Road to Nowhere (46 page)

“He’s translating so people in Wardsville can understand.”

“Whatever. So it says I’m voting for it, Joe’s voting for it, Randy’s voting for it, Louise is undecided, and Eliza could not be reached but might be voting for it.” He looked at the headline,
Unpopular Gold River
Highway Passage Nearly Certain.
“I didn’t say I was voting for it. Natalie— my faith in the press has been shaken.”

Then he thought about Joe. “I’m supposed to tell people I haven’t decided yet.”

“Now, that’s not what I said,” Randy said, and it had been worth a walk to the newspaper office to say it. “Luke, you know I said that many of my constituents in Wardsville were against the new road, and some were for it, and that I was still listening to their comments.”

“That’s what you said, but a good reporter goes past what the person says to what he means. Especially if the person’s a politician.”

“That sounds like a bad reporter to me, if it means putting words in my mouth that I never said.”

“I didn’t say
you said
you were voting yes; I just said that you were voting yes. You as much as said it anyway. You said many of your
constituents
were against it, so it’s obvious you were hinting that you couldn’t say
you
were for it, even though you were. And why would you hint that you were if you weren’t?”

“I won’t even try to understand that.” He wouldn’t have even if he had tried. Randy was so tired of the road! “Do you know how many calls I’ve got since this came out?”

“They have a right to call you. Now look, Randy.” Luke hadn’t even put his feet down off his desk. “After Steve Carter was so upset by the road plans back in July, and Louise Brown was so upset by the shopping center plans back in August, most people are thinking the road’s as good as dead. But I don’t think it is, and as an unbiased news service, I don’t want my readers to be misinformed. They need to be making their voices heard and not be assuming it’s all over. Whether they’re against it or for it.”

“Whether they’re against it, is what you mean. And they aren’t all against it. And by this article, I’d say you’ve told the whole county that it’ll pass unless someone does something about it.”

What an amazing e-mail.

Steve read it, and read it again. He started fishing through the links.

What a great e-mail.

Dr. Lombardi was the smartest man on the planet.

Everything was there. Calculations—elegant, complete, indisputable. It was all perfect.

The man knew these mountains so thoroughly, he hardly even needed the core samples.

Based on this e-mail, the proposed130-foot cut for Gold River Highway over Mount Ayawisgi was . . . doubtful. Impossible, possibly. The rock structure was fragmented and might not support it. A forty-foot cut was the maximum anyone could be sure of. Deeper than that would take a lot more sampling and analysis.

Forty feet would mean . . . Steve started his own calculations. The grade would have to be more than the allowable maximum. It would be too steep. And that would mean . . .

Steve leaned back in his chair. His first thought was to call Jarvis. But the state was not committed to the project until the Jefferson County Board voted. If he called now, the project could collapse. And the 130-foot cut might actually be possible—it was just no one knew.

If he waited until after the vote, then the state would be committed, within the budget. But they might have to reengineer the whole thing and just build the best thing they could with the money they had. And probably that would be the road they should have planned in the first place.

But they really wouldn’t know what they were voting for in December—Big Road or Little Road. Should he tell anyone?

He’d talk to Joe at the November meeting.

October 25, Wednesday

Bright sun, just up to the treetops, burning the mist. Joe breathed the morning in, warm for October.

Rose was feeding the chickens. He watched her from across the garden, mostly stalks and brown but for a few vines. The tree shadows cut black through the haze low by the stream.

Sounds cut through the air, too.

Just the scratch of the feed tossed in the coop and the hens pecking, and the stream behind. Hens sounded put out and bothered.

Not a breath of wind.

Joe took a step toward her.

Sun and shadow striped the ground, dark and light, mixed everywhere. Tricky, and hard to see plain.

The chickens gabbled and clacked and Rose dropped the cup back in the feed bag.

“Step forward,” Joe said. “Slow.”

She did, not looking back, but just at him.

“Keep on, and slow.”

She took five steps and he nodded, and she looked back and saw the copperhead.

“Just let it be and keep an eye on it,” he said.

He walked to the barn slow and steady, and then back to where he’d been, and Rose stock still, and the snake close by the chickens, and them fussing all out, skittering around the coop, beside themselves and keeping its attention.

They squawked loud and the snake shuddered, and the echoes died, and Joe set his rifle down from his eye. He went to his wife and took her hand, and they went together back to the house and left the enemy dead, to clean up later. It was still twitching.

October 30, Monday

“Now, what would you think of doing this on a computer?” Randy stared at the tax ledger, which seemed to get bigger every year, and it was already more than big enough.

“I wouldn’t complain a bit,” Patsy said. “We just have to buy the computers and that special software.”

“Which was special expensive. And then type all this into it.” Randy opened the book. “Which would take about forever. And no matter what those salesmen say, it doesn’t work right the first time, or the second time. Anyway, it’s just four times a year. Two times to send out the tax bills, and two times to list the unpaid taxes in the newspaper.” At least they had Patsy’s computer to type up the newspaper ad, instead of handwriting it like they did not that long ago. “So let’s get this show on the road.”

He started skimming the pages, checking the balances. The sixth page was the first stop.

“Tax parcel 01-0235, 4260 Coble Highway, Marvin and Hazel Garner, $324.62.”

“Six hundred what?”

“Three hundred twenty-four and sixty-two cents.” And on they went, page after page.

They kept it up until lunch, which was as far as they were going for the day because Randy had appointments in the afternoon. “We’ll finish Tuesday,” he said, putting a bookmark in where they’d stopped. “I’ll tell Luke we’ll have it for him Wednesday morning.”

“That’ll be a record, Randy. Finishing in two mornings.”

“Guess we’re just getting good at it. Who needs a computer anyway? You know, I wonder if it’s less names than last time. Do you have the last ad somewhere?”

“It’s in the back of the book.”

“Now isn’t that smart, to keep them in there.” Randy opened to the back, and there were the last few ads—the one from May and the two from the last year. He took out the November ad from a year ago. It was the whole page, all those names and numbers. He looked at the back of the ad, which was the front of the newspaper.

“Well, look at that.” It was the front page story on Mort Walker dying in his barn. “A year ago.”

“That’s done.” Joe put himself in the chair by the door to pull off his boots. Mud an inch thick on them. “Don’t think it’ll freeze hard.”

“Are there apples left?” Rose handed him his house shoes.

“Some.”

“I’d be glad for a few more.”

“I expect you’ll get that.” He had his clean shoes on but he stayed in the chair. He just didn’t feel like standing up.

“I’d make a pie for the church dinner,” Rose said.

“That’d be nice.”

Rose was raising a racket washing the pots. Joe thought over tomorrow and what there was to do.

“Might look at the fences in the morning.”

“What’s that?” She turned back to look at him.

“Might look at the fences,” he said. “Leonard’s putting his cows down that way next week and they’ll be right into the south field if they can be.”

She was back to her clatter, and he leaned his head against the wall.

“Are you all right, Joe?”

“Just tired.”

He got himself up on his feet to look out the window.

Clouds were coming in over the moon. Thin wisps of them up high, and a haze just thin like steam down closer to the ground. The smell of it had the autumn smoke in it and a small part of roots and pond water.

“Doubt it’ll frost at all tonight.”

“What about rain?” Rose asked.

“Not tomorrow or next day.”

Still a bunch of pots piled by the sink. Always were after she’d been canning. He put his head down to see the thermometer outside the window better.

The window cracked loud in his ear. Then he felt his cheek stinging. There was a big loud clang of pots.

What fool thing was happening?

He straightened up to look at the window. There were just a few pieces of it left in the frame. Most of it was down on the floor in a mess.

“Joe . . .”

He looked around to Rose. Two pots on the floor that she’d dropped. She was staring at him, eyes open big.

Something was wrong.

She was leaned on the counter funny and she started drooping over.

He just started to move and she hit the wood floor, on her side, all bent and haphazard. He got up close to see her looking up at him, eyes wide and red staining her clothes.

“Joe . . .” He could hardly hear her.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know.” She was sheet white. “I’ll get you to help.”

He left her there while he took the phone and called the neighbor. He didn’t even know who answered.

“Rose is bad hurt and I’m taking her to the hospital in Asheville.” It was all he said and then he hung up.

She was just looking at him and her mouth was open and she was breathing heavy but slow. He picked her up and held her right to him and carried her out the kitchen door.

He set her in the front seat of the truck and put the seat belt on her to hold her up and then started up the dirt road toward the interstate, driving as fast as he could.

It was a road he’d driven all his life. It was hard to think.

Just on the interstate flashing red lights came up behind. He didn’t slow down, but the sheriff’s car came up beside him. Gordon was on the passenger side with a deputy driving, and he just pointed ahead. Then the sheriff’s car pulled on in front with lights still flashing and Joe followed right behind.

Rose wasn’t moving, just staring at him, until her eyes closed.

“I’ll take care of you, Rose. Don’t be worrying.” And he followed the red and blue lights, not so sure where he was going.

His own breathing was getting hard. The lights ahead started moving one side to the other, and the steering wheel felt like it was shaking. The truck bucked a minute, then was driving smooth again.

Then there were more flashing lights and a siren. Gordon was back beside him, waving him to the side, and he did go to the side and the truck was bucking again over gravel, and then it slid over more to the side, leaning, and there was a harder buck, and then he picked up his foot off the pedal and sat, suddenly all still but the sirens screaming. The lights were right up around him. Both doors of the truck opened and hands were reaching in, and he stood up out of the door and got pulled over into the back of the ambulance all bright and crowded and with Everett Colony’s voice. And Rose laying out straight and wrapped in a white sheet, and hands still holding him, and the sirens and bumping and Rose white as the sheet, and no idea where he was or what was happening.

October 31, Tuesday

“Randy McCoy, can I help you?”

“Hi, Randy. I’m Marty Brannin. I think we’ve met a few times?”

“Sure, Marty. Sure we have, and I remember you.” Randy took a breath. “And I guess I know why you’re calling.”

“About Rose Esterhouse.”

“I’ll be glad to tell you everything I know.”

“I’ve read the papers.”

“The Raleigh paper?” That would be a surprise, that it had got that far.

“The Asheville newspaper had the most, but it’s in the paper here, too.”

“Well, then, this is what else I know. Rose is out of danger, but they’re not sure how much she’ll recover. But I was down in Asheville this morning and you could worry about Joe as much as Rose. He’s taking it real hard.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Um, well, not really,” Randy said, and it was still very hard to even think about. “I was there in the room with him, but he wouldn’t say a thing. Well, to tell the truth, Marty, I’m not sure he knew who I was exactly.”

That got a long quiet out of the telephone.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He’s eighty-one years old, Marty, and it’s been a real shock to him.”

“Then maybe I’ll try seeing him myself.”

“Give him a while.”

“I will. The papers say the police are looking for a man who set a fire up there last month.”

“Jeremy Coates, that’s right. Jeremy’s been real upset about our new Gold River Highway project, and he’s been trying to stop it however he could, and the sheriff here’s pretty convinced he’s the one they want.”

“I see. Well, they’ll get him soon, I’m sure. Thanks, Randy.”

November

November 6, Monday

It would be time to start soon and they didn’t have the first idea what to do. Louise just hated having the meeting tonight, the four of them with an empty chair in the middle!

And Gordon standing guard in uniform by the door.

“I’ll go ahead and start,” Randy said, next to her. He was probably vice-chairman—she didn’t remember. “Come to order. The Jefferson County North Carolina Board of Supervisors is now in session, and I’ll be chairman for the evening. We’ll approve the minutes.”

“Patsy has to call the roll,” Steve said.

“Oh, of course. I’m sorry, Patsy. Go ahead.”

“No, don’t,” Louise said. “I can’t bear it.”

Randy looked up and down the table. “Patsy, let’s just say we’re all here except Joe is absent.”