Volt: Stories by Alan Heathcock Page A

stomach churned. He strolled the forest looking for fruit trees, but could only find a sun-blanched spread of brambles with a palmful of rock-hard berries. Vernon sucked sourness from seed and pulp, and surveyed the forest floor for more. He saw none and moved on, hunting out anything edible, dead or alive, and trod like an Indian through the fern, trying not to rustle the leaves or make a sound, and imagined himself a boy-shaped breeze drifting above the earth.
    Soon he was inside the circle of barren hickories he’d seen from the cliff. The dirt was cragged. The trees were the color of ashes. Limbs like bones stretched into each other. The air smelled of fire, and Vernon noticed threads of smoke leaked from the flayed bark of several trunks. As he collected kindling, a deep hopelessness came over him. He stared at the sky, at heat waves rippling from the tips of black branches. It felt to Vernon as if a bomb had been dropped here.
    He sat in the shade beside a smoldering trunk. In a waking dream he imagined the approach of whistling through the woods. The whistled tune grew closer, then out rode a man in a white cowboy hat atop a golden, white-faced horse. It was Roy Rogers on Trigger, exactly as Vernon remembered them from the movie he’d seen the night before. They stopped in front of Vernon, towered over him. Roy wore a pale-blue shirt and a tomato-red neckerchief, his pants tucked inside his boots.
    Roy leaned over the saddle horn, tipped his hat. “Hey, Vernon.”
    “Hey, Roy,” Vernon said. “She’s a hot one, ain’t she?”
    Roy glanced about the stand of trees. “It’s like bull’s breath out here.” He dismounted, patted Trigger’s flank, and looped the reins over a low branch. He stretched his back, then sat on his heels in front of Vernon and broke a twig into small pieces, tossing them off into a patch of chickweed. Vernon saw him glance at his old boots patched with rawhide and wire, then Roy’s eyes lit a pained expression. “You want to sing a song, Vernon?”
    “Nah.”
    “Ain’t nobody around but us.”
    “I ain’t got no voice for singing them dumb songs.”
    Roy’s brows pinched together. “My songs ain’t dumb, Vernon. You got a problem with my songs, you got a problem with me.”
    “Nothing against you, Roy. I just don’t see why you got to pull a guitar from behind a cactus bush every five minutes.”
    Roy snapped the twig, chucked it aside. “I don’t see a damn thing wrong with it,” he said, pulling his gloves tight over his knuckles. “People like it just fine, if you ask me. Maybe you ought to give it a try before making slanderous remarks.”
    “I just think I’d feel dumb singing them songs.”
    “God damn it, kid,” Roy said, and balled a fist in Vernon’s face. “I ain’t fooling with you. You sing or I’ll bust your teeth.”
    “Hey,” Vernon said. “What’s the matter with you, Roy?”
    Roy breathed hotly, in and out. His eyes were dark like small burnt twigs. Then he looked away, spat, and backed off.
    Roy sat against the tree beside Vernon and gazed down at his hands. “Geez, I’m sure sorry,” he said. “They’ve been putting me through some tough times lately. I know it’s my job and is what it is, but damn it, what with the war and so much fighting I just need to be out on a lonesome plain with me and Trigger and nobody around for a hundred miles.”
    “Them boys did lock you in that freezer a couple pictures back,” Vernon said in a comforting way. “And that one gal sent them wild dogs after you, too. Boy, was she some piece of work.”
    “Folks think it’s easy because I sing a few songs and have a friendly disposition, but they don’t know how hard it is.”
    “I know, Roy. I know what it’s like.”
    “You’re a good friend, Vernon. A good man.”
    They fell silent and Trigger swatted flies with his tail, and Roy held the bridge of his nose with two gloved fingers. “I sure need to sing,” he said. “Won’t you sing with