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Goodbye, Amelia.
1 He was wearing his overalls when they came to take him away. The knock on the door so different from any other. Conspirator, they charged. Murderer. Anti-patriot. He got on his hat and rubber boots against the February outside and poured a little more coffee against the February inside and he didn’t say a thing. He left the girl aching in the doorway of the farmhouse and he went on down the gravel walk with the ugly ugly men and he eased into their car and he never came back.
He left the flat in the afternoon of the day before and walked over to the bakery and sat waiting at one of the little tables for his friend Elton who was late but who he knew would come. The girl who put bread into bags always watched him when he was there. She wore her hair up and she moved quick and she had eyes like a mean bird but he knew the girl was harmless. The place was busy and it smelled good and warm and he sat there with his hands together listening to the sounds that people make and after a while the girl came over to him. —Are you praying? she asked and she set down a small plate with a scone and a glass of water. —I didn’t ask for anything. —You looked empty. Eat something. —I’m waiting for someone. —So eat to pass the time. —What do you do? —I work here. I give people bread and they give me money but the money isn’t mine. —And what do you do to be free? Elton came in the side door. His face was red from the cold but it didn’t look bad and he walked on to where Payne sat talking with the girl. He saw him and stood up and the two embraced. —Sit down, said Payne. They sat. —Who’s this? asked Elton. —She works here. Elton didn’t say anything. —I have a telescope and my bathroom window goes out to the roof, she told Payne and she left them there and returned to her place behind the counter. —Did you do it? asked Payne. His voice was low. —It’s done. —Good. How many did you kill? —Four. —Good. —They begged. —They always do. Payne leaned in and took his friend’s head in both hands and looked into his eyes and there were the fiery clouds that owned Payne as well and he could hear nothing around him because he loved what they lived for like you’d love the worst part of a storm. He could smell the winter air that lingered on Elton’s sweater, clean and volatile, and as he breathed it in he knew that he needed to be out of doors. —Let’s go, he said and took his hands from Elton’s face. Elton drank the water down fast and put the scone in his pocket and they rose to leave the bakery. Out on the sidewalk the two of them made their way downtown with the failing daylight lying in rays between buildings and shimmering in the water that lined the streets. Cars would pass and they would note the model and the look of the driver. They passed the movie theater and they passed the station and it wasn’t long before they took up the little pathway that led along the river. They strode beside the handrail with the sun dying on their faces and the surface of the river looked fake from the influence of the same gaudy light. —I’d like to see my mom, said Payne. Elton nodded and they kept on. A man lay bundled and sleeping on the frozen ground that bordered the path and as they passed him he woke and looked up at them to see what they were and when it was clear he lowered his head again. The outermost layer of his bedroll showed a soiled pattern of badly imagined geese and Payne thought how nice it would be to fly away. Further up the river they began to see the haze of lights that came from the factory where Payne’s mother worked at making plastics and paint since before he was alive. Soon they could see the sign on the main building that said UNITED and when they got to the entry door Payne told his friend to wait for him outside. He wouldn’t be long. He walked along the loveless corridor without looking at the notices that hung posted to the walls at random. One gave the details of an employee valentine party, another called for mandatory immunizations and listed the reasons why. People in baby blue uniforms passed him like lost animals in the hall and the numb smiles when they came only made him sad. Sad to think that these people had hopes. Sad to know that his mom’s lungs hurt at night and that she loved France from the TV but would never see it. He got into the utility elevator and pressed the number 4 and the doors slid shut and he felt himself going up. He knew the pull in his stomach that lay coupled in his memory forever with the poor smell of the place and when the bell rang and the doors opened he came into the hallway thinking of how life gets trapped sometimes in boxes and closed spaces and he could hear his ten-year-old body running naked and crazy somewhere in the stale mazes of the United Paint and Plastics Company. He came to a door that said PIECEMEAL and he opened it and went inside. It was a big room and he sought his mother out and went to her. —What are you doing here? This is what she said every time he came whether she was happy to see him or not. —When do you get out? Payne asked. —Eight-thirty. And I’m going right home to soak my hands. She looked old. —I brought something for you, Mom. He handed her a paper bag with a little less than ten thousand dollars in it. —I already ate. —It’s not to eat. —What is it, silly? —Open it when you get home. Don’t open it on the bus. Keep it in your purse. —I should know if it’s a bomb or a dinosaur egg or something. At least let me know what you’ve got me carrying all over God’s earth against my will. —Put it away, Mom. A man came over to them. He was big and he wore the same blue as everyone else. —Are you OK, Donna? —Shame on you Glen, I would have thought you’d remember my son. The man looked at Payne. At his rough beard. The overalls. His wild eyes. —Oh, said Glen. Payne wanted the man to go away. —I’ll see you at coffee, Donna. Don’t be late. —Thanks for looking after me, Glen. —Someone has to, he said and went back to his station. —Who the hell is that? —Be nice, honey. —I’m going, Mom. He kissed her on the cheek. —I’ve got to get back to the line anyhow. Thanks for the bag of secrets. —Not till you get home, he said and turned to go but he stopped. —Mom? —What now? —What would you buy if you could? She breathed and turned the idea around in her mind. —I would go get a good pair of shoes and I’d walk and walk. I’d walk until I couldn’t hear anything but my heartbeat. No other sounds. Maybe a bird. And when I got there I’d rest. I’d rest awhile. When he came outside he saw Elton leaning against the building with his hands in his pockets. He looked cold but he didn’t say anything. —How is she? —She’s tired, Elton. Night had set in and they could see the lights of town calling and they started toward those lights, back along the river the way they’d come. Town was quiet. They knew the man at the liquor store and as they came in he nodded and went on ringing up a group of young girls and he was ringing still when Payne and Elton walked out of the store with three bottles of wine and went on walking freely down the night street. They found Elton’s car in the back parking lot where he’d left it that day and they got in and Elton turned the engine and they drove the side streets until they hit the main road that led out of town and they drove on with the bottles resting on the seat between them. The car was a 1981 Oldsmobile and it was big and worn out and when they took up the back road that would bring them into the hills it ran loud and something smelled like burning but they knew it would be fine. Payne took a corkscrew from the glove-box and opened one of the bottles. Their headlights shone far on the wet road before them and they could smell the wine now in the car, sweet in it’s bad way, and Payne drank and handed the bottle to his friend and then he reached and rolled the passenger window down to let the night in and the wine burned familiar as it passed close along the border of his heart. Mailboxes stood dumb along the roadside in that unsure place where the car lights met the darkness and then in the dark of someone’s lawn Payne saw the thin form of a standing flag pole and he knew that there in the black above flew the colors of a nation. Colors that no one could see. A nation that he couldn’t love. Not under the blackest disguises of night. Not in the high yellow grace of a million suns. He leaned and spat out the window and the Oldsmobile screamed it’s thirsty scream as they slaved it across the land. The land rose and then leveled off and there were no more houses and the bad road lay open before them. The radio played and now in the distance they could see the outline of the reservoir. It was half a mile wide and it was deep and still and this is where they came to be away. As the car drew near it seemed as if the waiting body of water would close around them. Swallow them up. Wouldn’t it all be so much lighter. They parked near the banks and Elton killed the radio but he ran the headlights a little longer and they sat drinking in quiet and watching the beams dance on the surface of the water. An hour later Payne stood in the reeds that grew at the reservoir’s edge. Does it stare into me? he was thinking. I stare into it. The February sky hung clear with its stars burning so far away and God burned further away. Elton leaned against the hood of the car smoking half of a cigar that he’d found. When he finished smoking he reached in and pulled another bottle off the seat and opened it and walked down to where Payne stood in the dark by the water. He let Payne have the first drink. The wine was colder now than it was before and it tasted good and went down easy. They stood talking for a long time about women. Then they talked about war. —When do you think it’ll end? —Does it ever? —This one, Payne. —Which one? —The one in the desert. —Not until they take what they came for, I guess. Or until they choke on the piss of their own machine. But that could be a while. —Do you think they’ll come and take us? —Not breathing. Hand the bottle over. —White said they’re taking everyone now. —White is afraid. He’s always been. He’ll dance if they ask him. A breeze came off the reservoir and they felt it touch them in the dark. —If they still rode horses I would go, said Elton. Bad paintings and movies of such things rolled in his head. Payne shook his head and drank. —I think it must have been different then, said Elton. —The world was different. Not so close. You could see what you were fighting. It had a name. —It still tore you up, name or no name. It might have taken longer but you still saw your stomach and your own heart beating in the dirt ten feet away. You still screamed like an animal before you died. —But there were things to hold on to. Ideas. —Someone else’s ideas. Someone who wakes in a bed and puts on good clothes and his body smells like fear and he talks in numbers and he is very far away from the screaming. Elton took the bottle and drank the last of it and he was thinking about horses when they heard the car engine. They couldn’t see it and then they could see it racing on the thin road that led along the water. It was them that it hunted. They ran to the car and Payne threw open the door and pulled the guns from under the seat. The headlights found them. It was a big government car and they leaned behind the Oldsmobile and fired at it. At the windshield. At the tires. They heard the sound of bullets in the loose soil around them and then one hit their passenger window. They felt hot in their skin and they kept firing. The government car lurched and turned a little and then it came to a sliding stop where the reeds began not far from the water. Its windshield was broken and it hissed and a man got out on the far side. He hid in the dark. They couldn’t see him but they knew he was there. The driver was dead. —Should we leave? whispered Elton. He was breathing hard and Payne saw the thing he feared. Saw it like a sickness on his friend’s face. Like a sick yellow bulletin. —He’ll shoot the tires. —What should we do? —Kill him, said Payne. He put his finger to his lips to hush. The man had crawled to the back of the car. He was shot in the left shoulder and his name was Michael Hudson and he had given his life over to those who would siphon the grace from it and he had two girls at home but they didn’t know him. They started shooting again, not sure of where he lay. The man returned fire and one bullet hit their back window and the other hit Elton in the throat. Payne could see the man now where he lay firing and he quickened and pulled Elton around behind the hood. He leaned against the metal of the car and aimed his gun at the man. He shot twice and both shots tore into Michael Hudson’s face. He lay dead at the edge of the reeds and Payne pulled his friend into the car and drove away. Elton was holding his neck with both hand and little wet noises came strange from him. He was bleeding bad. Payne held the wheel cursing and thinking of where they could go. —Don’t die, Elton. Don’t leave. Elton was still holding onto himself but he was quiet now and his eyes looked out into the shadows by the roadside. Payne knew a girl who lived on a farm maybe twelve miles away and he hammered on the gas and made the next hard left to head for it. The girl’s name was Amelia Fisher and there was a time in his life when he thought he would die without her love but when she broke and placed it freely in his hand it withered there and after time she came to see the aching distance in him that kept his soul bound up in the wild skelter of the wind and she cried for him and for her own tied soul and for all the slaves in the world. And through the tears she told him that he couldn’t love and she was right. Not that way. Elton was dead when they got to the farmhouse. —They won’t get you now, babe, Payne said, choked in the dark. —They won’t ever get you. Amelia woke on the second floor to the lights and the mean rolling of the motor. She knew who it was and she came down the stairs and stood in the doorway. Payne closed the car door and came walking on toward the house. —My father’s asleep. He’s been in bed with the flu. —Elton’s dead, Amelia. She didn’t say anything. —He’s in the car. She stared past him. —Get the car into the barn, she said. —Pull the bay doors closed and latch them and get yourself inside. He drove Elton’s car around and brought it in through the big doors and he didn’t look at the dead person on the seat. He killed the engine and stepped out into the cold dark. The barn smelled like rust and damp hay and he stood there sweating and as the sweat ran so did the years. He had chased her across the yard in the copper haze of a late summer gone and she hid in the barn and he found her there. They struggled. Her skirt had drawn up above her waistline and she hushed him and laid open the fair thing that beat between her legs like the pounding tides of a war that would not end and she worked the center of it with her fingers and she tore at the hair on the back of his head and pulled him to her and told him he could have anything at all. Anything at all. The smell of coffee moved him as he came through the quiet house and he stopped in the entrance to the kitchen and stood there watching her make it. She let it steep a long time and then she took down two cups from where they hung on hooks and she poured the coffee into them and the steam came rolling. They sat at a small metal table by the window and they both looked a little insane and a little beautiful in their own private ways and soon the smallest hint of morning shone from the fringe of the world where her father’s fields met the sky. —Are you hungry, Payne? —What? —Are you hungry? —All my life. She didn’t ask him how it happened and he wouldn’t have known what to say if she had so they sat waiting for the coffee to cool. Raw sunlight was passing faintly now through the frost on the kitchen window and Payne finished the bottom of his cup and put his head into his hands. He felt her touch his forearm. She gathered her strength and moved her hand up to rest it in his and he broke and held it there tight against the side of his head with the blood pounding. The refrigerator hummed and they were so young and the light was on their faces and hands and they were still holding on when they heard the car outside. And the boots on the walk. And the unbearable knocking at the door.
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