Fire Solves All Problems Perfectly pt 60

You are the last to arrive at the old loading dock at the east edge of the mill, joining your uncles and your grandfather and all the others who are standing in one group of filthy men who work the steel and another of executives come down from their offices. Your grandfather kisses you on the cheek; his coveralls are stenciled with the word FOREMAN across his shoulders. Didn’t think you were coming, he grumbles to your father. Your father says nothing. Everyone looks expectantly down-track at the massive corrugated mill workhouse that drips rust lines from its rivets. There is a murmur and the people lean around one another to see; your uncle Steve scoops you up onto his shoulders as the new Darlington Line diesel engine comes into view, hauling its predecessor, Steam Engine No. 73, behind it. There were a dozen of these engines once, but they’ve all been sent to the cauldrons. As the engines pass, the mill men are rigid, eyes narrowed. A Gazette reporter takes a few pictures. The people divide, half trudging back to the furnaces, the rest to the offices.

Your father moves out of earshot with your grandfather, hands jumping from front pockets to back. Your grandfather busies himself with his handkerchief, folding and unfolding it again. Does he have to talk to him about it right now? Steve says to Jeff.

When else is he going to? Jeff asks back. The brothers don’t look at each other.

Your uncle Jeff sticks a wet finger in your ear; you slap him away.

Grandpa’s sick, Steve says.

Don’t tell him that. Jeff spits a chewstream from between his teeth.

Your father and grandfather shuffle uncomfortably in front of one another and abruptly part company, your grandfather walking the rails back to the mill while your father takes you by the hand to the employee lot, saying nothing to his brothers. At one end of the lot are the Trans-Ams and El Caminos and Barettas; on the other, the LeBarons and Cordobas. Where you left the Mustang, three men are leaning against it in the shade. Your father lets go of you. Get off my car, Gantree.

Tommy Gantree straightens, looking to his friends with incredulity as they saunter away.

Your father’s eyes are murderous. You hurry to get in the car, seeing your father pull the knife from his pocket and flicking out the blade, working his way through the vehicles before finding what he wants; he bends down at each wheel of a rusted truck, shoulders flexing. The knife has vanished when he slides into the driver’s seat. The truck has noticeably settled.

You can’t let people walk all over you, your father tells your, inserting the ignition key. He backs up and turns around, showering the lot with gravel as you roar out onto Whisper Street, lined with trailers occupied by people the firemen collect cans of food for at Christmas. My old man said I was stupid for joining the Army, your father says, turning onto Fever Street. He wanted me at the mill. If I’d listened to him, I’d be out of job probably by next year.