“Paul told me about the train,” she said when he didn’t answer. “Why you two got off.”
“Wasn’t his place to tell you that.”
“Don’t be angry with him. He was just fascinated by it. Maybe a little frightened, especially after reading that newspaper article and learning what happened to the men who stayed on the train. He told me you see smoke or-”
“I don’t know why we’re talking about this.”
“I just wanted to hear what it’s like,” she said.
“I can’t tell you what it’s like. You won’t believe it if I try, and I don’t give a damn what you think. It’s a waste of everybody’s time.”
“I might believe it.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You can see death before it happens,” she said. “That’s what Paul said.”
He didn’t answer.
“Did you see anything with Walter Sorenson?” she asked.
He studied her for a long time before saying, “No, I didn’t.”
“Why do you think that was?”
“I’m not sure. But I suspect it’s got something to do with this place.”
“This place?”
“That’s right. There’s something wrong here.”
He could see her throat move when she swallowed. She said, “You can feel that?”
“Sure,” he said. “Can’t you?”
She said, “I’m not part of it. You think that I am, but I’m not. When I arrived, it was with the expectation that I’d be leaving soon, just like you.”
“That some kind of warning?”
She didn’t reply.
“Answer the question I asked,” he said. “Do you feel like there’s something wrong with this place?”
“Of course. It hangs in the air like the salt smell from the water. But I don’t need to have feelings about it. I’ve been here far too long for that. You have bad feelings; I have bad memories.”
They fell silent after that. Eventually he said, “As long as everybody’s trading questions, I have one for you. Why don’t you like to be called Becky?”
She’d bristled every time someone said it, from Sorenson to Barrett, the delivery driver. It seemed to Arlen to go well beyond a dislike of the nickname.
She looked at him with a steady gaze, but something in her face faltered. He felt, for just a moment, as if she were about to tell him things that had gone unsaid for too long. As if she kept a silence that pained her. He knew about that. He had his own untold tale, guarded for years, but somehow, on this porch, lit by the fading sun and warmed by the Gulf breeze, he wanted to tell it to her. That last part was key. To her.
She turned from him, though, and when she spoke her voice was distant and her eyes were on the sea.
“People used to call me that,” she said. “Different people in a different place. I’m not that person anymore, so that name… it doesn’t suit me these days. It’s not mine, not anymore.”
She rose then and walked to the end of the porch and stood with her back to him as the last smears of red light faded, and though they shared the shadowed space, they were each alone with their silent sorrows.
16
REBECCA WAITED UNTIL THE next morning to try to get rid of them. She came out onto the porch, where Paul was working on the generator and Arlen was sanding down pieces of the broken railing from the roof deck, and held out a slim stack of worn dollar bills.
“Here,” she said. “You’ve earned it, and I don’t want to make you stay any longer. I can drive you into High Town, let you find a ride from there.”
Arlen just sat back on his heels and didn’t speak. Paul looked from the money in her hand to her face and frowned.
“We’re not finished,” he said.
“You’ve done enough. You’ve done more than enough.”
He shook his head. “No. I’m going to get this generator running again.”
“There’s no need to-”
“You trying to run us off because the judge’s friends are coming?”
That stopped her.
“No, it’s just… you’ve both already done enough,” she fumbled. “You were a big help, but you’ve done enough, and I can’t afford to keep you on anymore. So please take the money and I’ll drive you-”
“I’m going to finish this job.”
She stared at him, then slowly folded her hand over the bills. Her eyes were still on Paul, but they’d gone distant.
“Listen to me,” she said. “It might be best if you weren’t around tonight.”
“Why? Who are these guys? Are you in some kind of trouble?”
Arlen said, “Paul, it ain’t your concern,” but the boy never looked at him.
“Are you in some kind of trouble?” he repeated.
“No, I’m not. But when Solomon Wade rents this place out, he wants it empty. It’s supposed to be for his friends; no one else is allowed.”
“Well,” Paul said, “we’re here.”
“All right,” she said, “then you stay in the boathouse tonight.”
“The boathouse?” Paul said. “It doesn’t even have a roof.”
“You’re the one who won’t leave; you can deal without a roof for one night.” She snapped it at him, and Paul’s jaw tightened and he looked away.
That’ll do it, Arlen thought. He’s going to say enough is enough, finally, and take that money from her hand and we’ll be on our way…
But Paul said, “Fine. We’ll stay in the boathouse.”
Rebecca lifted a hand to the side of her face, and for a moment, just a blink, it was the gesture of some other woman, a gesture of someone vulnerable. Then she seemed to catch herself and pushed her hair back over her ear as if that’s what she’d been planning to do all the time.
That was the last that was said about it. Paul continued to battle with the generator. By midafternoon he was satisfied that the mechanical workings were solid again and began to put the pieces back together. Arlen watched him do it, rebuilding something he’d never built in the first place, working without benefit of a manual or diagram, and shook his head. The kid was a natural, no question. He still didn’t think the thing would ever work again, though.
By five he had the generator together and hollered at Arlen to come down so they could test it. He came over and watched as Paul filled the tank with gasoline and explained that he had it connected to the battery bank, and once he was sure it would work all they’d have to do is wire it back into the house and build a new enclosure for it. Rebecca came out while he was talking, and as soon as she arrived Paul’s voice deepened and his speaking became more authoritative, as if he’d been repairing generators all his life. Arlen lit a cigarette to hide a grin.
“Here we go,” Paul said, and then he made some adjustment, which Arlen figured was to the throttle, with his left hand while turning the crank with his right.
Nothing happened. There wasn’t a sound but the turning of the hand crank, not so much as a gurgle or cough of gasoline power. Paul frowned and jiggled the throttle and spun the crank faster, sweat beading on his forehead. Still nothing. He dropped his hand from the crank and stepped back.
“Give it a minute,” Rebecca said. “Maybe you just need to crank longer.”
He shook his head. “It’s not even trying. Something’s still wrong. It wouldn’t even try to start.”
His voice was his own again, softer and younger. Arlen blew out some smoke and said, “You did more than I thought you could just getting it put back into one piece. Getting it to run is a mighty tall order.”
Paul didn’t answer, dropped to his knees and picked up a screwdriver and set to work removing the inspection plate again.
Rebecca said, “You may not be able to get it, Paul. It may just be ruined.”
“It’s not ruined,” he said, but she’d stopped looking at him and the generator, was instead staring up the road and into the dark trees. She wet her lips.