Burn the field, he thought. Burn the fucking field. The tall grass would go the way of all straw when fed to flame.
He visualized a river of burning grass, sparks and shreds of toasted weed drifting into the air. It was such a strong mental image that he could close his eyes and almost smell it, the somehow wholesome late-summer reek of burning green.
And what if the flames turned back on him? What if it caught Becky out there somewhere? What if she was passed out and woke to the stink of her own burning hair?
No. Becky would stay ahead of it. He would stay ahead of it. The idea was in him that he had to hurt the grass, show it he wasn’t taking any more shit, and then it would let him—let them both—go. Every time a strand of grass brushed his cheek, he felt it was teasing him, having fun with him.
He rose on sore legs and yanked at the grass. It was tough old rope, tough and sharp, and it hurt his hands, but he wrenched some loose and crushed it into a pile and knelt before it, a penitent at a private altar. He tore a match loose, put it against the strike strip, folded the cover against it to hold it in place, and yanked. Fire spurted. His face was close, and he inhaled a burning whiff of sulfur.
The match went out the moment he touched it to the wet grass, the stems heavy with a dew that never dried and dense with juice.
His hand shook when he lit the next.
It hissed as he touched it to the grass, and it went out. Hadn’t Jack London written a story about this?
Another. Another. Each match made a fat little puff of smoke as soon as it touched the wet green. One didn’t even make it into the grass but was huffed out by the gentle breeze as soon as it was lit.
Finally, when there were six matches left, he lit one and then, in desperation, touched it to the book itself. The paper matchbook ignited in a hot white flash, and he dropped it into the nest of singed but still-damp grass. For a moment it settled in the top of this mass of yellow-green weeds, a long, bright tongue of flame rising up from it.
Then the matchbook burned a hole in the damp grass and fell into the muck and went out.
He kicked at the whole mess in a spasm of sick, ugly despair. It was the only way to keep from crying again.
Afterward he sat still, eyes shut, forehead against his knee. He was tired and wanted to rest, wanted to lie on his back and watch the stars appear. At the same time, he did not want to lower himself into the clinging muck, didn’t want it in his hair, soaking the back of his shirt. He was filthy enough as it was. His bare legs were striped from the flogging the sharp edges of the grass had given him. He thought he should try walking toward the road again—before the light was completely gone—but could hardly bear to stand.
What caused him to rise at last was the faraway sound of a car alarm going off. But not just any car alarm, no. This one didn’t go wah-wah-wah like most of them; this one went WHEEK-honk, WHEEK-honk, WHEEK-honk. So far as he knew, only old Mazdas wheek-honked like that when they were violated, flashing their headlights in time.
Like the one in which he and Becky had set out to cross the country.
WHEEK-honk, WHEEK-honk, WHEEK-honk.
His legs were tired, but he jumped up anyway. The road was closer again (not that it mattered), and yes, he could see a pair of flashing headlights. Not much else, but he didn’t need to see much else to guess what was going on. The people along this stretch of the highway would know all about the field of tall grass across from the church and the defunct bowling alley. They would know to keep their own children on the safe side of the road. And when the occasional tourist heard cries for help and disappeared into the tall grass, determined to do the Good Samaritan bit, the locals visited the cars and took whatever there was worth taking.
They probably love this old field. And fear it. And worship it. And—
He tried to shut off the logical conclusion but couldn’t.