Free Dust by Arthur G. Slade

whole time. They'd kept talking about the fun they'd had at the theatre. Robert felt sick when he remembered his experience. He wasn't sure if he'd ever go inside that building again. When he thought about Uncle Edmund appearing in the mirror and pointing at Abram, he actually got a brassy blood taste in his mouth, as though he had cut his finger and sucked on it.
    He looked at the horizon. It was so far away. Everything was small in the distance. Easy to lose things here, he thought.
    "Will they ever find Matthew?" Robert asked.
    His dad didn't answer. He just squinted down the road, grinning as if he were seeing that puck hit the politician again.
    "Do you think they'll find Matthew?" Robert repeated, struggling to make his voice louder.
    His father pinched his lips together, as though he'd tasted something sour. "What? Matthew?" He paused. "Yes. They will. Saw that sergeant in town the other day. He said they're still working on it. I told him to do the best he could. It'll be fine, Robert. Don't you worry. Just think about what's behind the candy counter in town. I'll get your mom a licorice stick, but what do you want? No, don't tell. Surprise me."
    Robert wanted to ask more about Matthew, but his mouth was watering. A black jaw-breaker would be good right now. Or a lemony-tasting sugar candy. He shook his head. There was something wrong with his mind, the way he kept daydreaming about things he wanted: candy and firecrackers and vanilla milkwhips. Every moment was filled with daydreams. Too many of them.
    His dad turned sharply down Horshoe's access road, tires skidding. He let out a laugh. "This darling sure steers well."
    Robert was silent as they crossed the tracks. On the west side of town he saw the school. In a few weeks he'd be back inside that single room, writing in his scribbler or memorizing multiplication tables. School started on a Monday. He wished he could remember what day it was right now. He'd looked at the Cypress Oil Company calendar that morning. It had been a day of rest, he remembered.
    "Shouldn't we be going to church?"
    "Your mom has baking to do, son," his dad said, quickly. "She's making apple pies. Just think of that. I can't remember the last time we had apple pie with cinnamon. And a big piece of cheddar cheese on the side."
    Robert pictured the apple pie, steam rising from the hole in the center of the pastry, the sugary apples cooked to perfection inside. He wiped his mouth. He had to stop dwelling on these things.
    He thought about his mom. She would be at home now, in the kitchen, baking the pies. Or washing dishes and setting the plates upside down in the cupboard, so they wouldn't catch the dust. Upside-down dishes. The image stuck in his head. Everything was becoming upside down. His parents should be sad now, wishing for Matthew to come home. Instead, they talked only nonsense and laughed too loud.
    There were several cars and trucks on Main Street and a few wagons. People streamed in and out of the hotel, the pool hall, and the grocery store. Robert wondered if it hadn't been a field day or a parade day and they'd missed it. His dad steered around three men jabbering away in the middle of the road and parked in front of the bank. A line of people stood there, waiting in front of a table on the boardwalk.
    Robert's dad snapped his fingers. "Oh, yes, that's why I wanted to come to town today. I need to sign up for that deal. Come on, son."
    He jumped out of the Roadster, Robert followed him, and they joined a row of about fifteen men. There were unshaven cowboys from the Speirs Ranch in the Cypress Hills, hired hands from the Big Farm, sandhill sheep herders, even some hobos with blanket rolls slung over their shoulders. The lineup ended at a table where the war widows were handing out lemonade and cookies. Standing beside them, shaking each person's hand, was Mr. Samuelson.
    The closer Robert got to the front of the line, the more uneasy he became. He didn't like the raucous,