Abatement

One last house.

Halprin puts it off until end of the day. Guy’s out to lunch on entire contamination deal. He’d been a lifer up at the mine, never a sick day in his life or so he claimed.

Vermiculite—it’s practically nothing but asbestos. Entire identity of the town has been thrown into question. Some moved out immediately, longstanding suspicions confirmed. These are the ones Halprin respects most: cut your losses, seek medical and legal help without delay. Flee. No shame in that whatsoever as far as he’s concerned. Just makes his job easier.

Many aren’t sure what to make of extraterrestrial EPA creatures in Tyvek Suits and respirators. Instinctive distrust of feds up here, fueled by inflammatory radio pundits. Almost everyone speaks in sarcastic bumper-sticker platitudes.

Halprin employs flyers and talking points designed to disarm. Quick with the reassuring segue. Never approaches a house wearing Tyvek if he can help it.

Many years ago, Halprin and three bookish high school buddies passed through this very town on their way to a day of hiking in the Kootenai.

Mining town, Halprin observed.

An egghead pal who would go on to study literature at Bozeman said:

Ah, the sublime, self-contained practicality of a pastoral settlement, drawing all sustenance and a not insignificant measure of wealth from Mother Earth.

Mining was a career option back then. A time when everything that came out of the ground was considered pure.

Halprin gets out of his truck and slams the door to give Yalvington fair warning.

House sits silent, not a curtain stirs.

Slight evening breeze rustles puke-orange leaves on an ash leaf maple out front. Autumn scorched the trees this year uniformly. Achingly beautiful. Halprin tries not to think how this might be the last pretty image to pass through his head.

Yalvington’s F-150 sports an empty gun rack in the rear window. All his rifles inside the house—probably cleaned and loaded.

Halprin saunters and knocks.

Who’s it? shouts Yalvington, from the back of the house it sounds.

Ben Halprin, he says, dispensing with from the EPA. Just stating his name creates the illusion of a social call. Tries to keep his voice light and musical.

Who? Footsteps, voice closer.

Ben Halprin?—

Now he has to say it.

—from the EPA?

Told ye I don’t need it.

Door opens. Yalvington appears unarmed, face hard. He’s squat, like a .45 slug. Beard peppered gray. Topside hair hasn’t gone that way yet, straight brown and parted on the side into flaccid comb-over. Breathes hard through his nose like he’s just run a race.

Hi, Mr. Yalvington! says Halprin. How ya doin’?

More nose-breathing. A swallow.

Now, you know why I’m here, right? Just wanna make sure you’re safe.

From what? Yalvington says. There’s a sneer in it.

Halprin tries to chuckle.

You know. Mind if I look around?

I do mind, matter o’ fact.

Okay, there it is, thinks Halprin. That’s all I need to hear. But he has to make one last effort. Not in his nature to shirk. Part of him wants to win because that’s his job, what he’s paid to do and also because it’s ultimately the best thing for the Yalvingtons of the world. Halprin might be saving a life here. That thought never far from his mind.

You sure? says Halprin.

You threatenin’?

Well, no. I’m just—

‘Cause if you’re threatenin’, I can threat right back.

Yalvington swings up a sawed-off Remington gut-level.

Whoa, says Halprin, raising hands and backing off. But before he can add I’ll be leaving now... Yalvington lowers gun and squints just past Halprin’s left shoulder.

Sonofabitch.

Halprin pivots sideways on his left foot, arms still raised, clipboard in one hand. He follows Yalvington’s eyes. An upside-down American flag across the street Halprin hadn’t noticed before. It’s being lowered down a pole by Fred Lowell, someone with whom Halprin has already done the abatement dance. Though cut from the same fabric as Yalvington—30-plus years mining vermiculite, born and raised here—Lowell saw the light right away. Gave Halprin total access and read every flyer pushed in front of his face. Asked smart questions too. He was, to Halprin, the model victim. Because—let’s face it—this is a town of victims. Some just don’t fully get it yet.

Turns out Lowell’s house had only mild contamination and he took care of it a month ago. Unlike the divorced Yalvington, Fred and Babette Lowell are still married with three boys long since moved away. Lowell confided to Halprin he was worried about them. Mesothelioma can take decades to show.

Lowell had what Halprin likes to call a Refreshingly Way-High Get-it Factor.

Best fly that flag right, Fred! Yalvington bellows.

Lowell doesn’t say anything.

Ye hear?!

I hear ya.

I come out here and see that thing upside-down again, I’ll relieve you of your soul.

Riiight.

Lowell continues removing the flag from the line, not even looking over.

Yalvington turns to Halprin.

Get off my property, Guv’ment boy.

He backs inside the house, slams the door. Halprin quickly crosses.

Fred.

Howdy.

Thanks.

For what?

Distraction.

He’s harmless ‘cept to himself.

How long you been neighbors?

My whole life.

What’s his beef?

Lowell shrugs. His ex moved to Billings after they split up and now she has some kind of cancer. Don’t know if it’s related to... you know. Wouldn’t surprise me.

Lowell begins to fold the flag, Halprin sets down clipboard.

Help you with that.

They take their time. Folding a flag is one of those solemn tasks that fills Halprin with complicated emotions. Ritual of respect. So inherently enjoyable he just wants to prolong it as much as possible. Always been that way even before he did his Army hitch. When they’ve reduced it to a tight triangle, Halprin fights the urge to salute. Lowell nods. Halprin picks up the clipboard and waits.

He thinks I’m disrespecting, says Lowell. I fought a war for this flag.

Halprin guesses that war was most likely ‘Nam.

What about Yalvington? Did he go?

Got out of it, says Lowell. That’s a good thing. I’m glad for him.

Off Halprin’s reaction, Lowell adds: Really. I mean it.

Okay. But, so... ?

I didn’t get Agent-Oranged—if I had, I know it’d be a deeeelicious irony—but this whole thing here reminds me of that.

Don’t know if delicious is the right word.

Lowell shrugs.

Halprin thinks about his own family back in Missoula. He misses his wife and kids. Maybe he’ll head home a little early this week.

Oughta get outta here. Move yourself to Bozeman or some place a little more sophisticated.

Grew up here, Lowell scratches his beard. Tied to the land.

The company encouraged townspeople to back up to the mine and shovel as much vermiculite as they wanted for insulation. In the attic across the street and all over town the shiny flakes rested like fresh snow between joists; for years it’s been nestled in alveoli like grains of sand accreting pearl-like tumors.

Future is fixed. Nothing more to say, really. Except this: Everything comes from a hole in the ground and that’s where it all ends up. We spend our lives inside little pockets of toxicity, always in decline, ebbing. The reduction is relentless. Make our stand with whatever weapons are handy—12-gauge, inverted flag.

But nothing can stop the man in the spacesuit with a clipboard in his hand.

He’s comin’ to gitcha.