14
The next day after school, Theo and I rode our bikes to the landfill. On the way, I reminded myself that I had to concentrate more on our project. Things couldn’t go on as they had the day before in the library.
Mr. Zusack — Carrie’s dad and the owner of the landfill — had an office in the back room of an uninspired-looking flat-roofed building to the right of the entrance gate. We locked our bikes to a chain-link fence and told his secretary that he would be expecting us.
“Welcome to the Pyramid Landfill,” Mr. Zusack said, motioning for us to come closer to a map hanging on his office wall. “Carrie told me about your school project. I have to say, I’m a little surprised you chose this topic since there’s actually nothing controversial going on. But I’m happy to tell you about the landfill.”
He started talking, but again I couldn’t focus. All I could think was that Mr. Zusack should buy bigger shirts. His belly pressed against the buttons, and his fleshy arms stretched the fabric of his shirt like sausage casings. At one point I caught him using the words sanitary landfill, and I couldn’t help but think of a sanitary napkin.
With a big false smile on his face, Mr. Zusack added, “That means we can only store nontoxic waste such as household garbage.”
While he continued talking about daily volume, excavation lining, and gas release, I stared out the big window. In the distance, a man stopped his car near the rim of a low excavation filled with garbage. He pulled a carpet roll out of his trunk and threw it on top of a heap of other large items. It joined a jumble of shelves, sofa pillows, and a mattress with its springs exposed, in this junkyard cemetery.
“Why don’t you recycle?” Theo asked.
“There hasn’t been enough interest,” Mr. Zusack said.
“Did you know that in Austria the recycling rate is more than sixty percent, while in the United States we only recycle about thirty-five percent of our trash?” Theo asked.
Mr. Zusack shrugged. “They do a lot of things differently over there.”
“Don’t you feel bad about destroying the wetland?” I asked.
“It’s a business, Wren,” Mr. Zusack said. I really didn’t like the condescending tone in his voice. “People need a place to drop their waste, and I provide that for them.” Then his face broke out into a shark-like smile, and he added, “It’s all about supply and demand.”
He made it sound totally logical that he had to destroy the wetland so more people could throw carpets into a big ditch.
Just then the door opened, and the sheriff’s massive body filled the frame. “Howdy,” he said, lifting his hat. “Has my brother here told you how to turn trash into gold? That’s what he does here, kids!” A deep laugh bounced the belly under his shirt.
I caught Theo’s glance and knew we were both thinking the same thing: The sheriff and Mr. Zusack are brothers?
* * *
We didn’t stay much longer, and when we were back outside, I shuddered. “I don’t like Mr. Zusack,” I said. “He talked to us like we were in kindergarten. And I can’t believe the sheriff is his brother.”
“It’s no surprise that the men who have influence in this town are sticking together. My dad calls them a ‘ruling clique,’” Theo said.
“Did you tell your dad about the landfill and our project?” I asked.
“No,” Theo said, “but my dad is interested in politics. Or at least he used to be. A long time ago, before we moved here, he was even a city councilman.”
“But he’s not in politics anymore?” I asked.
Theo shook his head. “Since my mother died he hasn’t shown interest in anything.”
“Your mother died?” I said. “When?”
“Two years ago,” Theo replied. “She had cancer.”
“I’m sorry.”
That’s all I could say. It made me uncomfortable that Theo had told me about his mother. He shouldn’t be so open with me. That was something you shouldn’t share with anyone unless you really liked and trusted that person. Didn’t he realize that I could never be his friend? Sure, we had things in common, but an interest in roadkill and a dead parent were the wrong things. Being with someone as sad and lonely as Theo would only make my loneliness worse. I didn’t want to know why he took photos of roadkill, and I wasn’t about to ask him about his mother.