Late One Night

22

While all of this was happening, Shooter and Captain were going over their story of what had taken place the night of the fire. They’d had an argument over Della and her goats, and Captain had gone off to his bedroom in a snit. Shooter turned on a John Wayne movie and fell asleep. When he woke, the movie was over, and the house was very still. He got up and went to check the front door lock. He looked out the window and saw Ronnie’s Firebird. He stood there long enough to see Ronnie come out from behind the trailer, get into his car, and drive toward town. This much he’d told Pat and Missy — he’d even told them that Ronnie was toting something — but Shooter hadn’t told them everything.

He hadn’t told them how he’d gone down the hallway to Captain’s bedroom that night.

The door was open, but Captain was nowhere to be seen. Shooter could see that his bed was still made. He went into the kitchen and grabbed his coat off the peg hook by the door. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the cold night.

“What did you do first?” Shooter asked Captain now. “I mean, when you first went outside that night.”

Captain was sitting at the kitchen table looking at a Hot Rod magazine. He turned the pages slowly, studying the pictures of cars: a 1933 Ford Coupe, a 1955 Buick Roadmaster, a 1966 Ford Mustang, a 1981 Chevrolet Malibu. He had on plaid flannel pajamas — green and black — and his hair smelled fresh from his shower. It was getting too long, the blond bangs hanging down over his eyes, and Shooter, who was pacing back and forth alongside the table, knew he’d have to remember to take him into Goldengate soon for a haircut.

“What night?” Captain wanted to know.

“The night of the fire. Now listen to me. What did you do first?”

“I went to see the goats.” Captain turned another page. “Della’s goats. They got out that afternoon.”

“That’s right. They got out, and we herded them back in and we patched the fence, right?”

“And you were mad.”

Shooter stopped pacing. He said, “I wasn’t mad. What was I mad about?”

“The goats,” Captain said. “Della. You were mad.”

Shooter reached over and closed the magazine. Outside, the wind had come up, and the arborvitae shrubs at the corner of the house were scraping the siding and making a noise that put him on edge.

“What did you do after you saw the goats were all right?”

“I don’t remember.”

Captain was looking down at the cover of the magazine. Hot Rod Drag Week—2010, the cover said across a picture of a white Chevelle, smoke coming off its rear tires. Shooter reached down and cupped Captain’s chin. He lifted his face, made him look him in the eyes.

“The sheriff might ask you questions.” They’d heard the news about the fire marshal’s report on WPLP at supper, and ever since, Shooter had been thinking about everything that might happen. He was thinking that it might be time for him to have a talk with Biggs. “You’re going to have to know what you’re going to tell him,” he said to Captain.

Shooter had meant to tell the fire marshal’s deputy when he’d been by earlier to question him that he’d seen Ronnie come from behind the trailer the night of the fire. Then Shooter started thinking about Biggs asking questions, as he surely would, and how sooner or later he’d want to talk to Captain, and Shooter had put off going to the authorities a day at a time because he couldn’t bear the thought of Captain being in the spotlight. Hadn’t there been enough wrongheaded stories and out-and-out lies about him? Sure, Shooter had heard them, rumors boys spread about Captain having done this and that. Malicious gossip about deviant sexual practices, devil worship, anything the boys could make up to give themselves a thrill. Any right-thinking person would know those stories to be lies as soon as they heard them, but there were the idiotic and the cruel who wanted them to be true so they could feel justified in what they’d always thought but perhaps had been hesitant to say: that Wesley Rowe — that Captain — needed to be put somewhere for those of his kind, somewhere he couldn’t hurt anyone. Shooter had sworn he’d protect him, but now that the fire marshal had ruled the fire suspicious, he knew he couldn’t wait much longer. He’d have to start talking, and so would Captain. Shooter didn’t want him to appear to be dumb when he made his answers. It was important that he offer up the facts with honesty and clarity so no one would be able to doubt him.

Shooter squeezed Captain’s jaw, and Captain said, “I went to Della’s to check on the goats.”

“And that’s when you saw Ronnie.”

Captain nodded. “He was behind the trailer.”

“That’s right.” Shooter let go of Captain’s jaw. “He was behind the trailer, and what was he doing?”

“He was — I think—” Captain stumbled along. “He was behind the trailer, and—”

“What did he have with him?” Captain squinted as if maybe that would help him see the answer. He chewed on his lip. “A can of gas,” Shooter finally said.

Captain’s face relaxed. His eyes opened wide. “He had a can of gas.”

“Yes.”

“Behind the trailer.”

“Good.”

“He had a can of gas behind the trailer.”

“And did he see you?”

“No, he didn’t see me.”

“Right as rain.” Shooter ran his hand through Captain’s bangs. He petted his head. This boy. His boy. “You tell the sheriff that.”