At the corner, he turned right and drove another two miles before parking just outside the lip of light dropped by the streetlamp above. He put his hat back on and opened his door, but stopped before setting his first foot down. He looked left and then right and saw the absence of vehicle and human. The only sounds were his own: his breathing, the truck’s spinning fan.
He walked around to the back of the house, reached over the top of the gate, and released the latch. The gate squeaked, and a neighbor’s dog barked twice—lazy, requisite sounds—and then stopped. The place smelled of rain and something else that sent him back to his boyhood.
Ms. Louise had done nothing to the exterior of the home to persuade him that time had passed. The handrail that led him up to the back door still trembled in his grip. The knob still resisted before it turned. Inside, he lifted the switch and lit the kitchen. The old woman was sitting at the table, a thin cup between her hands.
“Coffee?” she asked.
“Hello, Ms. Louise.”
She started to stand. “Did you want some?”
“I’m fine,” he said, and closed the door behind him. He stepped to the table and sat down.
She retook her seat. “Let me see you.”
He smiled beneath the brim of his hat and then removed it and set it on the table.
“You look awful, Bobby.”
He grunted. “It’s been a long life.”
“What have you done?”
“You look alright. You’re alright?”
She looked into her empty cup. She was a gray-haired woman in a loose nightgown. Tobacco and New Jersey cloud cover had yellowed her skin, which hung from her arms.
“I’m not a good man,” he told her.
“You never had much of a chance.”
He cleared his throat and fingered the ridge of his hat. “I want to make things right.”
She let out a laugh. “There’s no right, Bobby. What would be right in your particular circumstance?”
He made a gentle sound.
“Where have you been?”
He grinned mildly. “You gave me a book when I was a boy. About the riders that set out across the country. There was a picture of a beautiful place. In Texas.”
“Texas?”
“Texas,” he repeated. “There was nothing to it. An outcropping of rocks. A flat field with weeds. A horse.”
“You were there?”
“I made a life.”
“Good, Bobby. That’s good.”
He gave another of his purrs.
“Why are you here?” she asked.
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
“What did you do down there, Bobby? What did you do?”
“Let me tell you this first.”
“Sure. You tell me your story.”
“We had a boy. A good boy. He and his mother and I, we didn’t need anyone else. For years it was like that. Seasons shot by or crawled along and it was us three every day, every night. It’s enough to convince a man.”
“That’s good, Bobby.”
“In the evenings, after the chores and the quiet came, she and I would stare into the night and she never knew what I was thinking. Do you know what I was thinking?”
“No.”
“I was thinking that I could burn it all down. All of it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. No I didn’t. God did that. Or the devil. I don’t know the difference, and I can’t see why it would matter if I did.”
“What happened, Bobby?”
“It was nothing. That was what I couldn’t understand. He had cells that were splitting and before we knew it, he was a skeleton.”
“I’m so sorry, Bobby.” She reached across the table again, this time gripping his wrist.
“He was a boy. He was thirteen years old.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“This doctor told us he had the flu. Wouldn’t run the tests. Wouldn’t answer our calls. By the time we figured out that it wasn’t, it was too late. He didn’t even show at the burying.”
“Jesus Christ. Holy Jesus Christ.”
He cleared his throat. “He had a pair of twin boys. I waited until dark. I watched their mother put them to bed. I watched the doctor through the kitchen window. I waited until they were sleeping. All of them. I made sure of that. And then I burned it down.”
The old woman released his hand. Her face seized and then her right hand flew across the table and clapped on his cheek. He did not flinch.
“My Jesus. My Jesus. After all we did for you.”
He sniffed and tapped his fingers on the table. “It wasn’t what you did.”
“Get out.”