American Red

The Church

Elmer's place rests far outside of the city. The Black Hills are peppered with various smaller towns; some are mainly set there for tourists looking for cheap knick-knacks they can attribute to a vacation. Other towns are remnants of leftover mining, wood mills and gambling towns converted over the years.

At this time of fall, the air revolves in patterns of crisp mornings and radiant afternoons. The traffic is sparse with the tourist season passing by late September, but the roads to most places remain passable until December before snowfall starts to strangle the smaller bi-ways from its motorists.

Driving along one stretch of highway towards Elmer's, Roadie looks out at the Pactola Reservoir from the dam they are driving on. In the distance the lake sits pristine and still, bouncing the reflection of a marbled blue sky as though there were two heavens, one atop the other. Along the backdrop, the pine covered forest rests like a mountain covered with a thick green quilt. The kind a grandma might make with pencil-thick yarn and holds in all the comforts of a fireplace on a cold day.

Mr. Jenkins has driven the whole way in silence, occasionally looking down at his phone, not as a means to call for help but as a counter of how long it will take to get back to his wife. The interior of Mr. Jenkins' truck is typical to what the boys imagine. It's an older model Ford with a converted transmission that has turned it into an automatic instead of the manual it started off being. The glove box has a shining silver button to release the panel and the metal exterior is mostly what consists of the interior. The bench seats have a covering over them and remind Errol of the scratchy kitchen rug his mother used to have in front of their sink. The covering has pockets holding various things, some with garbage and others with random papers. One is filled with .22 caliber bullets.

The old Ford chugs down the road, reducing speed and growing louder on the hills. Mr. Jenkins' flips the blinker up, which echoes a metronome ticking inside the cab. The road drops quickly from tar paved to a gravel base leading up around the out of sight bend behind a small hill.

"This Elmer's place?" Roadie asks.

Mr. Jenkins grips the wheel showing a little bit of white-knuckle before easing enough to speak. "Yes, it's just around this hill."

"And you think neither Elmer nor your son is here?" Errol takes a turn.

At first, Mr. Jenkins shakes his head, but adds, "I know better than to go past his fence when it's up whether he's there or not. But I didn't see his pickup sticking out of the port either time." Unconsciously, Mr. Jenkins rubs over spots on his forearm where there are tiny, circular scars. Elmer shot him with rock salt once when he hopped onto his property. It hurts him still on rainy days like an aching sliver needing to be pulled out.

Rounding the curve, the property is nestled back and away from the road between rows of trees. One building standing out for the brothers to see is the one Marion Jenkins called the church. The barn setting offset from the house stands nearly twenty-five feet from ground to the top of the weather vane in the shape of a rooster aiming its beak east.

Before entering the property, there is a crude barbed wire fence running around the perimeter with three loose rows of metal braced between each splintery post. In the distance beyond, the gravel thins out to a large dirt patch acting as a driveway with ruts in places where rainstorms caused vehicles to push mud aside.

Elmer's house is a double wide trailer with an old trellis running around the base. A large propane gas tank sits off to one side and a covered car port for a vehicle on the opposite side. There's no vehicle, but there appears to be a rundown tractor further away. Large weeds and tall grass sprouting close to the tires and underneath show it hasn't moved all summer.