In the Valley

by Ron Rash

  Brent threw the last can into the weeds and went to the shed for the gas can and a flashlight. The matches were in the Escort’s glove compartment. He didn’t switch on the headlights until he’d reached the end of the driveway and turned onto the blacktop. Leslie had the radio tuned to an easy-listening station, so Brent stabbed the buttons until something loud and relentless pulsed the speakers.

  He pulled off the road at the end of Hewitt’s drive and walked down to the lake. The moon and stars were out and he hardly needed the Maglite. All was dark inside the house. Brent soaked the planks and railing with gasoline and stepped back onshore. The first match went out but the second caught. Flames sprinted across the wood. Smoke rose and began obscuring the stars. When Brent got to the car, he saw a bright yellow tongue lapping the water.

  * * *

  —

  The next morning he was in the shower when Sheriff Honeycutt knocked on the door and told Leslie he needed to talk to Brent. Just a matter that needs clearing up, Sheriff Honeycutt answered when Leslie asked why. He waited outside as Brent dressed.

  “I called your dad and he’s meeting us at the courthouse,” the sheriff said when Brent came out on the porch. “Aubrey Hewitt’s already there. That dock you built him was set on fire last night.”

  “And you think I did it?” Brent asked.

  The sheriff raised his hand, palm out as he might halt a car.

  “Hewitt thinks it, either you or your father,” Honeycutt answered, lowering his hand. “I’d say there’s plenty of folks wished they’d done it, including fishermen who bring their boats into that cove. Hewitt calls me and Willie Bost at Fish and Game complaining about them. Like Willie says, the man buys two acres of waterfront and thinks he owns the whole damn lake.”

  Hewitt and his father waited on separate sides of the courthouse foyer. The room was otherwise vacant, and as the four of them walked across the worn marble to Honeycutt’s office, their footsteps echoed.

  “All right, Mr. Hewitt,” the sheriff said, once they were all seated. “Have your say.”

  “They burned my dock down last night.”

  “We done no such thing,” Brent’s father answered.

  “Maybe you didn’t, as far as being there,” Hewitt said, “but your son did and you know he did it. As I told you over the phone, Sheriff, that boy made a threat. ‘You’re going to pay for doing this to us.’ Those were his exact words.”

  “He didn’t say it that way,” Brent’s father said. “He said…”

  But Sheriff Honeycutt raised his hand.

  “Let’s just deal with who set the dock on fire,” he said, and looked at Brent’s father, then Brent. “Were either of you near Mr. Hewitt’s dock last night, or in a boat on the lake?”

  “We don’t even own a boat and we weren’t around his dock,” Brent’s father answered. “You’ve known me long enough to know my word’s good, Sheriff. You’ll not find a man in this county who’ll tell you otherwise, same for Brent.”

  “I’ve never had cause to disbelieve anything you’ve told me, Dale,” Honeycutt said, turning to Hewitt.

  “Even if he’s telling the truth, that doesn’t mean his son is,” Hewitt said. “He’s the one that threatened me, and I haven’t heard him deny anything.”

  The three men settled their eyes on Brent.

  “What do you say, son?” Honeycutt asked.

  “I didn’t set that fire,” he answered. “I didn’t even leave my house last night.”

  “He’s lying,” Hewitt said.

  “If you call me a liar again,” Brent said, “I’ll give you real cause to hire a damn lawyer.”

  “There’s no cause for talk like that, from either of you,” the sheriff said, standing up. “I’ll go up to your place and look around, Mr. Hewitt, but unless there’s some material evidence that can be tied to these men, there’s no cause to charge them. You didn’t see anything such as a gas can on the bank, did you?”

  “No,” Hewitt replied, “but isn’t that your job?”

  “I just told you I’ll look around,” Sheriff Honeycutt answered tersely. “We know these men’s footprints will be down there, but if someone else’s are that might help me find who did this. But my guess is whoever it was came up by boat, probably one of those fishermen you keep harassing. You need to accept that as long as they stay in their boats they can come as close to your property as they like.”

  “Talk to them then,” Hewitt said. “I gave you and the wildlife officer their boat numbers. Somebody had to have seen something. The way that dock was burning, it looked like the whole lake was on fire.”

  “I’ll check with Fish and Game about any boats that might have been in the cove last night. If not, this isn’t likely to get solved.” Sheriff Honeycutt paused. “You know, Mr. Hewitt, you’d be doing yourself a favor by being less confrontational with people.”

  “So,” Hewitt bristled. “It’s my fault the dock was burned.”

  “I’m just saying it might prevent something like this from happening again.”

  “That’s good advice the sheriff’s giving you, Mr. Hewitt,” Brent said, meeting the man’s eyes. “Next time they might set a match to your house.”

  “There’s no need for that kind of talk, son,” Brent’s father said, but the apprehension now clouding Hewitt’s face made Brent think otherwise.

  “You do this investigation right, Sheriff,” Hewitt said as he stood. “I’ve got friends in Raleigh, people you’re familiar with.”

  For the first time since he’d picked Brent up, Honeycutt smiled.

  “Well then tell them hello for me, Mr. Hewitt.”

  * * *

  —

  “Sorry I had to bring you two in,” the sheriff said after Hewitt left. “I never believed you all would do something like this, but I had to go through the motions.”

  “We understand,” Brent’s father answered.

  “You can take Brent home, can’t you?” Sheriff Honeycutt asked.

  “Of course,” his father said, and the two men shook hands.

  As they walked out of the courthouse, Brent watched his father’s tentative steps, remembered how pale and vulnerable his father’s legs had looked last Friday.

  They were halfway home before Brent’s father spoke.

  “That must have been a sight, a dock that long burning,” he mused. “There’s a lake of fire in the Book of Revelation. Preacher Orr was telling of it just a few weeks ago.” Brent’s father paused and gave a slight smile. “Of course, that lake is one you’d not want to be there to see, would you?”

  “No, sir,” Brent answered.

  They turned off the main road and soon passed Mac’s Bar and Grill. A single pickup was in the driveway, probably left by someone with the good sense to let a friend drive him home. Brent’s heart quickened as he thought of how easily blue lights might have appeared in his own truck mirror last night.

  “I expect you’re feeling it’s time for you to go out on your own,” his father said.

  The words were spoken in a matter-of-fact way, neutral in tone. Brent looked at his father’s face, but it revealed nothing.

  “How so?” Brent asked.

  “Business.”

  “Not you and me,” Brent answered, “just the way we do business.”

  “It’s one in the same.”

  “It doesn’t have to be, Dad,” Brent said.

  “No, for me it does. You’re young. You and Leslie want to have a family. I want you to have that too, and a place of your own without fretting each month about whether you can pay the mortgage.”

  “We can work together,” Brent answered. “We just have to change things to make sure we don’t get screwed by assholes like Hewitt.”

  “No, I’ll be working only a couple of more years,” his father replied, “so I’ll
stick to my old ways.”

  “You sure?” Brent asked.

  “You’re better suited for how things are now,” his father answered. “I’ve known that for a long while.”

  He glanced over at his father, but the older man looked straight ahead. There was nothing else to say. Soon Brent was thinking of the standard contract he’d have a lawyer ensure was airtight. Other things would be changed too. He’d cut some corners the way most builders did, jack the price up on material estimates. If he did these things, maybe it wouldn’t be too long before he and Leslie did have a child and their own home. His father made the last turn. The swing set came into sight. Almost new, not a speck of rust, as if waiting for a child.

  Sad Man in the Sky

  As soon as I see him coming up the road, I’m thinking this fellow could be trouble. I figure he’s hitchhiking, but his thumb stays down as the cars pass. He’s wearing a saggy black tank top, blue jeans, and scuffed-up penny loafers. A pillowcase full of God knows what is slung over his shoulder. Homeless, ex-con, druggie, maybe all three. Keep on going, I’m thinking, but the man leaves the road, walks to where I sit on my truck’s tailgate. There’s a tattoo of a padlock on the center of his upper chest. It’s right-sized but faded and off-plumb, a prison tat if ever I’ve seen one.

  He’s looking at the helicopter behind me in the pasture, maybe figuring any fellow who owns one would have cash enough to lay a ten or twenty on him. But if he’s thinking of getting money from me he’s dead wrong. I work ten-hour shifts Monday to Thursday. Then I’m here Friday afternoons flying Todd Watson’s chopper to keep the bills paid and help out our two girls. If this guy decides to get feisty, there’s a pipe wrench in the cab to handle that. But when he turns his eyes toward me, he doesn’t look mean or drugged or drunk, just worn down. His whole body sags like even his bones have given up.

  “How much?” he asks.

  “How much for what?”

  “To take me up in that thing.”

  It ain’t a quarter so it’s likely outside your price range is what I’m thinking, but instead I answer seventy-five each with two or more passengers and a hundred and twenty solo. I expect that to turn his feet back the way he came, but he doesn’t even blink.

  “And you’ll take me where I want to go?” he asks.

  “It’s supposed to be what it says,” I tell him, pointing at the SMOKEY MOUNTAIN PARK TOUR sign, “but I’ll take you whatever direction you want as long as we’re back here in thirty minutes.”

  He opens his billfold. The plastic photo sleeves are empty. He takes the bills out one at a time, first four twenties, then three tens and two fives. He’s got a few bills left but most look to have George Washington on them.

  “Maybe you ought to save that money for something else,” I tell him, though not in a smart-alecky way.

  “I reckon not,” he answers, fetching a watch from his pocket.

  He doesn’t strike me as someone who needs to worry much about what time it is, but he gives the watch a careful look before putting it back. I notice it’s 3:05, which tells me I’ve been out here three hours and had just four customers. Some leaf peepers are coming at five-thirty, but that may be it for the day. I take his money, eyeballing it good before putting it in my billfold.

  “I can lock up your ruck if you want me to,” I tell him.

  “I figure to take it with me,” he answers. “It don’t weigh but a few pounds.”

  “It’s not the weight,” I answer. “I need to know what’s inside. I don’t let folks bring just anything onboard.”

  “Presents,” he says, and opens the pillowcase to show four packages wrapped in bright-red paper.

  “It’s a bit early in the year to play Santa Claus, ain’t it?”

  He pulls out his watch again.

  “We need to go,” he says.

  So we get in and buckle up. I hand him his mic and headphones, disengage the rotor brake, and mash the starter. When the blades get spinning good, I press the pedal and the skids lift free of the earth. As always, memories of long-ago flights tense my stomach. Then I settle myself and am fine. I look over at my passenger and ask where he wants to go.

  “Sawyer Ridge,” he says, pointing across the river.

  It’s like warning signals just lit up on the instrument panel, because Sawyer Ridge is a place most people don’t want anything to do with. Some good folks live there, but so do enough mean ones to fill up the county newspaper’s arrest report. They’re the sort who don’t much like anyone snooping around where they live. To them, the bird would make a dandy target for some rifle practice. I had enough of getting shot at in the army so I tell him there’s more interesting places to see, but he shakes his head.

  A deal’s a deal so I point the nose that way. Soon we are above the town, where the traffic’s picked up since school’s letting out. We fly over the Baptist church’s steeple and then over the courthouse. As we cross the river I see some folks fishing. It’s October, so there’s red and yellow leaves lining the big pools where the water slows.

  Soon Sawyer Ridge comes into view and the man points at the highest peak. We pass above some trailers and a few small farmhouses. Most folks look to be at work or inside, but we fly over a woman out in her garden, a couple of fellows bent over a car engine. We’re near the ridge top when he points at a small house on the left side of the road.

  “I want you to fly right over that house,” he says.

  I do what he asks even as I scan the trees for the glint of a rifle barrel. As we get closer, I see where the paint’s peeled off the sides of the house. The front yard is just dirt with a few scabs of grass, in the side yard a swing set and a clothesline. There’s toys scattered around the yard, but no trash and junk. I drift a bit and see a ladder leaning against the back of the house, a fresh coat of white paint on the upper half. Whoever lives here looks to be living hard, but they haven’t given up.

  “They ain’t home yet,” the man says.

  You could have found that out a lot cheaper with a phone call, I’m thinking. He says for me to stay where we are, just nods when I say it still counts on his thirty minutes. So we hover above the house like a big dragonfly. A good five minutes pass before I see a yellow school bus coming up the road. It stops in front of the house and a boy and girl get out, their backpacks near big as they are. The bus chugs on up the road. Only then do the kids hear the copter and look up. They start waving, the way children always do. I look over at the man. He’s got the pillowcase in his lap and he’s sliding down the window.

  “What are you doing?” I yell into the mic.

  “Throwing these out,” he answers.

  “You ain’t throwing anything out that window,” I say, and ease the cyclic forward to make the hover turn. The kids and house are quickly out of sight. I’m headed back toward town. All sorts of thoughts are storming up in my head and none of them good.

  “It’s just presents for the kids,” he says as the river appears below us. “Just some things I wanted to give them.”

  “Presents?” I say. “How do I know they’re not drugs in those packages?”

  “I’d never hurt them kids,” he says. “I can show you they’re just presents. Please, mister, just let me show you.”

  “Even if it is just presents, there’s laws against people dropping things out of helicopters.”

  “You need to understand,” the man says. “I’ve got to do this. Those children, they’re…”

  He stops and I see his eyes getting teary.

  “We’re gonna have to talk about this,” I tell him.

  I head upstream where there’s a campground with an asphalt parking lot. I don’t see a green ranger Jeep and the lot’s not crowded, so I lower the collective and set her down.

  “Show me one of those presents,” I say when the big blades still.

  “It’s a ball and
glove for my boy,” he says, and hands me the package.

  It’s a piss-poor wrapping job, a bunch of tape and wrinkled paper. I feel the leather beneath the paper, the baseball’s roundness in the glove’s pocket. I make sure there’s nothing else and hand it back to him.

  “Let’s see the others.”

  “It’s one of them Cabbage Patch dolls from down in Georgia,” he says, holding the next present out to me.

  This one’s wrapped thicker, but I can feel the plastic head and soft body. I check every inch of it to make sure nothing’s sewn inside. The next two gifts are in boxes. He peels back the tape and paper.

  “The woman at the store claims young girls were big on these,” he says, opening a white box. Inside is a silver charm bracelet. He opens the last package and holds up a plastic figurine. “It’s called a Power Ranger.”

  He retapes the presents as best he can and puts them in the pillowcase.

  “So you going to take me?”

  “You mind me asking you why you don’t take those presents up there yourself?”

  “I can’t be around them no more,” he says.

  I look at him hard.

  “Did you hurt those kids?”

  “I’d not deny I hurt them and their momma too, but not the way you’re thinking.”

  “How then?” I ask.

  “I did something after I promised not to.”

  “What was that?”

  “Got weak and gave in to the craving.”