Page 54 of The Bright Lands

She strode through the undergrowth and stopped at a weathered green ribbon (identical to the one she wore in her hair) tethered to a post. She pushed gently against the links of the fence. They had been snipped sometime before.

“You came to get Dylan out of this town, didn’t you?” she said.

They slipped through the hole in the fence and started up the steps of the dam.

“How’d you guess?”

“I’m a very perceptive person.”

Joel wasn’t sure what to say to that.

A narrow walkway ran for nearly a half mile across the middle of the dam, a long plummet into the water only prevented by a single narrow handrail to either side. Joel spotted two rusted lawn chairs in the distance, a red plastic ice chest, a scattering of cigarette packs and glass.

“You’re awfully trusting,” he told her. “Not a lot of girls would come out here alone with a stranger.”

“Dylan always said you were alright.”

“Dylan told me he hated football.”

Bethany turned. “Are you sure you were talking to the right Dylan?”

She settled into one of the chairs, folded one bronzed leg atop the other.

“Did you ever give Dylan a golden watch?” Joel said, settling into the seat beside her.

Bethany scoffed. She raised a bright silver bracelet to the failing light. “Dylan gavemegifts.”

“With what money?”

“With the money you sent him. What else?”

Joel looked over the railing. God, he wished hehadsent Dylan money. He couldn’t shake the feeling (though he prayed it was just guilt) that much of this could have been averted with a few real contributions to his brother’s savings account.

The chairs afforded them a striking view of the winding river, the barren countryside, the upper rim of the trembling sulfur sun. Litter surrounded their feet—twisted burn papers, the faded blue foil of a condom wrapper. Joel was struck, suddenly, with a vivid image of his brother seated here, in this very chair, sucking on a blunt as he reached a finger toward the perfect silky arc of this girl’s thigh. The thought filled Joel with a strange, sad sort of envy. What had his brother gotten himself into?

And then Joel caught sight of the lines cut into the concrete beside his chair—three grooves, worn smooth in the stone, spelling50K—and a sudden sob caught in his throat. He stared at the etchings, at the rusted screwdriver left under the chair that had no doubt been used to carve them.

50K.An old private joke. Dylan had sat here, fidgety and bored, and he had thought of Joel.

He was never coming back.

“That’s what I wanted to show you,” Bethany said, nodding at the etching. “What does it mean? He’d never tell me.”

Joel stared at it till his eyes burned. “I’ll have to get back to you.”

“You want a cigarette?”

Joel shook his head. Bethany raised the top of the red cooler and withdrew a pack of Camels, sealed inside a Ziploc bag. Joel felt his mind coming back to him.

He studied Bethany’s face in the flare of her lighter and was struck again by the firm line of her cheekbones, the elegant point of her nose. She took an expert drag of the cigarette and breathed out smoke in a long sigh.

“Dad broke my mom’s jaw over a jar of mayonnaise. It’s why she left. Mayonnaise.” Bethany’s nails clacked on the arms of her chair. “Have you ever heard of the Southern Heritage Preservation League?”

“I’ve always been dubious about my heritage.”

“They’re racist as fuck. All the places he sends money to are. All the men here treat my dad like he’s just the bestest goddamn old boy in town, but he’d join the Klan if they had a club here.” She tapped ash between her feet. “Maybe those guys wouldn’t care.”

Joel ran some odds in his head. He had a pretty good idea what this was about.