The Weight of an Infinite Sky

by Carrie La Seur

  He rolled down the window, put a cigarette between his lips, and fumbled with the lighter as he tried to check his blind spot and merge with one hand on the wheel. Brittany took the cigarette from him, lit it, and handed it back. He took a drag, blew the smoke out the window, and gave her a long look. “You smoke, kid?”

  She shook her head. “No. Mom did.”

  And had Brittany light her cigarettes. That figured. “How about Alma?”

  “Oh, no.” Her headshake was emphatic. “She hardly even drinks.”

  “I’ve seen her drink beer.” Anthony was not above a little debate on the relative merits of Merit Badge Betty, as the ranch kids had called Alma when she’d gotten a little too pleased about the wall-to-wall badges on her Girl Scout sash. “She’s not a nun.”

  “I don’t mean like that,” Brittany said, looking embarrassed. “I mean she doesn’t get drunk. Drinking’s not an activity for her.”

  It was sweet how Brittany managed to compare what had plainly been the chaos of life with Vicky to the discipline of life with Alma without overtly criticizing either of them—especially Vicky, who had to suffer by objective comparison. Anthony rested the cigarette on the window ledge and kept the wheel in line with one knee as he punched through the radio presets, over and over, unsatisfied with the predictable pop and country playlists.

  “It’s funny, the things you remember,” he said at last. “Dad and I never got along. I mean, he did basic Dad duty—food, clothing, shelter, teaching me how to drive a tractor and shoot—but he wanted me to be things I couldn’t be. I guess I always thought one day he’d wake up and realize he had a son he’d like to get to know and things would be different. It surprises me how much I miss him.”

  Brittany pulled her feet up onto the seat and hugged her knees. “Mom kept saying things were about to get better, and then . . .” She laid her head on her knees, face toward the window, so that he couldn’t see if she was crying. He let her be, and after a few minutes, she raised her head, dry-eyed. Formidable. Another Terrebonne fully formed.

  Anthony finished his cigarette before he spoke. “I hear your family’s holding out against the mine.” He might have let it be, but when she turned that grown-up face to him, it made him wonder what she’d say about Harmony. Besides, he was bracing for an excruciating conversation with Chance and the mighty girlness of her entertained him.

  His remark brought out a wholesale change in demeanor. Brittany put her feet on the floor and spoke with a determination out of character with what he’d seen from her so far. “We can stop it! Rick Burlington’s been tricking and threatening people into signing.” This was Alma speaking. Anthony recognized the clipped enunciation.

  “He didn’t threaten me,” Anthony said. “He wants to buy my mom a new house. And Harmony paid for that bus that’s taking you kids back and forth. That kind of money makes a big difference in a small town, or on the rez.” He laid out the challenge deliberately, curious to hear how she’d take on a devil’s advocate.

  Brittany sat back and thought for several minutes as he accelerated onto the interstate. “I know what it’s like not to have money,” she said finally. “But some things shouldn’t be for sale. It’s not right, what he’s doing. Animals have been getting sick. They say it’s weeds but I’ve never heard of it being this bad. We put the animals in and lock the barn every night, just to be safe.”

  “You think Rick’s poisoning animals? Come on. I’d be impressed if he can tell the eating end from the pooping end.”

  “It’s not funny. People are scared,” Brittany said. “The Tall Grasses’ grandma has been putting stuff on their fences.”

  At the Murphys’, Jayne and Mae were in the yard kicking a ball slowly back and forth as they waited for Brittany. Anthony dropped her with them and aimed uphill toward Chance’s. Even if the invitation was a cover for delivering him to Sarah, it was an excuse to try to talk. As the car shifted planes and rotated uphill, a scrap of folded notebook paper on the passenger seat fell toward him. Left for him, not dropped. Anthony accelerated on the gravel, picked up the note, and found three lines at the top of the page in the curlicued, girlish print he’d seen in the anonymous poems:

  I know the darkness

  The curvature of the earth

  The weight of an infinite sky

  Then several lines below:

  A murmuration

  Black wing of united flight

  I touch the starlings

  He parked, read the poems several times, pulled out his wallet, and tucked the paper inside.

  Act 3, Scene 5

  For a moment Anthony considered knocking, but the door was wide open and he’d never knocked here, except for that strange season of locked doors when Hilary first arrived. It seemed safer to acknowledge no change and walk right in like he used to, despite the awkward summons. Anthony stepped in the screen door, shut it carefully, and rubbed his eyes through that blind moment that followed any time he stepped out of the Montana light that squeezed his pupils down to pinpricks.

  “Thanks for coming by,” Chance said, then added without any further gesture or word of welcome, “There’s a few things you need to know.”

  What a litany of horrors those words could contain, Anthony thought, but this was what he’d wanted—Chance talking to him. He ran his hands through his hair and wished he’d remembered to wash it that morning. The parents must have gotten quite a picture at pickup.

  “All right.”

  Chance poured coffee and gestured Anthony toward the kitchen table, where a battered laptop and a plastic file box sat. Sweaty from a day’s work, Chance tugged at the short hairs at the back of his neck as he sat, an old nervous tic Anthony recalled.

  “How are things going with the camp?” Chance asked. “Brittany loves it. You can’t pry the plays out of her hands.”

  It was interesting that Chance saw Brittany often, corroborating Brittany’s report that he saw Alma often. They’d be the kind to keep it as quiet as they could if they’d taken up again—no announcements until things were good and settled. Anthony wondered how much Hilary knew and how she’d take it and that line of thinking made him wish for a drink.

  “You got any whiskey for this coffee? It’s been a long week.”

  “It’s Monday,” Chance said.

  “Joke.”

  Chance didn’t exactly smile, but he rolled his eyes and fetched a nearly full bottle of Montana rye.

  “It’s going pretty well,” Anthony said as he poured for himself and Chance refused. “Great kids, anyway. You oughta come see the showcase next week. And if you think of it, could you ask Hilary to get in touch? She said she’d like to come in and work with the kids and the board’s really excited about it.” Nothing but desperation would bring him to try to reach Hilary through Chance.

  “I’m sure we’ll come see Brittany,” Chance said, but left the question of Hilary alone. “I hear you’ve been talking to Harmony.”

  So that was it. Now that Anthony had a good sip of whiskey in him and took a closer look, there was nothing confrontational in the man across the table. Chance was pensive, mournful even, as if carrying a weight he regretted laying upon Anthony, too.

  “A little,” he answered cautiously.

  “I need to tell you what I’ve been finding out about them,” Chance said. “First, can I ask—have you signed the lease? I heard you met with Burlington.”

  Ah. Despite the private back-corner lunch, the small-town surveillance network had proven itself again. “I told him I’d think about it. They pay for the camp bus, you know.”

  Chance sniffed. “It’s hard to miss the logo on the side, yeah.”

  “They do some good, that’s all I’m saying.”

  “I know.” Chance winced, as if the concession cost him. “I know there’s a lot of money at stake, and jobs for people who need them. I hear that, I really do. But I also hear the other side, how hard they push people who don’t want to sign at all. They don’t take no for an answ
er.”

  “They’re just doing their jobs, Chance. I heard a crazy rumor you shot at him.” Anthony laughed as he said it.

  “That was a big mistake.”

  Anthony watched his old friend take several quick sips of hot coffee and contemplated the astonishing possibility that he didn’t know Chance nearly as well as he’d thought. If he’d take a shot at Rick Burlington, maybe getting beaten up wasn’t as remote a risk as Anthony had believed. “Wow.”

  “Rick’s threatening people,” Chance said. “Old folks. It’s coercion. It could void the leases if we can convince a judge. Some people say there’s worse. They say he’s making animals sick, to scare them into signing.”

  “Brittany mentioned that. You think Rick knows the first thing about livestock?”

  “He claims to be a farm kid.”

  “That’s PR as far as I’m concerned. He probably grew up in a Dallas subdivision called Longhorn Farms or something. I don’t get the sense he’s a real stickler for precise terms. He likes his boots shiny.”

  Chance reached down the front of his shirt and pulled out a small leather pouch on a cord. As it waved in his direction, Anthony got a whiff of something strong.

  “Phew! What’s that?”

  “I went by the Tall Grasses’ yesterday. They’ve had sick animals and they think Rick’s responsible. Jenna’s grandma put this on me. I’m afraid it has skunk in it, but when the old woman tells you to do something, you don’t like to say no.”

  “It stinks,” Anthony said. “Put it away. I get the idea.”

  Chance tucked the pouch back down. “Look, I don’t know. As a man, he’s an off-the-charts jackass. As a landman, I think he does what he’s told. He probably sincerely believes he’s bringing people something they need and he just has to persuade the few of us who can’t see the light. I’m more concerned about Harmony Coal itself. This dinky little Montana subsidiary is hooked up to something bigger. You oughta see Alma’s research. There’s an offshore holding company that owns other Harmony this and that around the world. There’s SEC filings for the U.S. corporation, but the foreign operations are shady. She found reports of human rights violations in other countries.” Chance pulled a stack of printed pages from the file box and pushed them at Anthony.

  “What do you mean, human rights violations?” Anthony asked, glancing down at the paper. The name Tall Grass was underlined at the top of the first page.

  Chance gathered more pages and stacked them in front of Anthony, as if their physical mass held significance. He opened the laptop. “Threatening landowners. People and animals getting hurt. The same sorts of things that are happening here. Alma’s got a contact at the FBI Asian crime division in Seattle who says a lot more drugs have been coming in from Asia recently, maybe with heavy equipment or as backhaul on natural resource shipments from North America to Asia. There’s gangs involved. There could be a connection.”

  “Sounds like a stretch.” Anthony leaned on his elbow and fingered the pages of notes and printouts, measuring quantity more than examining content. “I mean, Asian gangs? What does that have to do with the mine here?”

  “Criminals do crime. Once you know what kind of people you’re dealing with, you just follow the stench,” Chance said, his voice distant as he tapped at the keyboard. He clicked several times and turned the screen toward Anthony, multiple windows open to headlines about coal companies accused of crimes in Pacific Rim countries. “These are all Harmony subsidiaries. It’s a pattern, and it’s getting more common. The FBI can look at things like shipping traffic logs and what they know about drug movement on the West Coast, see if it matches up with any of Harmony’s activities.”

  Anthony scrolled through a few of the articles, skepticism wrinkling the side of his face.

  “Maybe it’s nothing,” Chance said, fingers moving to the small bump under his shirt. “Maybe it’s all a coincidence, just like Dean dying and the animals getting sick. Maybe I’m seeing ghosts. But if we’re dealing with organized crime, that kicks things up a few notches, doesn’t it? I don’t want people like that in my backyard.”

  Anthony put down his mug. “Why do you say seeing ghosts?” he asked.

  Chance shook his head. “Figure of speech. Why?”

  “No reason.” Anthony shut the laptop with a sense of resignation. Ghosts aside, he should have known the coal money was too good to be true. Now Chance would consider fighting Harmony a test of loyalty, a test Anthony didn’t plan to fail again.

  Chance leaned in. “Just don’t sign, okay? At least not until we get to the bottom of this business with Harmony. And talk to your mom. Neal’s got to be pushing her. He didn’t want to hear anything I had to say about it, but you could talk to him.”

  “I’ll talk to Mom, if she’ll listen. But you know what Neal’s like. He’d be liable to do the opposite of whatever I say.” Staging the scene he’d mentioned to Brittany floated to mind again—a way to get behind Neal’s stoic façade and prod his true intentions. The more Anthony thought about it, the more he liked it. Just a few pages of dialogue. He could picture it already, a grayscale dream scene on a black stage.

  “Thanks all the same. Listen, this Saturday we’re doing some fencing at the Macleans’ place. They’ve been having trouble with Rick. You could see for yourself how it is, and I know they’d appreciate the help.”

  Saturday, the day for sleeping off the week’s effort and keeping a nice buzz on to dissipate the stress. Anthony cherished Saturday alone. He’d even discovered the guerrilla tactic of laying in a supply of chocolate to pacify Gretchen.

  “What time?” he asked.

  “First thing. Probably better you stay at your mom’s Friday night.”

  The work would be hard—sawing off the old posts where fire had left them jagged and dangerous to cattle, sinking new ones in fast-setting concrete, clamping on insulators, sinking galvanized ground rods, and stringing electric fence wire and barbed wire with heavy leather gloves on a hot day. Anthony wanted to groan and made himself swallow it. “Yeah. Okay. It’ll make Mom happy if I stay over anyhow.”

  Chance ran his fingers over a gouge in the table’s wood veneer, a tiny coulee separating them. It wasn’t an old table, Anthony observed, but things fell apart faster in Montana, under that big, dry, brutal sky with the entropy turned up. Like he was falling apart, like Hilary had fallen apart. Only Chance somehow held it together, and looking at him now, Anthony felt a pinch under his ribs, a little fear for Chance, or for their friendship that he needed so badly. All through his childhood, Anthony had watched Chance for clues on how to be in this place, because Chance knew so certainly, had all the instincts, yet was not of the place, in a way that made him able to see Anthony’s distress. If he lost Chance, alienated him to the point where that hard gaze his friend was capable of finally turned on him irrevocably, he didn’t know what he’d do.

  Anthony pressed his hands together. He’d had no one to tell about the nightmares. Gretchen was fed up with his drama, Hilary didn’t need more, and it would upset Sarah too much. He’d been afraid Chance would be unwilling to listen, and afraid of his reaction if he did. Having agreed to help at the Macleans’, Anthony felt bolder, like he’d earned some grace. He poured a few more fingers of rye into the empty mug to solidify his courage.

  “I have bad dreams,” he said. Low. Abashed to speak of the way he’d lost control.

  “Oh?”

  “Crazy nightmares, like nothing I’ve ever had. I wake up trying to shout no, but I can’t get it out, like I’m choking. Same thing, over and over. I’m there the day Dad died, out there on horseback, like I’m him. He’s coming up a steep trail behind Neal, then at this flat place a rattler comes out from under a log and spooks Ponch. It looks just like the photos Marx showed me of the accident site. Same spot—but I dreamed it first.”

  Chance rubbed his chin and sat back. “You’ve been all over that coulee since you were a kid. It’s no surprise you know what it looks like.”

  “I
know. I thought about that. But I didn’t find out where in the coulee Dad fell until after I dreamed it. In the dream Ponch rears up hard; the cinch hobble is too loose and the rear cinch slides back and he spooks and starts to buck. He wasn’t used to Dad yet. Dad falls to one side but his foot’s trapped. He finally falls loose and tumbles downhill. Even with Neal shouting and Ponch screaming, I can hear his neck snap. Then as he’s lying there, almost gone, someone comes and stands over him, and I swear it’s not Neal. I can’t see who it is, the sun’s at his back, but he’s not shaped like Neal. There’s nothing I can do but watch it over and over. I’m losing my mind, Chance. Brittany told me this ghost story and it kind of set me off.”

  Chance’s brow creased. “I heard about that. Alma didn’t want her to tell you. Sounds like she was right.”

  “I sound like a jerk complaining after what that kid’s been through.”

  “You’re grieving. You and Brittany both,” Chance said. “But there was an investigation. It’s over. You’ve got to let it go.”

  “That’s what Marx says.”

  “I know you and Neal don’t get along, but it doesn’t mean he’s the villain. He’s taking care of the place, taking care of your mom.”