“So your brother won the surfing contest,” he says, trying to saw off a bite of white meat with the tiny plastic knife. Which snaps in half. Kasper leans left a little, almost tipping over his chair, then deploys a big hunting knife to cut the turkey. “I watched on ESPN 3. Drank beer through a straw.”
“Mom won best wipeout. That’s her down at the end.”
Aamon calls to Jen: “I saw your wipeout! You’re weird people to do stuff like that just for fun!”
Jen lifts an energy drink to him. “It’s in our blood!”
Another wordless pause, suddenly broken by the rough clatter of two helicopters descending from the south. Brock sees the green-and-white of Border Patrol, and the black-and-white of the sheriffs.
The drones close in, buzzing like big mosquitoes.
Then Kasper to Brock: “What it comes down to is, we don’t have much to say to each other. We have different beliefs, different convictions.”
“Yeah, well, people can change, too.”
“Don’t give me some shit about agreeing to disagree. We believe in different gods, too. And that’s where I draw the line.”
Brock nods. “Try this: the only god I believe in is the Breath of Life.”
“No. The first rule is: there’s only one.”
“You don’t know that, Kasper. You can’t.”
“I’m absolutely positive.”
Brock shrugs. “Look around you. Your god could use some help. That’s what we do. Help.”
Aamon gives Brock a long look, something like amusement on his face.
“So, just one question, Brother Brock. What’s with the hair? You trying to be a Black guy or something?”
“I like it this way. Feels right.”
“Hmpf.”
The drones vanish into the blue. The helicopters spiral down in a loose helix to hover like tremendous dragonflies over a pond. Sand swirls, plates and cups jump into the air. Some of the celebrants hold their hats.
Brock stands, raises both hands and flips them off. Aamon next, then the Go Dogs and the Right Fighters. Raised fingers and drowned-out “fuck-yous!” Most of the others have their faces down now, holding on to their hats, protecting their eyes. Mae barks and wags her tail, her voice hardly audible against the whirlybirds.
Children spill from the church. One of the boys points a yellow squirt gun at the choppers, and another launches a rubber-tipped arrow from a tiny bow. A girl has a small Dalmatian puppy by its middle, legs paddling air, hugging it to her chest.
Brock foresees a terrible massacre about to unfold, remembers all the cops who’ve mistaken cell phones for guns, kiddie toys for the real thing.
He and Mahina start toward them, but the swift kids are almost to their table by then. Mahina sits back down and shelters the girl and her puppy on her spacious lap. Brock snatches away the boys’ weapons and plops them into the rickety folding chairs.
The helicopters nose in closer, their mechanized roar lowering over him. Brock can hardly see through the blowing sand and dust.
Then, the choppers suddenly rise, back off from each other, and bank away into the sky.
Their terrifying voices fade, then vanish. Like a storm switched off, thinks Brock. Or a killer swell at Mavericks retreating to the deep.
As the dust settles, he looks to the Right Fighters and the Go Dogs—some still flipping off the government warships, some smiling, but none moving toward their guns under the awning.
He takes the puppy from Mahina’s lap.
Even with the adrenaline coursing through him, Brock has never felt this exhausted in his life—not from fire or flood or being rag-dolled across reefs by monstrous waves all over the planet.
But he feels the breath of life in him, going out and coming in.
Kasper Aamon is looking at him. “Want to join us, Stonebreaker? Fight for the right stuff? You just saw your government at work for you.”
“You’re a hypocrite, Aamon. You want to rat out my church to the government you say you hate. It’s their power you crave. We’ll never join you. We like the people you hate.”
Brock reaches out and one-hands the puppy across the table and into Kasper Aamon’s big paws. Another wordless moment as the Dalmatian licks Aamon’s broken jaw.
Kasper sets the dog on his lap.
“Stonebreaker,” he says, gesturing with both hands to the churchyard and the people. “Are you willing to die for what you believe?”
“Yes, but I’d rather die in my sleep.”
Aamon considers the pup, petting its head as he gives Brock an assessing glare. “First you break my jaw. Now you try to break my will to hate you. With food? You think we’re your Thanksgiving savages? Quaint. But I’ll admit I’m finding it difficult to hate you personally. Much as I hate the people you harbor here in this fine country. Which does not belong to them. So, thanks for the grub. We’ll say our goodbyes now, and get to shooting that video we need to shut down this heathen slum.”
A hawk keens high up in the heavy dark sky. Scrub jays bicker on the aluminum roof of the church. Faint music from the trailers.
Pastor Mike stands. “First, I’d like to offer up a prayer of thanks.”
Brock is still standing from the puppy pass-off.
