The cold front rolled in as Perry had said. For two days the clouds gnarled and darkened; then it snowed, the sky trying to blot out the world.
East had seen flurries before—twice since he’d left The Boxes, and once when he was there, a strange cloud that came south off the mountains and glittered the air over The Boxes for five minutes one January day. But never anything like this. The road a foot deep, the trucks slipping, helpless, thunder roaring behind the farmhouse. No one came, and he was glad that they didn’t. He didn’t trust it to be safe, going out.
Perry came through about noon in the small plow, turned off the highway, pushed clear a rectangle of the buried lot. He jumped down then and left the truck idling outside.
“Jesus,” Perry chuckled. “Not bad for a Saturday. I think you can take the rest of the day. I’ll put a sign up, pay you anyway.”
East could not contain his alarm. “It’s supposed to be like this?”
In the disastrous cold, Perry seemed as young and happy as East had ever seen him. “Yeah. It’s supposed to be just like this.”
—
The men were just as pleased to go shooting in knee-deep snow. That Sunday after the Browns game there were twenty, thirty guys. Perry brought in a large red plastic drum of coffee, handing out cups. “Don’t know what I did round here before this boy showed up,” he said to the older ones who just came to lounge away the evening, talking not about paintball but things they’d done and why their knees and backs and hearts didn’t work. Why they were retired but none of the younger ones would ever be able to do that. Why staying here in Ohio was what they’d do even if it was a bad idea. They’d be in it to the end or be damned. That was what they told each other.
The Browns game was replayed late, and the men stayed and talked and watched them lose again. Their season would end in a couple of weeks. But it was over a long time ago.
East swept the stamped-out snow from their boots out the door, mopped up the melt, repeated it once or twice an hour until at last they stopped coming. Menial work. Sometimes he tired of it, felt a bubble of resentment. But it was also true that Perry’s praise gave him a soaring, stinging pride. With Fin, he supposed, it had been more or less the same way. It was the first time in a while he’d let himself think of Fin.
Sometimes when he was looking out over the range, watching the men hide and mass and surge and shoot, he thought of Ty, thought of The Boxes. But he no longer could find the phone number Walter had given him, and he didn’t try to remember it. What was in The Boxes was safe without him.
—
At the top of the stairs, the back door onto the landing, the lockers, and the air-compressor station was to the right. To the left, latched and rarely used, was a little storeroom. A utility sink, a green skylight. All these weeks, East had been sleeping there. He could lay down a certain double sheet of cardboard on a pallet—it was comfortable, smooth, had a give to it. He had the pillow, a used blanket. And along the roadside he had found a box that a dishwasher had come in, still clean and dry. He could fold it flat, slide it behind the cabinet in the day. At night he opened it and slept underneath, the dark string humming quiet in his chest, in blackness, encased.
If Perry knew about this, he had not let on.
Sometimes in the night East dreamed of the Jackson girl. Or of the judge’s daughter, screaming. Or of being here at the range with Walter and Michael Wilson, the three of them searching, hunting somebody. Or of nothing, just the yellow line broken on the road, a line of nothing, of questions. Sometimes in the day, watching the men stalk one another, he dreamed these things too.
—
But one day in December, when the players had left because of a steady rain, Perry came and called East to dinner. Refusing didn’t seem to be an option. Perry counted the bills into a leather folder, then counted back change for tomorrow’s register and hid it where they always did. East swept quickly and locked the back door. Then they hurried across the road, bent under their coats, Perry explaining. Marsha had a son. He couldn’t make either holiday, Thanksgiving or Christmas. This was going to have to do. He had come in that day from Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. “Sorry,” Perry concluded, “to spring this on you.”
East took this to mean it was not Perry springing it at all.
The son was named Arthur. He was tall, an attorney—as he pointed out—and he sat to Marsha’s left. They were already sitting when he and Perry came into the dining room. Perry brought the food from the kitchen and then sat down on East’s side of the table. The room was dim, like for a celebratory dinner, but an overhead light shone down on the table, bright enough that someone might clearly read a document.
Marsha had made the butternut squash, green beans, and wild rice, Perry pointed out.