The Flicker of Old Dreams by Susan Henderson

Author:Susan Henderson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2018-03-13T04:00:00+00:00

19

“I’m off to Agate,” I tell Pop as I take my plate to the sink and toss half my sandwich. “I want to get the engine looked at before the big snow.”

He nods. He must know my main goal is to spend the day far from our neighbors. I took no punches last night, but today I feel beat up. Pop looks beat up, too.

“No more trouble today, okay?” he says as if to lighten the mood.

“I didn’t start any trouble, Pop.”

“All I’m trying to say. . . .” He inhales in a way that lets me know he is editing his words. “There’s no sense in getting your reputation tangled up with Robert Golden. That’s what you’re not understanding.”

So that’s the real problem. He’s worried about my popularity. He knows that anyone Robert interacts with is marked by the town. And I’m marked in so many ways already. The worry is always the same, that I’m odd and ought to hide the fact as best I can.

I clutch the keys in my fist and swallow my fury into the dark of my belly. I don’t say good-bye.

The sky is gray and full, blizzard season ever nearer. It’s not until I unlock my van that I notice the cigarette butts stubbed out beside it. I remember my neighbors’ taunting faces, how certain they were of their own truth. My hand shakes so much I can hardly open the door or latch my seat belt. I have something to say. I just can’t find the words.

After several tries, the engine starts. As I drive past the Pipeline, the man who punched Robert last night stands with the unemployed, hoping for work today. He lifts his head and watches me go by.

The stones are hot in my belly, clattering over the pitted roads.

I am grateful for the smooth highway, a chance to speed away. The plains have faded to the palest beige, the sky dotted with small flakes. Elk cross the hillside in heavy coats, and I slow to watch a bull, pale except for the dark brown of his powerful neck and head. He lifts his stately horns to sniff at the sky, and even through the closed window, I hear his great, high-pitched bugling.

When I approach the old rodeo stands, I see a man in black sitting alone under the swirling snow. It could only be Robert. If I thought about it more, I’d talk myself out of stopping. But—what can I do?—I’ve already turned into the dirt parking lot.

I’m slow to get out of the van, trying to think up excuses for how I behaved.

“I thought that was you,” I say, walking across patches of snow toward the old wooden risers. “I’m sorry about our coffee.”

He doesn’t speak but raises a flask my way.

His hair blows about in the dust and flurries. One eye opens smaller than the other, and a bluish bruise stretches along his jaw.

“You’re welcome to join me if you’d like to spend some quality time with a drunk,” he says.

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