenly it became much brighter, as if a cloud that had been covering the sun had moved on. In that light every tiny thing jumped out, leaf or pebble or acorn—every separate pine needle—as if under a magnifying glass.

Cole was having trouble breathing. For also magnified and microscopically clear was the fact that although he didn’t know these men and had done nothing to hurt them, that didn’t mean they would not hurt him. Such things didn’t happen only in movies. Murder didn’t happen only when there was a good reason for it to happen. Or any reason at all.

The blond pulled his cap off to scratch some more, and Cole wondered if he had cooties.

“They always warn folks should stick to the main trail.” Without raising his voice the man managed to sound terrifying. A bitter taste flooded Cole’s mouth. Not like this, he was thinking. To be terminated, for nothing, by strangers, by total fucking creeps. It must not be allowed to happen. And in the midst of his fear he had time to be amazed that he had ever thought it would be cool to die. “I was you,” said the man, “I’d turn ’round now and head back. This ain’t nowhere to be after dark.”

As if dusk weren’t ten hours off.

No one spoke for a few beats. Cole fought a vision of himself throwing his arms around PW’s neck and screaming like a girl. He braced himself for the shoot-out. Saw PW in one smooth movement whipping out his gun and knocking him out of harm’s way.

A squirrel watching from a maple dashed along a branch for a closer view, one paw curled toward its chest in a fretful gesture. Somewhere a window flew open and Cole saw his mother leaning out and making the same gesture. Probably only he could hear when PW finally sighed. The heavy hand lifted. Fingertips brushed Cole’s nape. “Let’s go, son.”

Over his shoulder, PW said what he always said when they met up with strangers: “Have a blessed day.” But there was no trace of warmth.

“You take care, mister.” It was the third man, speaking now for the first time, and as they headed downslope he continued to call after them, in a mysteriously agitated voice. “You take care of that boy of yours.” He sounded like a person trying to hold back laughter. “Don’t you let nothin’ bad happen to him, hear? Hey, mister! Take good care of your boy!” Then another voice snapped: “Goddamn it, leave it, Wayne.” And the laughter burst.

The laughter faded, leaving just the sound of their footsteps, quick and sliding on the downward path. PW stayed in the lead, saying nothing. Cole noticed he kept his hand in his jacket pocket. A log lay across the path. As he stepped over it, Cole saw, sprouting from the bark, one of those fleshy brown mushrooms he’d flashed on before, and he heel-stomped it.

The first time he looked back, Cole could see nothing except for trees and brush. But farther on, after a sharp curve, he looked back again and he saw them. They had climbed up onto an outcrop, where they stood in a row, facing downhill. Cole caught just a glimpse of them before another curve in the path made them vanish again. Because of the angle of the light, the three men had appeared as silhouettes against the sky. Their faces were indistinguishable, but whoever was in the middle had his rifle propped horizontally across his shoulders. The echo of Calvary sent a shock through Cole. But later, when he was working on a comic strip about the whole event, he’d wonder if his eyes had played a trick on him, or if he’d somehow imagined this part entirely. PW, who’d kept his own eyes straight ahead and never once looked back, could not confirm it.

They came to where a huge dead tree lay alongside the path, a spot at which they’d stopped before, to rest on the way up. PW sat down on the hollow trunk, letting out a short blast of air as if he’d been swimming underwater. He reached for Cole, pulling him down beside him. “Well, well,” he said. “How do you like them apples?”

Now that he wasn’t afraid anymore, Cole was bursting with questions. “Were those guys real soldiers?”

“Maybe one time.”

“You think they live up there?”

“Could be.”

“Do you think they were brothers?”

“I think they were queers.”

Cole knew that PW didn’t really think this. He’d just wanted to say something really bad about the men. He had heard PW use the word queer like this before, though when he preached he always said “homosexual.” (“There is no such thing as a saved homosexual.”) He never said “gay.” Instead of “gay marriage” or “same-sex marriage” he said “unnatural union.” Sometimes, when he was repeating something some man whom he disliked had said, he’d use a falsetto voice.