The River Burns by Trevor Ferguson

floating in the sunlight stunned him. What was perfect in his life, golden, both the apparent and the subtle treasures, lay in jeopardy, at risk. He so wanted to be delivered from a gambit that would put him and those he loved in harm’s way. He alone would deliver himself into the heart of that trouble, so he alone could spare himself the grief. While he considered his choices, what he loved in life shone upon him with foreboding luminescence, as if talking back to him, shining in his eyes, as though to counter his folly, his zeal. As though to say Hey! You. Denny. Stop.

7
    A late lunch. Beans bubbled in a pot. A visit was in the offing.
    Alex O’Farrell smiled when he spotted the squad car pull into his drive. He withdrew a second beer from the fridge, uncapped it, and at the sound of the knock turned the heat down and took the bottle out front with him. Opening the door, he proffered the beer.
    â€œBeans on the stovetop. I’ll bring out a plate.”
    â€œI can eat,” the officer said, and accepted the beer. Collapsed down onto the porch bench, he exhaled in appreciation of this refuge from the sun. Under the line of his cap he mopped his damp brow, then tossed the cap on the bench and relaxed his gun belt, letting it slip lower on his hips. His crotch felt damp and he sat with his knees wide apart. Alex returned with two plates of brown beans and chunks of bread twisted off the loaf.
    â€œHot one.”
    â€œSay that again.”
    â€œHot food on a hot day, your momma used to say.”
    â€œShe was wrong then, she’d be wrong today.”
    Alex grinned, sat down, and began to eat. “So,” he sighed, after his first mouthful.
    â€œIt’s like this, Dad,” Ryan Alexander O’Farrell commenced.
    â€œOh, don’t tell me,” Alex advised him.
    â€œYou can’t answer your door to salesmen with a shotgun in your hands.”
    â€œWhat if he’d been a thief? Or one of those goddamn psychopaths who drive across the countryside on killing sprees? The reckless ones.”
    â€œDon’t play the old-woman act on me,” Ryan O’Farrell dismissed him. “Not a psychopath on earth is dumb enough to take you on.”
    â€œRyan, I was taking what you call . . . preventative measures. If he’d gone down the road . . . what if he rang Old Gal Sally’s bell? She might’ve used her slingshot on his eyes. You’d be up here for a different reason then. That boy, that Jake Withers, he’d be a blind man, stumbling around holding his arms up, singing ‘Show Me the Way to Go Home.’” He took a swig from his beer. “Anyway.”
    Ryan waited, then said, “Anyway what?”
    â€œIt’s good to see you, too. How’ve you been?”
    â€œNot bad. You?”
    â€œHanging in.”
    â€œThe garden looks good.”
    â€œDon’t mock me, son.”
    â€œWouldn’t dare.”
    They both ate their beans and swigged beer. Ryan hoped he’d not need to interview anyone later, especially if they happened to be in close quarters.
    â€œDon’t you eat cold food ever?” he asked his dad.
    â€œLike ice cream?”
    â€œLike vichyssoise or gazpacho. I’m sweating bullets here.”
    â€œDon’t blame the food. It’s that uniform you’re wearing.”
    â€œSalads, for instance.”
    â€œI cook. Don’t worry about me.”
    â€œYou cook. Out of a can.”
    â€œKeep it up. I’ll fetch my gun again.”
    They finished and stacked their plates and Alex knew that Ryan would never accept a second beer but asked him anyway. Ryan shook his head. He wasn’t in any hurry to leave, though, and leaned back against the wood bench that his father built years ago when his mother was alive. She’d wanted a porch with a smooching bench and saw to it that her husband built both for her. She was a woman easily satisfied in life. Ryan never