Journeyman Page 15

  He’s made something comfortable of the garage, done so almost instinctively. In front of the love seat, at the foot of his mattress, stands a yard-sale dresser he sanded one Saturday afternoon and stained and later waxed the rails with an unscented candle. His clothes are carefully folded inside each drawer. They are all relatively new. He looks down at the envelope. There’s more than enough money promised by that slip of paper for him to buy a new truck, for him to move on.

  Unexpectedly, the Valiant’s headlights fill the garage with yellow-white light as Cosmo pulls the old vehicle into the driveway. Nolan covers his eyes and stashes the envelope between the love seat’s cushions. After Cosmo turns off the engine and the lights, Nolan tucks the atlas beneath his mattress. The door to the Valiant opens and Cosmo climbs out of the car smelling of beer and marijuana smoke. His eyes red slits behind the thick prescription lenses of his eyeglasses.

  —He tried burning down the set, Cosmo says, on his way through the garage into the house.

  —What set?

  —The film set. Down on the plaza. They put it out, of course. Dozens of people standing around, hoping to get in front of the camera, but he went for it, man. Go big, or go home.

  Nolan follows Cosmo into the living room, where Cosmo searches the folds of the recliner until, from under the cushion, he lifts his Zippo.

  —What a statement, Cosmo says, flipping back the lid on the lighter, striking the flint, and, after it lights, closing it down and putting it in his shirt pocket. You set up this monoculture, the chamber of commerce in concert with local business owners, politicians, farmers, and you smile and invite people from all over the world to come and empty their pockets on your doorsteps. And it works. I have to give it to them; it does. Tourism may just be the most passive-aggressive hustle I can think of.

  —Why don’t we get some water, sit out back?

  But Cosmo isn’t listening to Nolan.

  —We advertise widely, but that’s not enough, so you know what you do?

  —I don’t know, Nolan says.

  —You make this movie. Yes, it’s a car commercial, but it’s just as much a commercial for Burnridge. I can’t believe it took me this long to figure it out. You make up a story, or poach one, as the case may be, filled with idyllic old buildings and scenic back-road chase scenes. I feel evil just uttering it, like I’m giving up the playbook. But someone already figured it out. They sweep into town, refurbish a façade, and boom—lights, camera, action. No need to question monocropping, monoculture, because it’s working, right? This place is thriving. Maybe in passing it comes up. Candle-lit dinners. Everyone’s feeling a bit tipsy on Chardonnay, noshing arugula and brie when some provocateur, some agitator, some firebug, says, what about the honey bees?

  —The honey bees?

  —An indicator species. But it’s the car’s fault, or the oil companies’, or some fat-cat caricature of a capitalist in a top hat. To mix metaphors, Nolan, we need a scapegoat. The point is: we need someone to blame. We need that effigy because Who, who, who? the owl asks. You, you, you. And me.

  —You need to settle down, Cos.

  —But we can’t handle that. I can’t. I admit it. Someday, the sun will die, and all my beautiful words, sentenced to microfiche, will wither, lost forever to a deafening silence, a howling wind that scours the surface of a cold rock that’s long since buried our tawdry and feeble remains. But at least he tried, Nolan. At least he played the part of a necessary evil. I think it’s important the world know his name.

  Cosmo stops pacing. He walks into the kitchen and opens the refrigerator door. When Nolan follows him, he finds the door blocking off much of Cosmo’s body, but cold air escapes and bright light shines around him.

  —One more thing, Cosmo says, adjusting his glasses.

  —What’s that?

  —I am no longer gainfully employed.

  Nolan looks his brother in the eye. The light of the fridge, shining from below, casts upward shadows on his face. Older brother, Nolan thinks. Model and mentor.

  —You should see your expression, Cosmo says to Nolan without turning from the fridge.

  —What happened?

  —Apparently, in journalism, you can’t editorialize on the front page.

  Cosmo drums his fingers on top of the open door. Over and over, he does this.

  —I’m speculating, of course. All the publisher did was hand me an envelope with my last check in it and say, “Your services are no longer needed.”

  —He’s afraid you’ll sue.

  —She is. And, yes.

  Cosmo closes the door and the kitchen is suddenly dim.

  —But this gives me time to pursue other endeavors.

  —Your book.

  —No, that will never be finished.

  —What, then?

  Leaving the kitchen, Cosmo raises his left index finger to his left eye and, winking, brings it down to point at Nolan as he passes.

  —Inquiring minds like mine want to know.

  Nolan follows Cosmo into the living room and then into the garage. As Cosmo passes the love seat, he takes the keys to the Valiant from his pocket but stops to survey the garage. He looks over Nolan’s stuff, what he’s made of the place. Nolan stops in the doorway. Beyond Cosmo, two boys on bikes make intersecting figure eights in the middle of the street, over shadows thrown flat against the asphalt by the street lamps hidden in the trees.

  Adjusting his glasses, Cosmo turns to Nolan and, squinting his eyes speculatively, he says:

  —You leaving?

  —What makes you say that?

  —Call it a hunch. A woman’s intuition, if you will.

  —No.

  —But you’re thinking about it.

  Nolan puts his hands in his pockets and leans against the door jamb.

  —Where would I go? he says.

  —Does it matter? I thought that was your thing. When the going gets tough, the tough get going.

  Cosmo leaves Nolan standing in the doorway. Once the Valiant has pulled away, the street is empty, the subdivision quiet. He hears crickets and the sound of distant traffic. The neighbor’s automated watering system switches on. Stepping down into the garage, Nolan notices the mop handle lying on the concrete floor. The washer has finished its cycle and the machine sits at rest again. Nolan bends down to pick it up and in a bucket to the side of the washing machine he notices an empty liter-sized plastic water bottle, a funnel, and a half-empty jug of bleach. Nolan rights the mop and stands looking down into the bucket for a second or two before he picks up the water bottle, unscrews the cap, and brings the mouth slowly to his nose. He sniffs it lightly.

  Bleach.

  Nolan tosses the bottle in the recycling bin and then stands and faces the doorway to the house and looks down the hallway. The green light from the alarm clock flashes regularly across the floor of Cosmo’s room, reflected on the synthetic wood flooring.

  Nolan walks down the hallway toward his brother’s room but stops at the door to Cosmo’s office. Closed. Always closed. Nolan wraps his hand around the knob and he turns it and gently pushes against the door, but it’s locked.

  —Hello?

  —Hey.

  —I don’t really have time to talk right now, Nolan.

  —Then why pick up?

  Silence.

  Then:

  —What do you want?

  —I just wanted to tell you that I lied about going to the hospital.

  —I don’t know what you’re talking about.

  —I told you about the guy I worked with, the one who set himself on fire.

  —Yeah.

  —I told you I went to the hospital—

  —But you didn’t.

  —No, I went to the hospital, but I lied to you about sitting with his wife. I stood in the door, and she started to cry, and I walked away. I was too ashamed to tell you that.

  —And that’s why you left?

  —No. Th
at’s part of it, but no. Anytime things gets difficult, I pick up and I move on. I’ve been that way for longer than I care to remember.

  —I’m sorry that what we had was difficult for you, Nolan.

  —Difficult is the wrong word.

  —You should be more careful with your words, then.

  —This isn’t easy for me, Linda.

  —Good.

  —I’m trying to tell you I care about you.

  —And I cared about you.

  He hears that clearly, what she said.

  —Do you think you could care for me again?

  —Just a second.

  —What?

  —Yeah. I’m almost done with this.

  —Linda?

  —Nolan.

  —Is someone there?

  —That’s none of your business anymore, Nolan.

  —I care for you.

  Linda sighs. Just as Nolan is about to speak, she says:

  —I’m done messing around with guys who are still trying to figure out who they are, Nolan. I’m too old for that.

  He hears a voice in the background.

  —I have to go, she says. I have plans.

  She hangs up on him. Nolan hangs up the phone himself and he stands there for a second before he punches the chrome change box, hard, at the bottom of the pay phone. The flap on the change return slot clanks once, but the sound reverberates in his ear, it rings in the sharp pain that runs from his knuckles into his forearm.

  Cosmo and Nolan drive Eastside Road on the Fourth of July, heading north on their return to Burnridge from a structure fire that took place the day before.

  A string of one-room cottages, old farmworkers’ housing that had been bought by a firm out of Marin and were scheduled to be remodeled and turned into vacation rentals, burned to their concrete pier foundations. Old concrete, Nolan noticed when they got there, mixed with river pebbles probably harvested on site back when the land around them was prune orchard or hop fields.

  They drove out to the fire because Cosmo wanted to see the scene and because Nolan liked the idea of the ride. When they arrived at the destroyed cottages an insurance adjuster was standing in the shade of several tall oaks that were badly burned by the fire but not totally destroyed. Cosmo showed the man his press pass he’d kept hold of and that was the only conversation between them. The man left shortly after, and Nolan and Cosmo stayed to survey the damage and then left themselves.

  On the ride back to Burnridge, at the quiet intersection of Eastside Road and Old Redwood Highway, they come to a stop.

  —Shit, Nolan says.

  —What? Cosmo lifts his chin in the direction of the young hitchhiker standing along the side of the road. You know him?

  Before Nolan can answer, Mace, having noticed Nolan’s hat, saunters over to the Valiant. He places his hands on the passenger-side windowsill, inches from Nolan, and bends at the waist to bring his suntanned face down to the opening.

  —Fancy meeting you here. He smiles, and dark flecks of chewing tobacco show in the lines between his teeth.

  —You need a ride? Nolan asks.

  —Is a pig’s ass pork?

  —Ha, Cosmo exclaims. Climb in.

  On the three-mile drive back to Burnridge, Mason sits in the backseat with his arms outstretched at either side of him, his head turned to one side to look out the window at the passing countryside, and his chin up, challenging the wind that blows in his face. Nolan can sense the kid’s about to talk. He can sense it’s only a matter of time before he or Cosmo opens their mouths and the car fills with conversation.

  —You all going to the fireworks, tonight? Mason says finally.

  —I’m thinking about it, Cosmo responds. What about you?

  —Oh, hell, yes.

  —Down at the high school?

  —Fuck that mob. Best place to watch is from Reservoir Ridge.

  —I prefer the golf course.

  Mason thinks about this.

  —Number five green?

  —Seven fairway.

  —Hmm, I might have to check that out.

  Nolan bites the inside of his lip and breathes out through his nose. He keeps his face turned to his window. Mason says:

  —Back in the day, the ninth tee box would have been choice.

  —Is that where the water tanks are? Cosmo asks.

  —Now, there’s the spot. Mason nods. Climb up on one of those fuckers.

  Cosmo slows the Valiant as they close upon a spectrum of colorfully dressed bicyclists riding the shoulder.

  —There’s got to be twenty grand in equipment right there, Cosmo says.

  —At least, Mason agrees.

  —You ride?

  —Only when they run on gasoline.

  Nolan sets his jaw and shakes his head slightly.

  —How do you two know each other? Mason asks Cosmo.

  —Brothers. Cosmo points his thumb at Nolan and then at himself.

  —You never said anything about having a brother in town. Mason swats Nolan’s shoulder.

  —The rambler here is adopted, Cosmo responds.

  —Seriously? Mason asks.

  —He’s joking, Nolan says.

  Cosmo passes the cyclists and accelerates the Valiant.

  —You in the trades, too? Mason asks Cosmo.

  —No, I write for the Observer. Or I did.

  —What’s your byline?

  —Cosmo Swift.

  Mason jolts forward, leaning into the space between Nolan and his brother.

  —The Cosmo Swift?

  —You’re familiar with my work.

  —Hell, yes, I am.

  Mason reaches over the seat and offers Cosmo his hand, which Cosmo takes. They shake.

  —Mason Drove, the kid says. Pleasure to meet you.

  —You, too.

  —You’ve been covering the fires.

  —I was.

  —Not anymore?

  —Not anymore.

  —What happened?

  —Can’t say. Confidentiality agreement.

  —Damn. Mason sits back and stretches out his arms. Grandma is going to be disappointed. She loves your stuff. Has me run out to buy her copy Wednesday night each week from the same newsstand. “No point in waiting until Thursday for them to deliver it if it’s available in the box on Wednesday,” she says.

  Nolan focuses on the vineyards, holding one vine in his gaze until the Valiant passes it and then immediately picking up another in hopes that he can disappear into his concentration.

  —You live out this way? Cosmo asks Mason.

  —My family’s been in this valley four generations. We’re old Californians. How long you been here?

  —Only since 2000.

  —Welcome.

  —Thank you.

  —Writer and thinker like you. Shit, Grandma’s going to flip when I tell her who gave me a ride to town.

  Cosmo grabs the wheel with his left hand so he can nudge Nolan with his right elbow. Nolan just shakes his head and follows the vines. Cosmo settles in his seat, a smile on his face.

  —You ever think about starting a blog? Mason asks.

  —The thought has crossed my mind.

  —You tell your adopted brother here when you do to be sure and tell me. Me and Grandma are going to be your first subscribers.

  A string of fires are set in quick succession in the days that immediately follow. One man reports standing at his kitchen window, washing the last of his dinner dishes, when a shadowy figure runs from his neighbor’s trash can, which was rolled down to the curb for pick-up the next morning. Moments after the figure disappears in the dark, the can catches fire, the flames tall enough to reach the leaves of a Gravenstein apple, loaded with ripening fruit. More than a dozen fires are set in cans throughout the town that night, each one with the lid thrown back and the contents doused with gasoline.

  The next afternoon, a mother taking her childr
en to the playground reports arriving to find several redwood picnic tables pushed to the end of a concrete footpad, where the heat from the flames is enough to melt the slide of a plastic play structure.

  Two nights later, an elderly woman receives a knock at her front door around midnight. She opens the door to find a trail of fire leading down her walkway and into the street. The trail converges with several other trails, all leading down from neighbors’ front doors, into an illuminated gyre drawn in diesel at the center of the street. When the woman looks around, several other neighbors are opening their doors or already standing in their own doorways, watching the flames die out.

  A television news crew arrives in town and posts up in front of city hall. They follow the police and fire department during the day, but with city hall as their backdrop, they send out their evening dispatches, complete with interviews of opinionated locals, transplants, and tourists, cut with footage of the neighborhood-watch programs that have sprung up across the town, men and women wearing reflector vests and armed with flashlights, cell phones, and fire extinguishers. At all hours, now, Cosmo tells Nolan, residents are walking the streets hoping to catch the arsonist in the act.

  —My guess, Cosmo says, is he’s among them. He’s hiding in plain sight.

  One morning, while Nolan is tying his lunch to the handlebars of the ten-speed in the driveway, Cosmo pulls in and climbs out of the car, notepad in hand and camera dangling against his chest. He was out all night, he tells Nolan, because:

  —Someone needs to watch the watchers.

  Several hours after sunset the day following, five large bonfires are lit on Veterans’ Memorial Beach, near the river, in a neat row. Onlookers gather across the river and traffic slows on the two-lane steel bridge to watch the firefighters extinguish and break apart the piles of giant reed, cut down nearby and built up on the gravel beach. But, as the final fire is broken apart, the firefighters’ radios chirp, and they run up to their trucks and, sirens blaring, race southwest to the outskirts of town where a house that was under construction – the first new home targeted by the arsonist – is burning to the ground.