“All right,” she said, “then you stay in the boathouse tonight.”
“The boathouse?” Paul said. “It doesn’t even have a roof.”
“You’re the one who won’t leave; you can deal without a roof for one night.” She snapped it at him, and Paul’s jaw tightened and he looked away.
That’ll do it, Arlen thought. He’s going to say enough is enough, finally, and take that money from her hand and we’ll be on our way…
But Paul said, “Fine. We’ll stay in the boathouse.”
Rebecca lifted a hand to the side of her face, and for a moment, just a blink, it was the gesture of some other woman, a gesture of someone vulnerable. Then she seemed to catch herself and pushed her hair back over her ear as if that’s what she’d been planning to do all the time.
* * *
That was the last that was said about it. Paul continued to battle with the generator. By midafternoon he was satisfied that the mechanical workings were solid again and began to put the pieces back together. Arlen watched him do it, rebuilding something he’d never built in the first place, working without benefit of a manual or diagram, and shook his head. The kid was a natural, no question. He still didn’t think the thing would ever work again, though.
By five he had the generator together and hollered at Arlen to come down so they could test it. He came over and watched as Paul filled the tank with gasoline and explained that he had it connected to the battery bank, and once he was sure it would work all they’d have to do is wire it back into the house and build a new enclosure for it. Rebecca came out while he was talking, and as soon as she arrived Paul’s voice deepened and his speaking became more authoritative, as if he’d been repairing generators all his life. Arlen lit a cigarette to hide a grin.
“Here we go,” Paul said, and then he made some adjustment, which Arlen figured was to the throttle, with his left hand while turning the crank with his right.
Nothing happened. There wasn’t a sound but the turning of the hand crank, not so much as a gurgle or cough of gasoline power. Paul frowned and jiggled the throttle and spun the crank faster, sweat beading on his forehead. Still nothing. He dropped his hand from the crank and stepped back.
“Give it a minute,” Rebecca said. “Maybe you just need to crank longer.”
He shook his head. “It’s not even trying. Something’s still wrong. It wouldn’t even try to start.”
His voice was his own again, softer and younger. Arlen blew out some smoke and said, “You did more than I thought you could just getting it put back into one piece. Getting it to run is a mighty tall order.”
Paul didn’t answer, dropped to his knees and picked up a screwdriver and set to work removing the inspection plate again.
Rebecca said, “You may not be able to get it, Paul. It may just be ruined.”
“It’s not ruined,” he said, but she’d stopped looking at him and the generator, was instead staring up the road and into the dark trees. She wet her lips.
“You’ll have to stop soon,” she said. “I need you to be gone by the time the… guests arrive.”
“Right,” Paul said. “The guests.”
Her “guests” had arrived in three vehicles that came in succession, like the funeral procession of an unpopular man. The cars pulled in and parked, and their occupants began to pile out. The first was a battered truck, with dents all over the door panels, and the last was the sheriff’s car. Between them was a shining black Plymouth.
Arlen and Paul watched from the trees, silent. It felt like the war again to Arlen, crouched in the brush with a comrade, treachery nearby. When he saw the Plymouth, his throat tightened, and he thought for a moment that he ought to get the license number. Who would he give it to, though? Sheriff Tolliver? Judge Solomon Wade? No, he didn’t need to have any more knowledge of that car.
A man and three boys who couldn’t be out of their teens filled the lead vehicle. Country folk. Wore clothes you wouldn’t see in a department store, the sort that you ordered from a farm-supply catalog, with tattered hats that had been kicked around in the dust a time or two. The man had a thin string of gray hair that hung down past his neck. The watcher from the boat in the inlet. The three boys followed at his heels like obedient but wary dogs.
There was only one man in the Plymouth, a sharp-looking, tidy boy in a suit. Tolliver had also traveled alone, no deputy along for this ride. He stood in the yard and looked around with a suspicious stare while the rest of the group went inside. His gaze floated over the trees where Arlen and Paul hid, but he did not see them. At length he followed the others into the Cypress House, and then they were gone from view, hidden behind the closed door.