“Motherfucker,” Russell says. He points his finger to the dripping screen. “You see how big that tank is?”
Victor removes his hat and rubs fingers through his hair, scratches the stubble on his jaw. “I tell you one thing,” he says. “It’s everybody’s problem now.”
“What do you mean?” Russell asks.
“Pretty soon all that tainted water flows to Louisville.”
“It’ll dilute by then,” Russell says.
“Something needs to be done,” Victor says. “This is the opportunity we needed.”
All my concern over Rosita and jealousy regarding Caroline are gone. I’m thinking of the wasteland lullabies I’ve written. Is this how it starts? A sudden catastrophe that makes it impossible for men to imbibe the water, mutates the fish and withers the crops? Am I a prophet and is today the first day of the scripture I’ve been writing? My father would certainly be on his knees, praying for the strength to endure these newest trials.
“Thousands of gallons,” Victor says. “National media will be here before tomorrow morning. We have to use this. Otherwise, we won’t have another chance. Are you ready?” he asks Russell, but Russell is glued to the television.
“Focus,” Victor yells to get Russell’s attention. He turns from the television, locks eyes on Victor, who has removed his hat and sits turning it in his hands. “If we really want to make a difference, now is the time.”
The screen cycles through the same images: the river, the storage tanks, an ominous shot of a kitchen sink with a dripping faucet. There is a photo of a woman who’d been washing dishes without knowledge of the spill. Her fingers are swollen twice the normal size, the pads of her hands lobster red and skin peeling. The worst are her fingernails. They’ve begun to turn black, as blood wells underneath them and oozes from the end of each digit. The news anchor informs us the woman is being treated in the hospital’s intensive care wing.
Russell raises his arms for the group’s attention. “We need to make a run for some bottled water.”
This isn’t what Victor wants to hear. His brow creases in frustration and he leans forward like he’s ready to say something, then considers his audience. He sinks back down into the couch, ready to wait for a better time. There’s something that strikes me as dangerous in this waiting. Victor doesn’t recline and relax, but seems to be settling into his position like a coiled snake. As soon as he has Russell alone, he’ll say his piece.
“Does the bar have any bottled water?” Victor asks the bartender.
The bartender shakes her head. “Just a soda gun hooked up to the tap. We got some ice, but not much.”
“We could hit Shaheen’s,” Russell says. “Grab some provisions before things get wild.”
“Who?” Caroline doesn’t speak to anyone directly. Her half-lidded eyes blink slow and she slides down into the plush couch as if hoping to recede into the cushions.
“You okay, sugar?” Rosita asks her.
Caroline nods, but her eyes stay closed a bit longer with every minute that passes.
I want to retreat home where we can safely drink from the well, but that’s not going to happen. I’ve gotta stick with Russell if I want to get paid. Besides, I have no driver. Caroline is barely conscious, still draped across Victor’s chest, head dangling on a bobbing neck and then jerking erect.
“I need some air,” I say.
The group is still debating, so I head into the hall before Russell can follow. My eyes suddenly feel hot and wet. My throat raw. I can’t recall if I’ve drunk any water since leaving the house but decide it’s just paranoia. If I had, my face would look like the dishwasher’s hands.
Outside, the lot is empty aside from the hearse and Caroline’s truck. Down the street, a few vans from the local news stations already idle by the curb. I can’t make out their logos in the darkness, just the newsmen milling around, snaking cables out the back of the panel doors. In minutes, the street will glow from all the lights. I want to disappear before one of the cameras finds me vulnerable under the buzzing neon of the bar sign.
I hear the door open behind me. When I turn, Rosita holds it while Russell and Victor come nearly dragging Caroline. She staggers with the guitar case clutched like an oversized infant.
“What the fuck did she take?” I ask.
Victor shrugs. “Whatever was cut up on the table.”
I should be more worried, but the images on the television have inspired my internal conductor to strike up the band. A guitar plays against the steady throb of an improvised drum. Rusty scrap metal utilized for percussion. I can hear the weary chords. A tune that personifies the schools of bobbing fish and the islands of toxic white foam. I need an instrument and a pen, but my driver is too stoned to be left alone. If I’m ever going to make it across my creek—a dangerous proposition considering the quality of the water—I’ll need help.
Russell unlocks the hearse. Rosita and Caroline climb in back where a casket should lie. Victor sits on the floor between the girls, his back to the driver and long legs extended until his spurred boots rest against the closed back doors. I take the passenger seat as Russell pulls onto the main road.
Once safe inside the car, Victor can’t contain himself. He turns forward so that Russell can see his eyes in the rearview.
“Those were your family’s tanks,” he says. “I need to know you understand that.”
“I do,” Russell says, but I don’t hear the same conviction in his voice.
“You can see the truth now, right? You see that they are killing us. Can I depend on you? Do you have the resolve to see this thing through?”
“Of course,” Russell says.
I’m about to interject when we reach the roadblock. The protesters stand across the yellow line with their hands linked into a human chain. The spectacle has drawn some rubberneckers, who are kept behind sawhorses by a small group of state police. The cops stand beside their cruisers, muscles tense under the green sleeves of their uniforms as they wait for things to escalate. One officer, short and mustached, is shouting for the protesters to clear the road. They only tighten their links, coil inward and look to one another for assurances no one will desert if the hickory batons come out of the cops’ trunks.
Watching them, I feel ashamed of how many times Caroline and I have driven by. I wish I’d done something to show solidarity. I’m considering how it’s too late when a man breaks from the chain and staggers into the median.
“He ain’t gonna move,” Victor says.
“Yes, he will,” Russell replies, but I’m not convinced. The man looks transfixed by our approaching headlights, ready to let his body meet the hearse’s grille. Russell stands on the brake. I see his eyes close in the illumination from the dashboard lights.