Barry said they could park the truck up in the White Hills.I’ll come get you, he said.That sounds nice, said Helen.You know, there by the school, the building, whatever it is they have up there.The building up there, Helen said.There’s a good view, Barry said.I’d say that’d be the spot, all right, Helen said.Around eleven thirty, then.Barry had finished the renovations three weeks before. He’d left his tools and said he’d be back to get them. A few days later his stuff was gone and Helen’s house key glittered on the bristly welcome mat.Imagine if a spark from them fireworks landed on those oil tanks, Barry said. Helen was talking on the phone and looking out her bedroom window. The South Side Hills had long, dangerous icicles all over their craggy cliffs. Snow streaked the smooth bare rock farther up. The five white tanks, fat and implacable against the blue sky.What if I cooked supper for us, Helen said. She had not meant to say it. She heard something crunch. It must have been an empty pop can.
