THIRTY-FOUR

It was just after sunset on Friday evening and Mike was half-dozing in the chair in Memo's room when his sister Margaret came in to tell him that Father Cavanaugh was at the door.

The boys had spent the better part of an hour taking the long way home from the dump. They'd stopped at Harlen's to wet each other down with a garden hose, soaking their clothes to get the stench of burned rubber and flesh off them. Mike's eyebrows had been all but burned off by the last explosion, and he'd shrugged and said he couldn't do anything about that, but Harlen had taken him in the empty house and drawn eyebrows back on with his mother's eyebrow pencil. Kevin had tried making a joke about Jim's skill with the makeup, but none of them were in the mood to laugh.

After the first few minutes of euphoria over their triumph at the dump, the reality of the morning's events had hit the boys hard. All of them had had the shakes-even Lawrence-and Kevin had walked into the weeds to vomit twice on the way into town.

The cars and trucks still rushing out toward the grain coop and the dump did nothing to relieve their tension. But mostly it was the shock of the images that continued to shake them up through the long afternoon: the man and dog still wrestling, still moving in the flaming pyre that was the cab of the truck; the sounds of man and animal screaming in pain, their cries intermingled and indistinguishable, the smell of burning flesh. . . .

"Let's not wait," said Harlen, his lips pale. "Let's burn the fucking school this afternoon."

"We can't," said Kevin. His freckles were very clear against the sudden pallor of his face. "Dad's got the milk truck at the bulk plant until after six on Fridays. They do inventory."

"Burn it this evening then," insisted Harlen.

Mike was looking into the mirror above the sink in Jim's kitchen, trying to wiggle his painted-on eyebrows. "You guys really want to do this when it's getting dark?" he said.

The thought silenced them.

"Tomorrow then," said Harlen. "During the day."

Kevin had his father's .45 service automatic spread out on the kitchen table as he cleaned and oiled it. Now he looked up, holding the empty magazine clip in one hand and a small spring in the other. "Dad will be out on his route until about four. But I have to wash it and gas it afterwards."

Harlen had pounded the table. "Fuck the milk truck then. Let's use these Whatchamacallem cocktails."

"Molotov cocktails," Mike said from the sink. He turned back toward the others. "You guys know how thick those I stone walls of Old Central are?"

"At least a foot," said Dale. He sat limply at the table, too tired to raise his glass of Squirt. His wet sneakers made squeegee sounds as he wiggled his toes.

"Try two feet thick," said Mike. "The damned place is like a fort, more brick and stone than wood. With the windows boarded, we'd have to go inside to throw the Molotov cocktails. You want to do that ... go inside . . . even in the daytime?"

No one said anything.

"We do it Sunday morning," said Mike, sitting on the edge of Harlen's counter. "After first light but before people start coming in to town for church. We use the tanker and the hoses, just as we planned."

"That's two nights away," Lawrence had whispered, speaking to himself but speaking for all of them.

The gray day had faded to a pale twilight, the air thick with humidity unleavened by breezes, when Mike had dozed off in Memo's room. His father was working his last night on the graveyard shift and his mother was in bed with one of her migraines. Kathleen and Bonnie had bathed in the copper tub in the kitchen and were upstairs getting ready for bed. Mary had gone out on a date and Peggy was in the front room reading a magazine when the knock on the door made Mike stir in his sleep.

Peg leaned on the doorframe, frowning. "Mike . . . Father Cavanaugh's here. He said that he had to talk to you . . . that it's important."

Mike lurched awake, grabbing the sides of the armchair to keep from falling. Memo's eyes were closed. He could barely make out the soft pulse at the base of her throat. "Father Cavanaugh?" For a second he was so disoriented that he was ready to believe that everything had been a dream. "Father C?" he repeated, coming awake now with a shock. "Did he . . . did he talk to you?"

Peg made a face. "I told you what he said."

Mike looked around in a sudden panic. The squirrel gun was in the duffel bag at his feet along with a water pistol, two of the remaining Molotov cocktails, and pieces of the Host carefully wrapped in clean linen. A vial of holy water sat on the windowsill next to one of Memo's small jewel cases, which held another segment of the Eucharist.

"You didn't invite him in . . ." began Mike.

"He said he'd wait on the porch," said his sister. "What's wrong with you?"

"Father C.'s been sick," said Mike, glancing out at the yard and field across the road. It was dark, the last of the twilight having bled away while he slept.

"And you're afraid of catching it?" Peg's voice sounded scornful.

"How'd he look?" asked Mike, moving to the doorway of the bedroom. He could see the living room from here, one lamp burning there, but not the front-porch screen door. No one came to the front door except salesmen.

"Look?" Peggy chewed a nail. "Sort of pale, I guess. The porch light's out and it was sort of dark. Look, shall I go tell him that Mother has one of her headaches?"

"No," said Mike, pulling her into Memo's room with a rough jerk. "Stay here. Watch Memo. Don't come out no matter what you hear."

"Michael ..." began his sister, voice rising.

"I mean it," said Mike in tones that even an older sister could not argue with. He pushed her into the chair. "Don't leave until I come back. Got it?"

Peg was rubbing her arm. Her voice was shaky. "Yeah, but ..."

But Mike had scooped up the squirt gun, tucked it into his waistband under his shirt, set the linen-wrapped Host on Memo's bed, and was out the door.

"Hello, Michael," said Father Cavanaugh. He was sitting on the wicker chair at the end of the porch. He extended an arm toward the porch swing. "Come ... be seated."

Mike let the screen door close behind him, but he did not move to the swing. That would put Father Cavanaugh between him and the house.

It's not Father Cavanaugh!

It looked like Father C. He was wearing his black coat and Roman collar. The only light out here was the lamplight coming through curtains, but while Father C.'s face was pale-almost haggard-there was no sign of the scars Mike had seen the night before. He was hanging outside Michelle's garage window. Hanging by what?

"I thought you were sick," Mike said. His voice was very tight.

"No longer, Michael," said the priest, smiling slightly. "I have never been so well."

Mike felt the hair rising on the back of his neck and he realized that it was the priest's voice. It sounded something like the real Father C, but at the same time, the voice was wrong-as if someone had buried a tape recording of the priest's voice in the man's stomach and was playing it through a speaker deep in his throat.

"Go away," whispered Mike. He wished by all the saints and the Virgin that he hadn't told Dale to take the second walkie-talkie when Harlen wanted the other one. It had made sense at the time.

Father Cavanaugh shook his head. "No, not until we talk, Michael . . . come to some agreement."

Mike set his lips and said nothing. He glanced over his shoulder at the front lawn near Memo's window; the rectangle of yellow light fell on an empty lawn there.

Father Cavanaugh sighed and moved to the porch swing, patting the now-empty wicker chair. "Come, sit down, Michael my lad. We must talk."

"Talk," said Mike, moving so that his back was against the wall of the house near the lighted window. The cornfield was like a black wall across the road. A few fireflies were visible in the garden behind the porch swing and trellis.