Perlson’s office was in Little Rock; the corporate office in Atlanta. But Vernon worked in the Arkansas town of Hentsbury around reclamation ponds. Chemicals from the paper mill leached into the water and grew brown spongy things. Wild turnips waved their signature tops as he walked past them. A lot of guys laughed because he didn’t pick the turnips, teenage boys who believed they’d never get sick; they didn’t understand why Vernon ignored nature’s free bounty.
Years ago, his band had bought a bus from a hippie couple going to Kathmandu or some other godforsaken place. The couple had unloaded their car note and insurance payments on a group of kids who’d wanted to play at dive bars across the country. They had pooled together enough money to buy the VW. Afterward, they gave the bus a new paint job and one of their girlfriends brushed the name of the band, the Do Daddies, on its side. They spent the rest of the afternoon drinking cans of beer. The guys repaired camper beds, built several new ones, installed lockers and a small refrigerator. One of them thought he’d have a good shot at joining a construction crew that was building a new jail a few miles down the road from where he lived. The rest of them hung tight and high-fived each other thinking that the poor fuck had made a terrible mistake. They took off to the sound of Willie Nelson’s On the Road Again unmoored from parents and schools that sought to mold them into upstanding citizens. For as long as he could, Vernon resisted. But six months ago, Rand-Atlantic had promoted Vernon to Hentsbury’s Lead Environmental Officer.
A morning needle of light appeared red and pink on the horizon. Vernon rode past rumpled hills and granite, a dribble of dampness everywhere. He reached the ponds, which smelled like a tower of smoldering newspapers.
Vernon noticed a woman taking pictures.
“Ma’am. What do you think you’re doing?” She was black, the same height as Vernon, probably in her late forties, not much older, a cap pulled down over her forehead, hair sticking out like fuzz along the sides of her ears with two sumac-colored strands hanging down her back in a fibrous braid.
The woman looked up, and loosened a red kerchief that covered her mouth. “Helping my grandson with a school project.”
“What kind of project?”
She hesitated. “Science.”
Vernon was a fair poker player and knew a bluff when he saw one. “Find anything? Rattlers? Raccoons?”
The woman shook her head. “Nothing like that. Just taking a few photos.”
“Look, ma’am. We both know you’re not supposed to be here.”
She crossed her arms. “Who says?”
“You’re on Rand-Atlantic property.” He pointed to a sign tacked at the edge of the bridge. He was sure she was a member of the River Watchers, a local group of troublemakers. “This area is closed to the public.”