Beneath the Bonfire by Nickolas Butler

Author:Nickolas Butler
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781466875531
Publisher: St. Martin's Press

HOUR TWENTY

The little town teemed with police, unmarked cars, television crews. The main street packed with automobiles, vans, strange pedestrians in suits and ties and skirts and high heels. Foreman drove slowly, hands loose on the wheel of the old truck as he gaped at the ruckus. His legs trembled in his trousers. If they were not already looking, they would be looking soon. He pulled into a parking space and sat a moment collecting himself. He would spend the day in town being seen.

He left the truck and pulled his barn jacket tight. He had lost so much weight that it felt more like a robe of tattered canvas. The wind seemed to pass through his body as if his flesh were gauze. He knew he would not make it to see the end of winter, and maybe not even the beginning. He shuffled down the sidewalk.

In the post office, to one side of the counter, a television woman was interviewing Father Malloy. The priest was praying for the CEO, calling for forgiveness. A light was attached to the camera aimed at the priest and the light shone so brightly as to make Malloy’s skin translucent as milk. Foreman knew Malloy and had never trusted him. The priest’s hands too soft for Foreman’s liking. The priest that had shepherded the town prior had been a miner in his youth, who split five cords of wood every autumn before the snow began flying. That priest had hands covered in sandpaper and leather. Hands like paws. Rumors abounded that in his mining days, he could beat all comers at arm wrestling. He’d had a beard that seemed full of the magic of God. Black eyes. You did not want to sin because something in his countenance made you believe that he knew your sins and would wrestle them out and away from you. Beat them out of you, if necessary. Absolve and redeem and make you repent, weeping like a scared child. This new priest looked like a spy. Foreman gathered his mail and left. There wasn’t much—a few sweepstakes circulars and some catalogues addressed to his wife. Sad little reminders of her.

He walked across the street to the town’s only café. It was crowded. Unable to sit beside the bay windows, he took a seat at the counter, where the loggers, farmers, and old men sat. He ordered toast and coffee. His stomach was upset. He drank slowly, the hot coffee in his belly warming him.

A logger he knew leaned in, said, “Truth is, I don’t give two shits if some rich bastard gets lost in the woods, wanders off. Fuck him. Should’ve packed some expensive Gore-Tex. Some fancy wool. Shit. Could’ve thrown some locals some money. Hired a guide.”

“Amen,” said Foreman. “Well, they think they’re indestructible, bulletproof. They think they know everything.”

“I heard a report on the news,” said the logger, “that there was enough oil down there to fill Yankee Stadium. Maybe more. Who’ll ever know? Goddamn travesty. Fucker should’ve been hung, is what should have happened.

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