Into the night, my father and Pete work until you can see nothing more than the narrow beam of a flashlight. The tables and stalls from the festival have all been packed away, the crowd dispersed. Many continue the festivities at the Pipeline, its strings of colored lights blinking behind steamed windows. When the door opens, you hear laughter and loud, drunken conversations.
I pace from window to window with a cup of soup, unsettled, ashamed, moving as if I might leave the feeling behind me in another room.
The top floor of the hotel glows yellow. The children, settled into their rooms by now, have claimed their cots and crammed their few belongings inside shared closets or dressers. They must have left much behind, Christmas presents they’d hardly gotten to know—creaky saddles, music boxes, rifles that will have to stay in their cases until spring. I imagine those who haven’t boarded before are jittery with memories of their mothers’ lips against the tops of their heads, and yet there is the excitement of sleeping side by side with other children, no parents hovering. Whenever there is a large gust of wind, faces appear at the windows to see what floats through the sky. I wonder which face is Minnow’s and how direct a view she’ll have of our house and her mother’s visits.
My next spoonful of soup is cold. When I set the cup beside the sink, men’s voices trail up the driveway. I meet my father and Pete outside, take the toolbox from Pop so he can carry the sawhorse with both hands.
“There’s a lot happening at the Pipeline,” my father says. “Sure you don’t want to join in?”
“I’m good,” I say. “Want me to make you some dinner?”
“No,” Pete says. “People have been feeding us all day. Your pop still has some sauce on his face.”
My father sets down the sawhorse and wipes a hand across his mouth. Down the road, the door to the diner opens.
“Take it outside!” a woman shouts.
Pop smiles at the sound of Martha’s voice.
Out the door and down the steps they go, the unemployed, the underemployed, men so close to losing it all. They shove and provoke and circle each other.
“They’re going to fight,” I tell Pete.
“Sometimes alphas need to knock horns,” he says. “Don’t worry about them.”
Lights blink off at the hotel, but shadows cluster near the glass. We all want to see what will happen.
“Hey, look who we have here,” a drunken voice calls out. “It’s the younger brother.”
Heads turn toward Robert, who does not change his path, but walks more cautiously.
Pete clicks a button on his key chain and unlocks his truck.
“I have to get back to Agate,” he says.
“You’re going to leave now?” I ask.
“These things work themselves out,” he says.
He gets in his white Ford and drives down the road, no police lights on. I walk to the edge of our driveway, watch as the growing pack surrounds Robert. Just the sight of his black leather and strange hair seems to have set them off.
“Beautiful locks, miss,” says one, looping a curl with his finger.
Robert shakes his head hard to show his disgust. “Excuse me,” he says.
Pop taps my arm. “Let’s go inside, Mary.”
He heads into the house, but I hurry toward the fray, no idea why I’m running.
“Excuse me,” Robert says again, but they’ve given him no room to move.
“Come back to collect your mom’s money?” someone asks Robert.
“I’m here to take care of her, asshole.”
Someone shouts from the back, furious, high-pitched. “You lie!”
Voices thunder with agreement.
It’s as if they don’t even see Robert. He is a fiction they’ve invented, some terrible force that threatens their traditions, their livelihoods. He is a release for frustrated men who are tired of the promise that life will get easier when it never does. The crowd tightens around Robert as he takes a clumsy swing.
“Ooh, look at those delicate hands!”
I elbow closer as punches fly. The wind joins in, slapping faces as we squint in anticipation.
The man Robert tangled with earlier steps forward and grabs the leather collar.
“Maybe we should drag him to the elevator,” he says. “Throw him down the empty bin.”
“And then what?” Robert shouts.
“Then I’ll feel better,” he says and hits him hard.
Robert falls to the ground, holding his jaw.
“See,” the man says. “I feel better already.”
The mob seems to hum with anger. So do I as I move closer. And I am frightened. Frightened of this side of me because I don’t know it well. Because I worry what I might do.
“Mary, come back to the house,” Pop calls.
Robert sits up, woozy. He catches my eye as he gets on his feet. Another punch is thrown and down he goes.
“What’s happened to us?” I shout.
I turn in a circle, looking at each familiar face.
“When did we become enemies instead of neighbors?”
I hear laughter and feel a shove from behind.
“Stop it!” I yell, still turning. “We are better than this!”
I want to say more but I can’t think. I look into the faces that sneered when I stood in the pool alone.
“Freak!” a voice shouts.
“Mary, come on home.” I hear my father but can’t see him.
“Go on home, Mary,” someone calls.
More laughter.
“It was a good festival, everyone,” my father says as he finds his way to me. “Probably time to call it a night.”
He keeps pushing through bodies until he’s in front of Robert.
“Do you need help getting home?” he asks, bending down.
“No,” Robert says. He looks briefly at me and then away.
“Let me give you a hand up then,” Pop says.
Robert stands on his own.
“Okay,” my father calls out to the crowd. “Good night, all. Get home safely.”
He leads me home, a hand on my back.
“I’m not a child,” I say.
He removes his hand but leans close to my ear. His whisper is stern.
“Getting in the middle of all that,” he says. “That’s not a good way to keep our customers.”
“Why are you making it seem like I was out of line?” I ask.
All through the dark of Main Street to the pure black of Crooked Hill Road, I wrestle for words. I felt like I had so much to say.
My father sees my tears and says, “It’s all right.”
He must not understand that these tears are not the frustration that I’d said too much but that I didn’t say more.