American rust Read Free Page A

up.”
    “Just let me be happy.”
    Isaac went back to watching the fire. Seems to be drawing—won't die of carbon monoxide. Kick him again. No. Let him be. Probably pass out. Anytime he sits still. Not like you—barely fall asleep in your own bed. Wouldn't even close your eyes in a place like this. Wish he was coming with. He looked around at the old machines, old rafters, cracks of gray light through the boarded-up windows. Poe is not afraid of people, that's the difference. Except he is in his way. Not physically afraid, is all. Meanwhile, look at you, already worrying, wondering if the old man's alright. When you know he'll be fine. Lee has a rich husband—they can get a nurse whenever they want. No reason as long as you lived there, but now that you're gone, a nurse will be found. Lee will buy her way out again. You put in five years and she puts in a couple of days every Christmas, her and the old man acting like it was fate. But still—look at it—somehow you're ending up the bad guy. The kid turns thief, abandons his father, his sister remains the hero and the favorite.
    He tried to make himself relax but couldn't. The kid would like a triple dose of Prozac. Or something stronger. He took the money out and counted it again, it was not quite four thousand dollars, it felt like an enormous sum, though he knew it wasn't. Things will only get harder, you've got Poe right here and you're still in familiar territory. Thought you'd planned for everything, your notebooks and school transcripts, everything you need to start over in California. Made perfect sense on paper, but of course now it's ridiculous. Even if the old man doesn't call the cops. Just pride keeping you out here.
    There was a noise at the other end of the building and Poe sat up groggily and looked around. There was a door they hadn't noticed. Three men appeared, stomping their feet and dripping, wearing backpacks. They were standing in the shadows, two tall men and one short one.
    “Y'all are in our spot,” said the biggest of them. He was substantially taller than Poe, thick blond hair and a thick beard. The three of them made their way around the machines and stood a few feet from the fire.
    Isaac stood up but Poe didn't move. “This ain't anyone's spot,” Poe said.
    “No,” said the man. “This one is ours.”
    “Dunno if you've been outside recently,” said Poe, looking at the puddles the men were making on the floor, “but we ain't moving.”
    “We can go,” said Isaac. He was thinking about the money in his pocket and he looked away from the newcomers. He thought the big blond lumberjack one might say something more but he didn't.
    “Who gives a shit,” said another of the men. “Least they got the fire going.” He took off his pack. He was the smallest and also the oldest, somewhere in his forties, a week's stubble, a thin nose that was very crooked, it had been broken and never reset. Isaac remembered that Poe had been messing around at practice once without his helmet, taken a hard hit that broke his nose, but he'd just grabbed it and straightened it himself, right there on the field.
    The three men looked like they'd been on the road a long time. The older one wrung out his watch cap and set it near the fire and his wet pants clung to his thin legs. He told them his name was Murray and they could smell him.
    “Do I know you?” he said to Poe.
    “Probably not.”
    “How would I know you?”
    Poe shrugged.
    “He used to play ball,” said Isaac. “He was tight end for the Buell Eagles.”
    Poe gave Isaac a look.
    The man noticed Poe's football jacket draped near the stove. He said: “I remember that. I used to change oil at Jones Chevy and we'd watch the games after work. Thought you'd be outta here. College ball or somethin.”
    “Nah,” Poe said.
    “You were good,” Murray said. “That wasn't that long ago.”
    Poe didn't say anything.
    “It's alright. Otto over there was Golden Gloves in his younger days. Coulda