Down by the river, past the dead end on Ford Street, the siding on the Methodist Church glowed orange in the setting sun.
He walked to the church alone. In the last block along Ford, the migrant houses were silent; vacant, he guessed, because all the produce had been picked.
In the church lot, orange tinged a few dry stinging nettles. He stood in the gravel with his hands in his pockets. Probably no one would show up.
He was there just in case. They had mailed the invitations out months ago, and he doubted that Susan had called all 300 people she had invited to tell them the wedding was off. Especially not the way she had cut out of there. So someone could come, maybe a cousin or ancient aunt who hadn’t heard; hell, maybe even one of their friends, who were really all Susan’s friends, he guessed, because he hadn’t heard from any of them since she took off.
The sun started below the horizon, and the trees looked black at the end of the lot. The river shirred beyond the woods. Then a motor came up the road behind him.
Good thing he showed up. Someone hadn’t heard. He turned just as the gravel crunched to see a rusted, yellow Continental – it was no one for the wedding, just Bob.
Bob. The neighbor, on Myrtle, across the bridge on the other side of town. He hadn’t invited Bob; he’d been adamant about that with Susan, because his mom simply wouldn’t allow it.
Bob cranked the car over and rolled down the window. “Hiya Ben,” he said. He looked old. “Wedding day?”
If that busybody knew he was supposed to get married that day, he certainly also knew the wedding was off. He stuck his hands deeper in his pockets.
Bob nodded and smiled. “I see. Well, it’s going to get cold out here in a jiffy; you want a ride?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I see.” Instead of putting the car in reverse, Bob put it in park. He glanced toward the woods, where the sun was already halfway down. “You know, I wonder if those black peas ever came in. Spread seed this spring, and damn if we ever did get out here to check on them.”
Shit. The only way to get rid of Bob was to just go along.
They walked along the church to the strip of brush at the edge of the lot, just before the trees started. Bob tottered around in the tall grass. “Yeah, there, see? There’s a black pod.” Bob hoisted himself down on one knee and sifted through the blades and old leaves. “Yep, they came in. Now, a little later this fall, you watch, you’ll see geese back here. I don’t know how they’ll know, maybe they’ll smell it from the river, but they’ll be here. Yessir, black pods, I’ll be.”
Bob was nothing if not enthusiastic. He nodded along. Now the sun was gone, and it was getting cold in the dusk.
Bob poked a few of the pods around in his palm. He picked out two of them and put them in his shirt pocket before he stood up. “Well, you coming home?” he asked.
“No. I’ll walk.”
“You sure?” Bob said; then, under his breath: “Sometimes you let me drive you.”
He didn’t know what Bob meant by that. He never rode with him. “I’ll walk.”
“Suit yourself.”
There was still the chance of a late arrival, though there weren’t any headlights on the road. He hung back while Bob wheeled the car around and gunned it up Ford. The low tail lights swung to the right on First Street, and it got quiet, except for the river and some distant machinery.
He kicked a stone. Maybe people could see the church from First, and weren’t bothering to come because the lot was empty – or because they had seen Bob’s ridiculous beast. He guessed he could walk as far as First and still catch anyone for the wedding.
The dark rose as he crossed from the gravel to the pavement. It was probably still daylight out west. Susan and that hippie were probably still driving, heading to whatever land he had used to capture her fancy – Arizona or New Mexico or somewhere. She probably never even gave him a thought.
The street light at Ford and First buzzed. He stood in the intersection. All the street lights along First glowed orange, like the sun had, almost, and past them stars shone faintly. Warm yellow bulbs lit some of the front porches, but the streets were deserted.
Except for Bob: he sat in the Continental along the first block toward home. And he should go home now – someone might have stopped in at the house to check on him. If he cut over to the sidewalk, he could pass on the passenger side. Maybe then Bob wouldn’t holler at him.
Wishful thinking. “You ready for that ride,” Bob yelled out the half open window.
“No, goddammit, I’m walking.”
Bob laughed his wheezy laugh. “Alright then. I’ll see you at home,” he called as he cruised past.
Shit. Well, mom wouldn’t let him sit in the driveway for long. But his stomach soured, because something wasn’t right. There was something Bob had said, back at the church. Sometimes you let me drive you home. His hands clutched at his pockets.
He looked at the red lights between the bay doors on the firehouse and the white lights in the entryway of the community center in the last block before he turned down Myrtle and headed across the bridge to his house. He listened for the river tumbling in the rocks under the bridge; the sound echoed there in the manmade cavern. Of course the bridge was concrete now, not like when he was a boy, when it was a covered wooden bridge.
When had they replaced that bridge? He guessed it had been just after his senior year in high school; that’s when Jeremy Schrock had burned the wooden bridge down, as a senior prank.
“And Bob swore he had nothin’ to do with it.” He laughed. Bob and Jeremy had always palled around, causing trouble, but somehow on that fateful night they hadn’t been together.
But he hadn’t thought about Jeremy Schrock in years. Jeremy had volunteered for Vietnam, and been killed. The town had made the troublemaker into a hero; he had a memorial obelisk in the graveyard across town – just two rows away from his mom’s grave.
“She died between the Gulf wars.” He stood on the corner of Myrtle and First a block from home. His hands were sweaty. He pulled them from his pockets and looked at them; they were wrinkled and splotched – old man hands.
Because Susan hadn’t left him two weeks ago, but more than fifty years ago.
What the hell was he doing?
Sometimes you let me drive you home. The Continental idled on the road just before the bridge. He had sold the house and moved in with Bob after his mom died.
Bob was waiting for him. Waiting for him to remember. He could turn around and go back the way he had come, or cut over to the graveyard and get lost between the rows. But it wouldn’t bring them back.
His legs shook as he walked over and opened the car door.
“Ready?” Bob asked.
“I guess.”
They drove up the bridge. The river sparkled below them, because the moon was rising. Bob looked happy.
“Goddammit Bob.”
“I never leave you alone,” Bob said.