The Evening Hour

by A. Carter Sickels

  The engineer’s face was drawn and ash-colored. He looked like a man about to go down. But the vice president was unmoved: “We know we can’t bring them back, ma’am, but we can do our best to clean up the mess, to make sure this never happens again.”

  “It’ll happen again. If not that, then some other disaster. The mountains is too torn up,” an old-timer said. “They can’t hold the rain.”

  “You got it so we can’t even go up there,” someone else said. “We can’t even get up there to hunt or fish.”

  “The mountains can’t take what you’re doing to them,” called out his grandmother. Cole looked over, surprised. She was on the edge of her seat. “You’ve made a mess of everything.”

  Ruby said, “Keep talking, Mama. Get up there to the microphone.”

  “Oh, he ain’t listening.”

  She was right. The VP was just repeating everything he’d said during the first half of the meeting. The only one in this room with a voice. He said that it was to be expected that emotions were running high, but that people had to understand that the company was on their side. There was no one to blame, it was just that the snow and rain had accumulated. It was an accident, he said. “It wasn’t anything we did. It rained and flooded, and that’s an act of God.”

  The phrase was nothing new to the people in the room, but still, the words cut deep, anger spreading through the crowd like a fever. Cole tried to stay calm. Bit his lip hard. Then he looked up at the man again and before he could think it through, he was out of his seat and walking up the aisle. He stood behind a microphone. Everyone’s eyes were on him, and he remembered when teachers called on him and the kids would laugh, Spit it out, retard.

  “That ain’t no act of God.” Surprised by the echo of his voice, Cole stepped back.

  “Rain and snow are natural occurrences, son.”

  “G– g–” He stopped, started over. “God didn’t make those chemicals.” When he touched the microphone, bringing it closer, the movement caused a loud scratching sound. He struggled to spit out another sentence. “God n-never made no sludge dam.”

  A few called out in support. It was almost like being in church, the people encouraging him, That’s right, tell him! and he wondered if this was what his grandfather had experienced, if this was what the anointing felt like, a voice running through him, a feeling of wholeness. He took a deep breath—speak plainly—and the scripture came out of him like a sudden exhale.

  “In Revelations, the Bible talks about who is going to be saved,” Cole said. “It says that God shouldest destroy them which destroy the earth.”

  “What?”

  “Well. That’s what it says.”

  The man stared at him uncomprehending, and Cole felt the heat jump from his throat to the back of his neck. Retard. He started to go back to his seat and then saw Lacy watching him. She had tried to show him. They had stood together on a flattened mountain and could see for miles, all of the fake green and the gray, like being lost in a gigantic cemetery.

  “Wait,” Cole said.

  Heads turned his way again; the VP stopped talking.

  “You’ve made all of us too scared to stand up for ourselves. Made us think there was nothing we could do. That we just had to accept it.” This time Cole ignored the sound of his voice, and didn’t get stuck on the words. “You took what was ours,” he said. “And now you’re just telling lies, just like we’ve been telling ourselves.”

  “Now listen, son—”

  But the crowd had reached their breaking point. Someone yelled out that they were tired of his bullshit, and others joined in, a cacophony of inconsolable voices. Cole walked up the aisle. His mother was smiling at him. She was here. His granddaddy had ripped him out of her arms. But she’d come back, and now she was here. He sat down and she leaned over and squeezed his hand. He looked straight ahead, but he left his hand in hers. The mayor stepped up to the microphone. “Folks, we’re all hurting,” he said. “This is a sad, sad time.”

  Chapter 18

  Two months went by. It was early April. Green grass, budding trees. Mayflowers and bird’s-foot violets rising up. Yet there were so many reminders, so many places where nothing grew. The National Guard and U.S. Army Corps had vanished, and the media had packed up their cameras and moved on. The government sent in psychologists to talk to people, but most people that Cole knew, himself included, did not speak of what they saw that day or what they still saw at night when they closed their eyes. Cole just wanted everyone to pull themselves together; the high emotions made him edgy. He was renting a little one-story house on the edge of Stillwell with his mother and grandmother. They called it temporary and talked about buying land somewhere else. The house sat up near the road, with other houses crowded on each side of it. They could hear their neighbors’ TVs and arguments and their barking dogs, and the noise of cars and trucks.

  It was hard to keep track of where everybody had gone. Lacy and Sara Jean had moved into one of the government trailer parks on the other end of Stillwell. Though Cole had not seen Lacy since the night of the town meeting, Sara Jean came to the nursing home almost every day to visit Blue, and he learned from her that Lacy was becoming more involved, that she had started a group called Dove Creek Defense. There were other activists living here now, strangers coming down from Charleston and up from North Carolina, determined to help. Several of Cole’s customers had also relocated to the trailer parks, and a few, like Jody Hampton, simply disappeared. Michael had left. He was going away to write his book. He’d stopped by the nursing home on his way out of town; they shook hands, but there wasn’t much to say. Michael had wished him good luck, and Cole said thanks, but later thought about it and wasn’t sure what Michael was referring to. Cole had not seen Charlotte Carson or Terry Rose. Nor had he seen Reese Campbell, not in the past month. He did not know if he wanted to see him. It was rumored that Reese was off speed and that he had found Jesus.

  This morning he woke before sunrise. He made scrambled eggs, toast, a pot of coffee. He ate quickly, standing in the ugly, cramped kitchen. All of the furniture had come with the rental, mismatched pieces from secondhand stores. There were a few of his grandmother’s dishes and belongings, but not enough to make the place feel like home.

  They’d saved what little they could from the house, but most of it was molded and disintegrated beyond recognition. It had been a sad day. Only Cole and his mother and grandmother had been prepared for the scale of the destruction. Several times his aunts broke down in tears, and even the uncles were red-eyed and sentimental. They wanted to try to repair everything, but Cole’s grandmother told them just to haul it away. His cousins were nervous around her, ashamed that they worked for Heritage. Nobody mentioned the cemetery, which had been washed away; they could not bear to think that Clyde Freeman was no longer in the ground. At the end of the day, covered in grime and sludge and dust, they walked away and did not look back.

  Heritage had been cleaning up, like they said they would, and every day they moved more equipment up the mountain, sucking sludge out of the waterways, digging it out of the yards. They’d never get it all. By summer things would look all right, but the sludge would still be there, underneath, strangling the roots of the trees and plants. An investigation was under way, but the governor had his hand deep in Heritage’s money pot and nobody was expecting much of a result. Instead, people were turning to the courts. There were two hundred citizens involved in a class-action lawsuit. His grandmother and mother were a part of it. He was not. He did not want to be tangled up in any court, did not want to be near the law.

  Recently, the law was turning up the heat, probably to take some of the attention off Heritage. More meth labs were busted, a couple of small-time dealers picked up. Cole heard about an old lady in Bucks County who was arrested for selling painkillers and he knew he needed to get out. He could smell it like a slow-burning fire. But he wanted to make one last sweep: buy as much as he could and sell it to the junkies who needed it most, who wo
uld buy at a higher price. It was easy to find drugs right now because doctors were filling out prescriptions for nerve pills left and right—he’d actually lost a few of his regulars who suddenly had easy access. Luckily, the government trailer parks were rife with drug use, so almost every week he found a few new customers. He planned to buy as much as he could and then sell everything: then he would be free.

  Cole turned onto the narrow road that led to Cazy Creek. Though sycamores leaned toward the sun and the reeds along the stream glistened in purple and gold, black rings stained the tree trunks and the yard was a mess. Still, Elvira Black had told Cole that she wasn’t leaving. Elvira was one of his regulars; she always had big stashes of Oxy. She was a sassy, good-natured woman who used the money Cole gave her to pay her bills, including Internet service. She was always telling him about crazy things she read on the Internet.

  He maneuvered his way around the junk on the porch and rapped on the door. When there was no answer, he went in and was engulfed by the stench of rotting garbage. Elvira’s little terriers ran up, yipping and jumping at his ankles, flattening their devilish ears. Everywhere he looked were piles of books, jewelry, clothes, pictures, and overstuffed boxes. There was hardly any room to walk. He peeked in the kitchen. A rotting ham sat on the counter, drawing flies. He went down the hall and into the bedroom and hit the light switch. She was crumpled on the floor.

  “Elvira,” he said. “Elvira, can you hear me?”

  He felt her pulse humming in her neck and gently rolled her over. Her eyes were open. She looked frightened, but he told her who he was and her face relaxed. “I been getting these dizzy spells.”

  “Are you hurt?”

  “I don’t know.”

  She put her arms around his neck, and he gently lifted her and lay her on the bed and looked her over. Nothing appeared to be broken or sprained, but there was a large bruise on her hip, a goose egg on her brow.

  “The dogs,” she said. “What about my dogs?”

  “The dogs are okay.”

  “Two of them drowned,” she said angrily. “They got swept away. Two of my dogs.”

  “Elvira, where’s your son? When’s the last time he was around?”

  She looked perplexed. “I think he’s in the pen again. I ain’t sure when he was here last … I been having these dizzy spells. I can’t explain it, I’ve just been feeling different.”

  “I’m taking you to the doctor.”

  “No, no doctor. That’s what they want.”

  “Who?”

  “They’re trying to steal my house,” she said. “They’ll get in here if I leave. They’ve already been in here. They’re trying to run me out.”

  “Nobody’s been in here.”

  “They’ll put me in that home. I ain’t going into that home.”

  He told her to rest. “I’m gonna clean up a little.”

  “Will you feed the dogs?”

  He said he would. He draped the moth-eaten blanket over her, and then started with the kitchen. Threw out rotted meat, cleaned out the refrigerator, wiped down the counters with Ajax, washed the dishes, and carried all of the trash bags to the fire pit. He made sure the dogs had food and water. He did not know what to do about Elvira. He stood in the middle of the mess in the living room and decided to leave it as it was. In the medicine cabinet he found OxyContin and Vicodin, and an old bottle of Ritalin, all of which went into his pockets. Then he went back in the kitchen and opened a can of tomato soup and while it was heating up, he sorted through a stack of mail and found her prescriptions and put these in his pocket as well.

  He filled a plastic baggie with ice chips and ladled the tomato soup into a bowl. The dogs whined at his feet, and he kicked them away. “You still awake, Elvira?”

  “Did you feed the dogs?”

  “Yeah, don’t worry.” He propped her up with pillows and pressed the ice to her forehead. She took a few bites of the soup. “That’s good,” she said, but would not eat anymore. She was sweating. He gave her the pills she was supposed to take for the day, and two ibuprofen.

  “Why do you got all those boxes out there for? You moving or something?”

  “I’m packing it up so they don’t find it.”

  “Who?”

  “You know who,” she snapped.

  “For God’s sake.” He sighed. “Listen, I’m going to town to get you a few things.” He showed her the envelope of cash. “I’m taking part of this out for the groceries,” he said. “The rest of it I’m putting on your dresser. Don’t lose it.”

  “I won’t lose nothing.” Then she said, “Did you feed the dogs?”

  “Yes,” he said. “The damn dogs are fine.”

  More bottles of pills sat on the counter. These Cole counted out and separated into Elvira’s plastic pill box, the compartments divided by the days. She had enough to last the month. Then he stashed the Vicodin, Oxy, and Ritalin in his glove compartment, and he drove to the Pick N Save where he bought bread, milk, jugs of water, toilet paper, tomato soup, crackers, cheese, and baloney. She was sleeping when he returned. He would get social services to check on her, or he’d come back later tonight. He put everything away, then scrawled a note, telling her to make sure she ate something and to take her pills. Before he left, he rummaged through a few of the boxes. Most of it was worthless, but he did score a pair of pearl earrings and a ring.

  He spent the rest of the day buying pills from the old folks and taking them to the store to get their prescriptions filled. He told them that he might not be buying from them anymore, and they did not understand. They asked if he was leaving, and he did not know how to answer them. He did not know. He gave them a little more money than usual and said he’d be around to visit.

  Leona Truman said, “Well, you won’t be seeing me here anymore.”

  “Why not?” Her little slice of paradise had been spared; it looked no different than usual. But she’d signed the papers. “I had to,” she said. She looked scared and ashamed. Cole told her she’d done nothing wrong. He looked at the bottle she handed him. “Is this all you’ve got?”

  “I’m supposed to get more in the mail. Come back in a day or two.”

  “Okay,” he said. “I will.”

  Next he went to see the Williamses. He told them they needed to think about moving. “Something could happen here too.” They said they would rather die in a disaster than leave their land. Tiny hugged him and Lottie kissed his cheeks, and he felt sick about driving away from them. The valley fill looming. Two little figures waving from the porch.

  In Zion, he went to a pharmacy known for its negligent pharmacist, and he gave the old man Elvira Black’s prescription slips and said he was her grandson. The man did not ask questions. By the time Cole got to work for his three o’clock shift, his glove compartment was stuffed full. He’d been going nonstop since dawn and couldn’t believe that now he had to work at least until eleven.

  He went to check on a new resident. She was in bed watching TV, the volume insanely loud, and in the chair next to her was a pretty middle-aged woman who introduced herself as her daughter, Lisa. Cole asked if she minded if he turned down the TV, and she laughed. “Please, do.”

  The woman, Florence, was small and elfin, with only a few wisps of gray hair left on her head. “General Hospital,” Cole said. “You don’t like that old show, do you?”

  She grinned, and Lisa explained that her mother’s hearing wasn’t good. She also had cataracts and could not see very well. “I don’t know how much of that show she can actually see or hear, but she’ll throw a fit if I turn the channel. She’s been watching it from the start.”

  Cole needed to take her temperature, but Florence wouldn’t open her mouth. Lisa said, “Mom, it’s okay. Open up.” Florence’s wrinkled lips finally parted, but when Cole set the thermometer under her tongue, she clamped down and attempted to chew it.

  “Mom, it’s not to eat. It’s a thermometer.”

  Cole tried again, and the same thing happened. He exp
lained to Florence what he was doing, in loud and simple words. She opened her mouth. He set the thermometer under her tongue. For a second, she was still. Then she began chewing wildly. Cole looked at Lisa, and they burst into laughter. It was the first time he’d laughed in a long time.

  He took Florence’s blood pressure and pulse without any trouble, then said he’d come back later to get her temperature. As he was leaving, Florence suddenly perked up.

  “Now who was that cute little actor?”

  Lisa laughed, looking at Cole. “He’s your nurse, Mom.”

  “I’ve seen him on some TV show before.”

  “You think she’s mixing me up with one of them soap stars?”

  Lisa just smiled, and suddenly he felt shy. It had been a while. Maybe that would take the edge off. He was still smiling about it when he ran into Ellen in the hallway.

  “What are you so happy about?”

  He told her about Florence. She smiled, but it was forced.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Can we talk later?”

  “Sure. You okay?”

  “Yeah,” she said, but he could tell she was not.

  As Cole checked on the residents, he also went through drawers, suitcases, and pants pockets. Even though everything of value was supposed to go into the safe in Pete Andrew’s office, the aides often forgot to check things in, and there had never been any locker or bag searches, the way they’d threatened. Still, he didn’t find much. Some petty cash, a brooch, a wedding band.

  Blue Tiller was sitting up in bed. “Do you know what the land used to look like?” she asked. “Wild strawberries used to grow. My mama would cook them and we’d spread them on thick slabs of bread. They were about the size of buttons. They were so sweet. You ever eat them?”