Looking for the Perfect Blueberry Pancake - Florida State University
Looking for the Perfect Blueberry Pancake - Florida State University
Looking for the Perfect Blueberry Pancake - Florida State University
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THE FLORIDA STATE UNIVERSITY<br />
COLLEGE OF ARTS AND SCIENCES<br />
LOOKING FOR THE PERFECT BLUEBERRY PANCAKE<br />
By<br />
ROGER SIEBERT<br />
A <strong>the</strong>sis submitted to <strong>the</strong><br />
Department of English<br />
in partial fulfillment of <strong>the</strong><br />
requirements <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> degree of<br />
Master of Arts<br />
Degree Awarded:<br />
Fall Semester, 2006<br />
Copyright © 2006<br />
Roger Siebert<br />
All Rights Reserved
The members of <strong>the</strong> Committee approve <strong>the</strong> <strong>the</strong>sis of Roger Siebert defended on November 6,<br />
2006.<br />
______________________________<br />
Virgil Suárez<br />
Professor Directing Thesis<br />
______________________________<br />
James Kimbrell<br />
Committee Member<br />
______________________________<br />
Elizabeth Stuckey-French<br />
Committee Member<br />
The Office of Graduate Studies has verified and approved <strong>the</strong> above named committee members.<br />
ii
For Victoria<br />
iii
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS<br />
Thanks to all my professors at <strong>Florida</strong> <strong>State</strong> <strong>University</strong>, with particular thanks to Virgil<br />
Suárez, Elizabeth Stuckey-French, and James Kimbrell <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong>ir work on this <strong>the</strong>sis. Virgil took a<br />
gamble by volunteering to be my major professor without having seen any of my fiction be<strong>for</strong>e,<br />
and all three willingly took on a <strong>the</strong>sis two or three times <strong>the</strong> normal length—while Jimmy and<br />
Elizabeth were on official sabbatical, no less. I asked a lot from Virgil, Jimmy, and Elizabeth, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>y all delivered without hesitation.<br />
Thank you, too, my fellow English Department graduate students, especially Matt<br />
Hobson, Brook Steingass, and Quentin James, who read early drafts of this <strong>the</strong>sis and provided<br />
insightful comments that were key in my finding out what this story was really about.<br />
I’m grateful, too, to <strong>the</strong> staff of The Sou<strong>the</strong>ast Review, who, while I sat with <strong>the</strong>m reading<br />
and discussing submissions, made comments (positive and negative) on o<strong>the</strong>rs’ fiction that taught<br />
me as much about storytelling as my course work did.<br />
Thanks, too, to <strong>the</strong> Department of English, <strong>the</strong> College of Arts and Sciences, <strong>the</strong> Office of<br />
Graduate Studies, and <strong>Florida</strong> <strong>State</strong> <strong>University</strong> in general <strong>for</strong> offering me <strong>the</strong> opportunity to study<br />
creative writing at <strong>the</strong>ir program, one of <strong>the</strong> nation’s finest, as well as to <strong>the</strong> First-Year Writing<br />
Program, which granted me a teaching assistantship, without which I would not have been able to<br />
accept that offer to study.<br />
And finally, thanks to all my students, who taught me through <strong>the</strong>ir work that, no matter<br />
how long and hard a person pursues trying to create art, that pursuit should never be taken so<br />
seriously that we <strong>for</strong>get to write stories that are just plain fun to read.<br />
iv
TABLE OF CONTENTS<br />
Abstract..................................................................vii<br />
Chapter 1 .................................................................1<br />
Chapter 2 .................................................................6<br />
Chapter 3 ................................................................10<br />
Chapter 4 ................................................................23<br />
Chapter 5 ................................................................26<br />
Chapter 6 ................................................................29<br />
Chapter 7 ................................................................31<br />
Chapter 8 ................................................................37<br />
Chapter 9 ................................................................40<br />
Chapter 10................................................................44<br />
Chapter 11................................................................48<br />
Chapter 12................................................................63<br />
Chapter 13................................................................65<br />
Chapter 14................................................................71<br />
Chapter 15................................................................77<br />
Chapter 16................................................................82<br />
Chapter 17................................................................85<br />
Chapter 18................................................................89<br />
Chapter 19...............................................................101<br />
Chapter 20...............................................................103<br />
Chapter 21...............................................................110<br />
Chapter 22...............................................................116<br />
Chapter 23...............................................................119<br />
Chapter 24...............................................................127<br />
Chapter 25...............................................................129<br />
v
Chapter 26...............................................................131<br />
Chapter 27...............................................................135<br />
Chapter 28...............................................................148<br />
Chapter 29...............................................................151<br />
Chapter 30...............................................................152<br />
Chapter 31...............................................................159<br />
Chapter 32...............................................................170<br />
Chapter 33...............................................................176<br />
Chapter 34...............................................................181<br />
Chapter 35...............................................................183<br />
Chapter 36...............................................................184<br />
Chapter 37...............................................................190<br />
Chapter 38...............................................................196<br />
Chapter 39...............................................................200<br />
Chapter 40...............................................................205<br />
Chapter 41...............................................................208<br />
Chapter 42...............................................................209<br />
Chapter 43...............................................................211<br />
Chapter 44...............................................................213<br />
Chapter 45...............................................................216<br />
Chapter 46...............................................................221<br />
Chapter 47...............................................................225<br />
Chapter 48...............................................................227<br />
Chapter 49...............................................................229<br />
Chapter 50...............................................................233<br />
Chapter 51...............................................................242<br />
Biographical Sketch........................................................245<br />
vi
ABSTRACT<br />
<strong>Looking</strong> <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> <strong>Perfect</strong> <strong>Blueberry</strong> <strong>Pancake</strong> is <strong>the</strong> fictional story of John Smith—an<br />
ex-cook depressed with <strong>the</strong> superficiality of his ninety-hour-per-week job managing a high-end<br />
cigar bar and disenchanted with what he thought would be a perfect romance—who flees Denver<br />
hoping to reach <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>t of his sister’s home and tiny café on <strong>the</strong> Gulf. He’s hit with a<br />
snowstorm in <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> night, and he feels sorry <strong>for</strong> and picks up Ed MacGuffin, a<br />
hitchhiking murderer on <strong>the</strong> lam who is in search of a recipe <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> perfect blueberry pancake.<br />
John’s pickup breaks down in <strong>the</strong> snowstorm and leaves <strong>the</strong> two on foot, and John and Ed are<br />
thrown into a bizarre and sometimes violent trek across half <strong>the</strong> country. When <strong>the</strong>y meet Sam,<br />
a moving-truck driver, and Gavin, Sam’s loader, John begins to fall in love with Sam, and Sam’s<br />
sexual ambiguity <strong>for</strong>ces John to try to come to terms with himself and his pop-culture–driven<br />
expectations. All along <strong>the</strong> way, John learns about Ed, Sam, himself, and <strong>the</strong> dangers of believing<br />
anything can be perfect.<br />
vii
CHAPTER 1<br />
At two in <strong>the</strong> morning, <strong>the</strong> snowfall thickened and swarmed so furiously in John’s<br />
headlights that every sign of anyone else in <strong>the</strong> world vanished. O<strong>the</strong>r cars’ tracks in <strong>the</strong> snow<br />
vanished. I-70 itself vanished. Quarter-sized flakes attacked John and his pickup like nuclear<br />
fallout or bleached-out volcanic ash. Bits flung <strong>the</strong>mselves in on him through <strong>the</strong> pickup’s<br />
cracked-open side windows. Icy crystals stuck in his hair and eyebrows, dusted his vinyl gym bag<br />
on <strong>the</strong> seat next to him, and covered <strong>the</strong> floorboard two inches thick. John’s breaths came in short<br />
gulps and burst out in clouds onto <strong>the</strong> windshield, where <strong>the</strong>y froze in a thin sheen because of his<br />
broken defroster. John had wanted to leave everyone behind, to disappear, but this, he thought,<br />
was too much.<br />
Denver was done, or ra<strong>the</strong>r, he was done with it: <strong>the</strong> town, <strong>the</strong> job, love, everything. Now<br />
he was pointed toward his big sister’s in <strong>the</strong> <strong>Florida</strong> panhandle, and he hadn’t even let her know<br />
he was coming. He hoped he would be welcome.<br />
The top edges of John’s loafers touched his ankles stiff and cold through his dress socks.<br />
He wished he had worn wool socks, or cotton, or at least owned a pair of boots. His ankles felt<br />
naked. He wiggled his toes and stamped his left foot into <strong>the</strong> snow on <strong>the</strong> floorboard just in front<br />
of <strong>the</strong> seat. Then he switched feet on <strong>the</strong> gas pedal and stamped his right foot next to <strong>the</strong> hump<br />
over <strong>the</strong> transmission.<br />
John hoped his memory was accurate, that Pamela and Kevin had one of those perfect<br />
relationships, a sense of contentedness he could bask in and leech off of, but he was afraid that his<br />
impression had come from some simpler association, like <strong>the</strong> scents of simmering gumbo or frying<br />
bacon that always seemed to waft into <strong>the</strong>ir apartment from <strong>the</strong>ir tiny café on <strong>the</strong> ground floor, or<br />
from some fantasy John had latched onto back when he was young and quixotic enough to believe<br />
in things like true love—and unconditional welcomes.<br />
John grabbed his scraper from <strong>the</strong> snow on <strong>the</strong> passenger floorboard and shaved jagged<br />
paths in <strong>the</strong> icy condensation on <strong>the</strong> inside of his windshield. The flakes in his headlights came at<br />
his pickup and shot past <strong>the</strong> edges of <strong>the</strong> windshield like stars on <strong>the</strong> Enterprise’s main screen.<br />
1
John checked his speedometer and found that he had somehow accelerated to nearly sixty, a blind<br />
charge in this blizzard. He let up on his accelerator until <strong>the</strong> needle crawled back to <strong>for</strong>ty-five and<br />
<strong>the</strong> flakes fell back into <strong>the</strong>ir continuous churn ra<strong>the</strong>r than <strong>the</strong> shooting motion of be<strong>for</strong>e.<br />
Through <strong>the</strong> dark and <strong>the</strong> snow, a tiny white reflector came toward John at just above<br />
headlight height. It seemed a miracle, slow but straight and steady through <strong>the</strong> whirling mass of<br />
flakes. John tried to keep his pickup one blacktop-shoulder width to <strong>the</strong> left of <strong>the</strong> reflector’s<br />
path, because that’s where he figured <strong>the</strong> interstate had to be. The reflector slipped past on his<br />
right and disappeared, and a dozen heartbeats later, he saw a second reflector begin to follow <strong>the</strong><br />
same path. He couldn’t remember seeing any reflectors earlier in <strong>the</strong> night, be<strong>for</strong>e he had needed<br />
<strong>the</strong>m, but he figured <strong>the</strong>y had to have been <strong>the</strong>re. Still, <strong>the</strong>ir appearance seemed heavensent, and<br />
he thanked whoever had decided long ago that <strong>the</strong> highway should have <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
Then his pickup sputtered and jerked as if some god-sized child had grabbed it and shaken<br />
it like a rattle.<br />
John slowed to <strong>for</strong>ty, and his pickup ran fine. He checked his fuel gauge and watched <strong>for</strong><br />
<strong>the</strong> little red cartoon battery, oilcan, or <strong>the</strong>rmometer light, but everything seemed fine. Then, after<br />
two or three minutes, <strong>the</strong> pickup jerked again.<br />
John slowed even more, but he didn’t want to drop his speed below thirty. Someone could<br />
come barreling down on him from behind, and he might not be able to react. He checked his<br />
rearview but saw nothing except <strong>the</strong> faint but thick wall of taillight-tinted whirling flakes. He<br />
turned on his flashers, and bright amber flakes danced into and out of existence to his left and<br />
right.<br />
John scraped <strong>the</strong> inside of his windshield again and hoped his pickup would hold out, and<br />
that <strong>the</strong> road wouldn’t curve too much when no reflectors were in sight. What was on <strong>the</strong>ir o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
side? A fence? A ditch? The end of <strong>the</strong> world? All hell itself? Eastpoint was a long way away.<br />
Just after <strong>the</strong> next reflector, a figure materialized in <strong>the</strong> swirling snow, a silhouette with a<br />
thumb out and a puffy winter parka with a fur-lined hood. John couldn’t believe it: a hitchhiker, in<br />
this stuff, at this time of night.<br />
The pickup crept past <strong>the</strong> hitcher, and <strong>the</strong> flashing amber lights lit up <strong>the</strong> swaying,<br />
shivering, hunched posture, snow ga<strong>the</strong>red in <strong>the</strong> folds of <strong>the</strong> hitcher’s parka and frozen in clumps<br />
in <strong>the</strong> fur lining <strong>the</strong> hood.<br />
John’s mo<strong>the</strong>r’s voice popped into his head: “Don’t, Johnny. He could be a serial killer.”<br />
2
But John couldn’t leave anyone out in that storm. Besides, he thought, living in sunny<br />
Sou<strong>the</strong>rn Cali<strong>for</strong>nia, off who-knows-how-much alimony, what could she know about <strong>the</strong><br />
viciousness of deadly, frozen, blackest-of-night storms and what <strong>the</strong>y could do to one person<br />
alone?<br />
The pickup sputtered again, and John wondered what would happen if it broke down a<br />
hundred yards past <strong>the</strong> hitcher. What would <strong>the</strong> hitcher do <strong>the</strong>n, after it had become obvious that<br />
John had chosen to abandon him? John thought of his parents, on opposite ends of <strong>the</strong> continent,<br />
and of Billie in Denver, and he shuddered.<br />
He veered closer to <strong>the</strong> reflectors and braked to a stop.<br />
The hitcher, red in <strong>the</strong> brake lights, ran up to <strong>the</strong> pickup. The reddened snow’s surface<br />
churned beneath <strong>the</strong> red swirl of flakes, <strong>the</strong> fur on <strong>the</strong> hitcher’s hood undulating like <strong>the</strong> mane of<br />
some blood-soaked, charging wild beast, bloody, shiny globs slinging and scattering all around.<br />
The hitcher unslung a roll of some sort, like a blanket or sleeping bag bound in a tight roll—or <strong>the</strong><br />
torn-off hind quarter of a kudu—and tossed it in <strong>the</strong> snow in <strong>the</strong> pickup’s bed, <strong>the</strong>n seized <strong>the</strong><br />
tailgate and climbed onto <strong>the</strong> bumper, dragging <strong>the</strong> rear haunches of <strong>the</strong> pickup suddenly down.<br />
“No,” John yelled.<br />
His voice had cracked. He tapped on <strong>the</strong> back glass with his ice scraper until <strong>the</strong> hitcher’s<br />
furry mane turned toward him. John cleared his throat.<br />
“Up here. In front.”<br />
The hitcher climbed off <strong>the</strong> rear bumper and jogged around from behind, from red flakes<br />
to flashing amber flakes to <strong>the</strong> bright white dome light that blinded John when <strong>the</strong> hitcher got in.<br />
The door slammed harder than John would have done it, rattling <strong>the</strong> partially open window and<br />
shaking flakes from <strong>the</strong> armrest and dash. Then it was dark again, except <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> two beams of<br />
white flakes ahead, <strong>the</strong> intermittent amber puffs to <strong>the</strong> sides, and <strong>the</strong> red speckled wall behind.<br />
The wind grumbled across <strong>the</strong> open tops of <strong>the</strong> windows, and <strong>the</strong> hitcher rasped out thick, cloudy<br />
breaths.<br />
“I’m John,” John said.<br />
Where <strong>the</strong> hitcher’s face should have been was blackness above steamy breaths. Ice caked<br />
<strong>the</strong> surrounding fur, and <strong>the</strong> tip of a ball cap jutted from <strong>the</strong> hood’s top edge. Icy air whistled<br />
through <strong>the</strong> passenger window and blew flakes across <strong>the</strong> dash and into John’s face.<br />
“Ed,” <strong>the</strong> hitcher said, faint and low.<br />
3
“Where you heading?” John asked.<br />
“Where are you heading?”<br />
John shivered again<br />
“East. South,” he said. “All <strong>the</strong> way to <strong>the</strong> sea.”<br />
Ed turned toward <strong>the</strong> crack in <strong>the</strong> window’s top and stuck <strong>the</strong> tip of his mitten through, as<br />
if he couldn’t believe it was open.<br />
“That sounds nice,” he said.<br />
John let <strong>the</strong> pickup idle <strong>for</strong>ward and <strong>the</strong>n nudged <strong>the</strong> accelerator into <strong>the</strong> snow on <strong>the</strong><br />
floorboard, until <strong>the</strong> huge flakes sped up <strong>the</strong>ir assault on <strong>the</strong> two of <strong>the</strong>m and tried to obscure <strong>the</strong><br />
reflectors again.<br />
John asked, “How far you going?” in a tone as if he hadn’t heard an answer <strong>the</strong> first time,<br />
as if he had added “again” at <strong>the</strong> end.<br />
Ed nodded behind <strong>the</strong>m and said, “Anywhere but back <strong>the</strong>re.” Then he gave three more<br />
tiny, almost imperceptible nods, like aftershocks.<br />
John pressed his lips tight and focused on <strong>the</strong> flakes and <strong>the</strong> reflectors ahead.<br />
Ed pulled <strong>the</strong> hood back from his face and past <strong>the</strong> ball cap. The motion cracked open <strong>the</strong><br />
ice on his mittens like how <strong>the</strong> sun cracks <strong>the</strong> parched clay bed of a dried-up creek. Ed pulled off<br />
<strong>the</strong> mittens and rubbed his hands over and over. His hands seemed misshapen in some way, but<br />
John couldn’t immediately discern how. Ed’s eyes glistened as pinpoints beneath <strong>the</strong> ball cap’s<br />
bill. Puffy, pale cheeks covered with dark stubble glowed in <strong>the</strong> indirect light. The cap itself was<br />
faded plain blue, unlogoed, with dark stains of some sort speckling it, leopard-like.<br />
Ed turned toward <strong>the</strong> next reflector as it left <strong>the</strong> glow of <strong>the</strong> headlights and vanished<br />
beside <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
John said, “That’s <strong>the</strong> end of <strong>the</strong> world over <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
He hadn’t meant to say it. It startled him to hear his words bounce around in <strong>the</strong> air of <strong>the</strong><br />
cab ra<strong>the</strong>r than only inside his head, and it made <strong>the</strong> conceit seem silly. He squinted into <strong>the</strong><br />
flakes.<br />
“Uh-huh,” Ed said. “In every direction. Just closer in some.”<br />
John’s breath stopped. Ed understood, or at least pretended to. John <strong>for</strong>ced his held breath<br />
out and made himself inhale, exhale.<br />
Ed beat his mittens toge<strong>the</strong>r, scattering shards of ice across <strong>the</strong> inside of <strong>the</strong> pickup. His<br />
4
nose had a peaked arch like a hawk’s beak, and it bent to <strong>the</strong> left, as if it had healed wrong after a<br />
bad break.<br />
Ed pulled one mitten back on, his odd hands shaking.<br />
“Mind if I sleep a while?” he asked.<br />
Ed pulled his o<strong>the</strong>r mitten on, and John realized what was odd about <strong>the</strong> hands: Ed’s<br />
<strong>for</strong>efingers were longer than his middle ones. They angled his mittens into shapes like chef’s<br />
knives, or a shark’s pectoral fins.<br />
“Go ahead and sleep,” John said. He leaned <strong>for</strong>ward and peered through <strong>the</strong> windshield<br />
and up into <strong>the</strong> seemingly limitless snow falling out of <strong>the</strong> blackness. “You might put your seat<br />
belt on, though. Could be a rough ride.”<br />
Ed did. Then he pulled his hood back over his strangely spotted cap and his unreadable<br />
black eyes, leaned into <strong>the</strong> corner <strong>the</strong> seat made against <strong>the</strong> door, and lay still, <strong>the</strong> tufts of his fur<br />
ga<strong>the</strong>ring more of <strong>the</strong> sticky flakes, like <strong>the</strong> fur of a saber-too<strong>the</strong>d tiger succumbing to <strong>the</strong> ice age.<br />
John glanced at Ed again and regretted already admitting to Ed that his trip was a long<br />
one. He no longer had <strong>the</strong> option of pulling over and saying, “This is as far as I go.” Why had he<br />
said, “to <strong>the</strong> sea”? Why hadn’t he said, “to Salina,” instead, or just kept his damned mouth shut?<br />
And he had quit his job, quit Billie, quit everything by just walking out. No way would<br />
anyone in Denver ever want to see him again. He couldn’t go back, but he shouldn’t be going<br />
<strong>for</strong>ward—and he had yet to let Pamela know that he was coming—but <strong>the</strong>re was no denying, no<br />
matter how inappropriate it all seemed, that he was fully committed, to <strong>the</strong> trip, to <strong>the</strong> storm, to<br />
Ed. Everything. Already.<br />
5
CHAPTER 2<br />
Be<strong>for</strong>e Ed had hitchhiked south to and through Denver and out its east side, he had killed<br />
an art dealer in Wyoming. It was Wednesday, two and a half days be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> snow storm, while<br />
<strong>the</strong> sky was still cloudless and brilliant blue. The art dealer had shown up unannounced at Ed’s<br />
fa<strong>the</strong>r’s ranch—or ex-ranch—just outside Laramie, wanting to see his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s paintings. The air<br />
was still, its chill making <strong>the</strong> brown grass crunch underfoot as Ed led <strong>the</strong> woman to his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />
barn, where <strong>the</strong> paintings were.<br />
“My sympathies <strong>for</strong> your fa<strong>the</strong>r’s passing,” she said.<br />
Ed didn’t want to talk about his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s death, and <strong>the</strong> more Ed watched this woman<br />
trudge toward <strong>the</strong> barn, <strong>the</strong> more <strong>the</strong> whole situation pissed him off. At first he had been pleased<br />
to have company of any kind. He had seen no one <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> two weeks since he’d sold <strong>the</strong> livestock.<br />
He had no truck, no neighbor within four miles, not even a television. It had been only Ed and his<br />
fa<strong>the</strong>r’s old easy chair and a dimly lit, cold-drafted living room <strong>for</strong> night and day—not really<br />
measurable nights and days, but simply black shadows shifting to gray shifting back to black—<strong>for</strong><br />
two weeks straight. But all this woman wanted was to see his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s artwork, maybe buy some,<br />
and <strong>the</strong>n bug out.<br />
Ed pulled his blue ball cap on more snugly (it wasn’t spotted yet), <strong>the</strong>n shoved his hands<br />
into <strong>the</strong> front pockets of his Wranglers. His left hand slipped beneath <strong>the</strong> long, black sheath of his<br />
K-bar, which he kept slung on his belt on <strong>the</strong> front part of his hip instead of just behind, where<br />
most folks would hang a knife. Inside his right pocket, his fingers wrapped around his Big Red<br />
One–emblazoned Zippo lighter.<br />
The barn didn’t seem to get any closer, though <strong>the</strong>y walked steadily toward it. Beyond <strong>the</strong><br />
barn, <strong>the</strong> foothills stood silent above <strong>the</strong> gradual rise and dip of frozen pasture no longer spotted<br />
with cattle. Ed hadn’t cared about <strong>the</strong> absence of <strong>the</strong> livestock at first, but now he missed <strong>the</strong><br />
cattle’s lowing; <strong>the</strong>ir steamy breaths; <strong>the</strong> pungent smell of <strong>the</strong>ir hides; <strong>the</strong> swat of <strong>the</strong>ir tails after<br />
flies in <strong>the</strong> summer; and even <strong>the</strong> grainy, high-pitched bellow and <strong>the</strong> whites on a calf’s rolling<br />
eyes as he pushed <strong>the</strong> branding iron hissing and sizzling into its hide.<br />
6
The woman cleared her voice in a way that made her sound like a man. Her hair stood<br />
puffed in a half-foot mass of bright-orange waves, like a sculpture.<br />
She said, “Your fa<strong>the</strong>r was a gifted man.”<br />
Every grain of her makeup stood out in <strong>the</strong> sunlight, each brush stroke of her blush<br />
apparent, <strong>the</strong> black drawings of eyebrows standing clearly above <strong>the</strong> ridges where her real<br />
eyebrows should have been. She squinted in <strong>the</strong> sun, <strong>the</strong> hairless overhangs of her crinkled brow<br />
making her eyes seem to peer from gritty limestone caves.<br />
Ed thought, “Gifted.” Sure. Thorough, at least. Got rid of every pistol be<strong>for</strong>e I made it<br />
home. So thorough he had to kill himself with <strong>the</strong> pickup and an overpass support column.<br />
She said, “I heard his latest ones were even bigger. Is that why <strong>the</strong>y’re in <strong>the</strong> barn?”<br />
He said, “They’re in <strong>the</strong> barn because <strong>the</strong>y’re paintings.”<br />
Her brows crinkled more, her eyelids blinking like blankets flapping over <strong>the</strong> cave<br />
entrances.<br />
He said, “Paintings are messy,” and he thought of <strong>the</strong> greens, blues, and browns slung and<br />
spattered on <strong>the</strong> hay, and <strong>the</strong> red like arterial blood.<br />
“Well,” she said, “<strong>the</strong> act of painting, maybe, but not <strong>the</strong> paintings <strong>the</strong>mselves.”<br />
She began to brea<strong>the</strong> audibly, in little puffs like a winded prissy dog between yaps. The<br />
heels on her red cowboy boots were too tall and thin and, with each step, pushed through <strong>the</strong><br />
dead grass and poked into <strong>the</strong> crystallized top half inch of surface dirt. The toes were pointed like<br />
fairy shoes, and <strong>the</strong> balls of her feet seemed too narrow. She wobbled and waved her open palms<br />
at <strong>the</strong> ground like she were on a tightrope.<br />
Ed said, “Why didn’t you ever show up out here when he was alive?”<br />
She stopped, panting, and despite <strong>the</strong> cold, a bead of sweat trickled from her temple’s<br />
hairline and traced a jagged path through her makeup.<br />
“I intended to,” she said. “I liked his work from <strong>the</strong> get-go, when he first brought those<br />
little drawings into Laramie years ago. No one else liked his work <strong>the</strong>n. They were little, though.”<br />
She squinted toward <strong>the</strong> barn, pulling her bright red orange lips inside her mouth and<br />
sucking on <strong>the</strong>m. When she finally released <strong>the</strong>m, <strong>the</strong>y stuck <strong>for</strong> a second, as if her lipstick were<br />
caulking.<br />
“That’s changed now,” she said and moved toward <strong>the</strong> barn again.<br />
Ed waited <strong>for</strong> her to take two steps, <strong>the</strong>n followed.<br />
7
“Ancient history,” she yelled and waved her hands in sweeping arcs at <strong>the</strong> barn. “Ten,<br />
fifteen years ago.” She smiled back at Ed, her teeth red orange with lipstick smudges. “You’re<br />
going to be a rich man, Mister MacGuffin.”<br />
Ed clenched his fists until <strong>the</strong> lighter pressed hard into his palm and <strong>the</strong> insides of his<br />
fingers. People in town had always called him Ed or Eddie, and it seemed disrespectful and<br />
presumptuous <strong>for</strong> her to call him Mister so soon after his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s death.<br />
He said, “I’ve got all I need from selling <strong>the</strong> stock. Couldn’t work <strong>the</strong>m without my fa<strong>the</strong>r,<br />
anyway.”<br />
Ed found himself squeezing and releasing <strong>the</strong> lighter, squeezing and releasing, four times,<br />
<strong>the</strong>n eight.<br />
Here it comes again, he thought, and he felt more like he were watching a scene unfold<br />
instead of participating in it. He tried to pretend that his hand was still and relaxed, tried to ignore<br />
<strong>the</strong> apparent need <strong>for</strong> his o<strong>the</strong>r hand to press against something, too. He hadn’t counted in fours<br />
<strong>for</strong> months now, and he wanted to believe that that part of himself was gone.<br />
He exhaled <strong>for</strong>cibly and said to <strong>the</strong> woman, “You think money’s going to make everything<br />
alright now?”<br />
She stopped and turned toward him. Ed hadn’t realized that he had pulled his left hand<br />
from his pocket, but <strong>the</strong>re it was, wrapped around <strong>the</strong> hilt of his K-bar, squeezing and relaxing,<br />
squeezing and relaxing, repeatedly tugging <strong>the</strong> hilt of <strong>the</strong> K-bar against its tiny lea<strong>the</strong>r restraining<br />
strap on <strong>the</strong> sheath.<br />
“Is that your Marine knife?” she asked. “From <strong>the</strong> Marines?”<br />
He made his hand let go and crossed his arms.<br />
“Army,” he said.<br />
“When do you go back?”<br />
“Let’s get this over with.”<br />
The barn rose in front of <strong>the</strong>m, gray and dry in <strong>the</strong> sky, seeming taller than <strong>the</strong> foothills<br />
now. It seemed strange to Ed that a building screaming <strong>for</strong> paint could conceal so much of it.<br />
Ed had one drawing of his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s in <strong>the</strong> house. It was <strong>the</strong> only piece he had ever liked, an<br />
unfinished black-and-white sketch of prairie grass growing around and through a skull beneath a<br />
scorching sun. Most artists would have put a horse or steer skull in. Ed’s fa<strong>the</strong>r had drawn a<br />
human skull. It was <strong>the</strong> one piece Ed had imitated most as a child, <strong>the</strong> one he’d been reminded of<br />
8
most while serving in Iraq, and <strong>the</strong> only one he ever wanted to see again. It was also one of his<br />
fa<strong>the</strong>r’s smallest.<br />
The woman leaned <strong>for</strong>ward and sped up, her heels stabbing <strong>the</strong> earth harder, her hands<br />
swinging more toward <strong>the</strong> barn with each of her steps. It seemed to Ed that her fingers were<br />
splayed more in anticipation than <strong>for</strong> balance.<br />
Ed discovered that, despite how repugnant he found this woman, he didn’t want her to<br />
leave. He discovered, too, his right hand playing with his Zippo in his pocket again, his left<br />
drawing <strong>the</strong> K-bar from its sheath, and his stride closing <strong>the</strong> distance between <strong>the</strong>m, his breathing<br />
faster than his quickening pace deserved.<br />
9
CHAPTER 3<br />
Air rumbled in and out through <strong>the</strong> cracked windows. The flakes still fell fast and thick,<br />
but instead of out of <strong>the</strong> blackness of night, <strong>the</strong>y swirled in <strong>the</strong> brightening gray of morning.<br />
John’s headlights were a feeble, sickly yellow instead of <strong>the</strong> stark white <strong>the</strong>y had seemed in <strong>the</strong><br />
night. The headlights no longer helped John see, but <strong>the</strong>y might eventually allow o<strong>the</strong>rs to see<br />
him, so he resisted <strong>the</strong> urge to turn <strong>the</strong>m off.<br />
The snowfall was still too thick <strong>for</strong> John to see far<strong>the</strong>r than a hundred feet, but it was<br />
better than in <strong>the</strong> darkness. The reflectors were dim in <strong>the</strong> growing light and sat atop thin metal<br />
poles, <strong>the</strong> line of poles snaking out of <strong>the</strong> grayness ahead, two or three visible at a time. The snow<br />
on <strong>the</strong> ground had deepened, but now a pair of trenches, each one double-tire wide, cut through<br />
<strong>the</strong> snow ahead of him. He had seen no o<strong>the</strong>r vehicles all night, which made <strong>the</strong> trenches seem<br />
timeless, like dinosaur tracks in limestone, as if what he were chasing had long since gone extinct.<br />
John pulled <strong>the</strong> outer three fingers of each hand deep inside his soaked suede gloves and<br />
curled <strong>the</strong>m into partial fists against his palms. He steered with only his <strong>for</strong>efingers and thumbs<br />
and squeezed his fists tight, trying to make <strong>the</strong> numbness disappear, even if it meant <strong>the</strong> sharp, icy<br />
pain again, <strong>the</strong> pain he felt in his nose and ears and every o<strong>the</strong>r part of his body. Tingling would<br />
come be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> pain, but he had to face both if he wasn’t going to lose part of his fingers <strong>for</strong>ever.<br />
Then he pulled even his <strong>for</strong>efingers and thumbs into his fists and steered with <strong>the</strong> insides of<br />
his <strong>for</strong>earms. His coat sleeves should have gripped <strong>the</strong> wheel solidly, but <strong>the</strong> lea<strong>the</strong>r was so cold<br />
that it slipped on <strong>the</strong> worn-smooth wheel, and he had to press his <strong>for</strong>earms tighter against <strong>the</strong><br />
wheel, as if he were on a weight machine at <strong>the</strong> gym squeezing out a last rep. His chest and<br />
shoulder muscles ached, and soon he would have to open his fists and shove his fingers back into<br />
<strong>the</strong> icy wet fingers of <strong>the</strong> gloves and scrape <strong>the</strong> windshield again.<br />
“What do you do?” Ed asked without budging.<br />
John started. He had begun to believe that maybe Ed had died and frozen in place.<br />
John gingerly slipped his fingers back into <strong>the</strong>ir places in <strong>the</strong> gloves and gripped <strong>the</strong> wheel<br />
in his palms. It was all so icy cold.<br />
10
Ed sat up and stretched, rolling his head from side to side, his neck cracking as if snapping<br />
off floes.<br />
John cleared his throat and asked, “What do you do about what?”<br />
Ed pulled his hood back and leaned <strong>for</strong>ward long enough <strong>for</strong> it to drop between his back<br />
and <strong>the</strong> seat. He rocked three more times, though <strong>the</strong> hood didn’t resettle as a result. The spots<br />
on <strong>the</strong> ball cap seemed more brown than black in <strong>the</strong> new light. It reminded John of his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />
old butcher aprons, of blood stains, though he knew no one in his right mind would wear a hat<br />
spattered with blood.<br />
“No,” Ed said. “What brings you out here? Your job.”<br />
Ed’s stubbly cheeks glistened in <strong>the</strong> grayness. From beneath <strong>the</strong> ball cap’s bill, his eyes sat<br />
black like tiny snowmen’s eyes—rabbit-scat-sized fragments of wood coal from some ancient<br />
people’s long-dead fire.<br />
John thought, “Brings”? “Pushed,” maybe. Billie and her dear old dad had pushed me out<br />
here, Billie’s manipulation, and Leopold’s paranoia and unpredictability, <strong>the</strong> way <strong>the</strong>y tried to<br />
twist me into someone o<strong>the</strong>r than I was.<br />
“I’m a cook,” John said, and he liked <strong>the</strong> simplicity.<br />
Ed’s eyes opened wide, and he blinked and blinked, <strong>the</strong> tiny bits of coal shining<br />
intermittently in <strong>the</strong> gray light. He pulled off his mittens and rubbed his face, his long <strong>for</strong>efingers<br />
making large sweeps across his shiny flesh.<br />
“A cook,” Ed said and stared wide-eyed at John again. “Amazing. What, you going to a<br />
convention or something?”<br />
John shook his head and watched <strong>the</strong> emerging tracks and reflector poles.<br />
“I’m moving,” he said.<br />
And he thought, I should have called Pamela first, but no one calls his sister at four in <strong>the</strong><br />
morning <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> first time in over a year. I hadn’t even called her at Thanksgiving. I’d been too<br />
busy working, ninety hours a week. Damn that Leopold. If I just show up, she has to let me in,<br />
right? But two thousand miles—two days—is a long way not to call. There will be no excuse <strong>for</strong><br />
that.<br />
John tried to push <strong>the</strong> pickup to fifty, but it yawed, and he backed off to <strong>for</strong>ty-five again.<br />
The sound <strong>the</strong> snow made beneath <strong>the</strong> tires and flying into <strong>the</strong> wheel wells was like gravel, though<br />
not as sharp. It sounded like he were already pulling into <strong>the</strong> oyster-shell lot at Pamela and<br />
11
Kevin’s café, and he tried to imagine that more clearly.<br />
Ed turned and looked through <strong>the</strong> pickup’s back window and down into <strong>the</strong> snow-draped<br />
bed. “That’s all you got,” he asked, “firewood and a cooler?”<br />
Ed’s whiskers were thick all <strong>the</strong> way down his throat and beneath his ears and met <strong>the</strong><br />
untrimmed hairs growing down <strong>the</strong> back of his neck. Black hairs grew, too, in tiny tufts on top of<br />
and out of his ears. Ed seemed more animal than human.<br />
John’s fantasy of pulling into <strong>the</strong> café’s lot suddenly had Ed in it, too, still sitting next to<br />
him in <strong>the</strong> pickup, unshaven, wearing his oddly stained cap, with his weird repetitive gestures and<br />
his coal-black eyes, and John cringed.<br />
He said, “The wood’s <strong>for</strong> traction, or a fire if I need it. I have this bag, too.”<br />
He nodded at his gym bag between <strong>the</strong>m. The snow on it had crusted. He had left so much<br />
at Billie’s.<br />
Ed stared through <strong>the</strong> windshield again and said, rumbly like a gravel slide, “Right on.” He<br />
looked back at John, unblinking. Then he shifted his pitch and volume to an eerie, robotic<br />
steadiness and said, “Where exactly you moving to?”<br />
John stared hard at <strong>the</strong> tracks in front of <strong>the</strong>m, where <strong>the</strong> snow turned pale yellow in <strong>the</strong><br />
headlights.<br />
Ed didn’t budge in John’s peripheral vision. He seemed to be holding his breath. No foggy<br />
puffs filled <strong>the</strong> space between <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
John swallowed and said, “<strong>Florida</strong>.”<br />
“Coo!” Ed said with what seemed <strong>the</strong> beginning of a wolf’s howl, or a vulture arching its<br />
head back to swallow a snapped-up bit of carrion. Then he looked through <strong>the</strong> windshield again<br />
and seemed to relax. His breath clouded <strong>the</strong> air above <strong>the</strong> dash. “How far?”<br />
John chewed his lips, <strong>the</strong>n said, “Panhandle, near Apalachicola.”<br />
“And I’m going to Miami.” Ed grinned and brea<strong>the</strong>d heavily. “What a wonderful<br />
coincidence!”<br />
John cleared his throat. “What brings you out here?”<br />
Ed waved his knife-like mittened hand across <strong>the</strong> claustrophobically close wall of flakes and paleyellow-speckled<br />
grayness, as if he were waving panoramically across a vast horizon. “I’m looking<br />
<strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> perfect blueberry pancake.”<br />
John laughed, but Ed didn’t.<br />
12
John swallowed again and squinted into <strong>the</strong> snow. “Really.”<br />
“Yes, really. And you’re a chef. How perfect is that?”<br />
“I’m not a chef,” John said. “I’m a cook.”<br />
“Same thing—Unless you work at fast food?”<br />
Ed waited.<br />
John wished he had worked at fast food. Leopold’s was fancy, fine dining, high-end<br />
clientele showing off thousand-dollar Italian suits and buying up overpriced cigars and dry, dry<br />
martinis and Madeira and whole magnums of Dom Perignon, flashing <strong>the</strong>ir orthodontically<br />
straightened, bleached teeth and glistening gold Rolexes.<br />
Ed nodded sharply twice. “That’s what I thought.” He nodded twice more.<br />
“You want me to make you pancakes,” John said, watching <strong>the</strong> pair of tracks snake<br />
through <strong>the</strong> grayness.<br />
Ed said, “I want you to teach me to make my own pancakes, you know, that whole ‘give a<br />
man a fish, teach a man to fish’ thing.”<br />
John inhaled deeply. “<strong>Pancake</strong>s are easy,” he said. “Follow <strong>the</strong> directions on <strong>the</strong> box, or<br />
<strong>the</strong> bag, or whatever.”<br />
Ed shook his head three times, seemed to freeze, and <strong>the</strong>n shook it once more. “No. I said<br />
I was looking <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> perfect blueberry pancake, not some cheap-ass supermarket take-off.” He<br />
looked at John from beneath half-closed lids and blew out a huff. “Shame on you, John . . .<br />
What’s your last name?”<br />
“Smith,” John said.<br />
Ed laughed. He had amazingly straight, though yellow, upper teeth. His bottom teeth were<br />
brown and leaned in front of each o<strong>the</strong>r like pickets on a graveyard fence.<br />
“Really,” Ed said. “John Smith. You ever catch any shit checking into hotels?”<br />
“It’s on my driver’s license.”<br />
“I mean, you know, when you’re with a lady, at a hotel <strong>for</strong> an hour or two.”<br />
John glared at Ed. “I don’t know any hotels like that.”<br />
“Sure you do.”<br />
No, John thought, I don’t. But <strong>the</strong> hour-or-two relationship seems <strong>the</strong> wiser choice now.<br />
John asked, “What’s your last name, Ed?”<br />
“MacGuffin.” He nodded vigorously, too many times, and tapped his knife-like mittens flat<br />
13
against his chest. “Ed MacGuffin, seeker of <strong>the</strong> perfect blueberry pancake.”<br />
The pickup jerked and sputtered and dragged its speed down fast.<br />
Ed grabbed <strong>the</strong> dash and his door’s armrest. “What’s that?”<br />
John said, “I don’t know.”<br />
John slowed to twenty-five, and <strong>the</strong> pickup ran smoothly again. He didn’t want to be<br />
stranded with Ed.<br />
John slowly picked <strong>the</strong>ir speed back up. The pickup seemed to run fine.<br />
Ed leaned over and peered at <strong>the</strong> instrument panel. “You’re about out of gas.”<br />
Ed smelled like rotting onion, and John held his breath.<br />
Ed said, “That could be it, gas sloshing around in <strong>the</strong> tank.”<br />
John waited <strong>for</strong> Ed to pull back to his side of <strong>the</strong> pickup, <strong>the</strong>n brea<strong>the</strong>d and shook his<br />
head. “I had a full tank <strong>the</strong> first time it did it, early this morning.”<br />
“Water, <strong>the</strong>n. When it gets really cold, water condenses in <strong>the</strong> tank. You treat your gas?”<br />
“We need a station.”<br />
John peered into <strong>the</strong> snowstorm, as if he would somehow magically be able to see through<br />
<strong>the</strong> snow and make out a town far ahead. He had no idea where one might be, or where he and Ed<br />
were, exactly. He hadn’t seen a sign <strong>for</strong> miles. He became more aware of <strong>the</strong> achy cold coming in<br />
through <strong>the</strong> windows, and that seemed to press home just how isolated <strong>the</strong>y were, as if <strong>the</strong><br />
presence of a nearby station or town should have given off faint warm drafts that would have<br />
wafted in and soo<strong>the</strong>d <strong>the</strong>m and drawn <strong>the</strong>m near.<br />
The pickup went into spasms and jerked John’s and Ed’s heads <strong>for</strong>ward and back.<br />
John slowed <strong>the</strong> pickup, and <strong>the</strong> spasms stopped, but Ed jerked his head <strong>for</strong>ward twice<br />
more, <strong>the</strong>n paused, and <strong>the</strong>n jerked <strong>for</strong>ward four more times, as if not realizing that <strong>the</strong> pickup<br />
had settled down. Then Ed steadied himself, his hands still gripping <strong>the</strong> dash and armrest, his face<br />
muscles knotted and his eyes squinty, as if he were in pain.<br />
John looked at his dash again, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> snow. “You okay?” he asked, still focusing on<br />
<strong>the</strong> snow.<br />
“Sure,” Ed said. “Never better. Hah, hah.”<br />
Ed brea<strong>the</strong>d deeply four times and let go of <strong>the</strong> armrest and dash.<br />
Then he said, “You need gas.”<br />
“Well, pick out a station.”<br />
14
“No need to get bitchy,” Ed said.<br />
“It’s not <strong>the</strong> gas.”<br />
The pickup’s engine clattered and banged again and kept banging and dragged itself down<br />
fast until it died.<br />
John pulled hard on <strong>the</strong> wheel to overcome <strong>the</strong> suddenly nonpowered steering and cut <strong>the</strong><br />
tires through <strong>the</strong> edges of <strong>the</strong> trenches and into <strong>the</strong> unadulterated part of <strong>the</strong> snow. The pickup<br />
clambered next to a reflector pole and stopped on its own.<br />
John turned <strong>the</strong> key back and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>for</strong>ward. The engine clamored and jerked <strong>the</strong> pickup<br />
again and quit as soon as John let up on <strong>the</strong> key.<br />
“Stop that,” Ed said. “That’s not <strong>the</strong> gas. I think you blew your engine.”<br />
The snow ga<strong>the</strong>red on top of <strong>the</strong> windshield wipers.<br />
Ed said, “Whatever it was at first was not taken care of, and <strong>the</strong>n it blew your engine.”<br />
John said, “Great,” and pulled <strong>the</strong> lever <strong>for</strong> his hood.<br />
“You gotta take care of things when <strong>the</strong>y first creep up, John, or <strong>the</strong>y end up costing too<br />
much.”<br />
“I know that,” John said.<br />
“You don’t seem to believe it.”<br />
“There wasn’t exactly a garage back <strong>the</strong>re in <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> blizzard in <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong><br />
night, and if I had stopped, I wouldn’t have gotten far enough to pick you up.”<br />
Ed smiled facetiously, showing his aberrantly straight yet yellow upper row of teeth. “I’m<br />
just saying, in general, you know, philosophically.”<br />
John opened his door and stepped out. His feet plunged into <strong>the</strong> snow, and <strong>the</strong> walls of <strong>the</strong><br />
holes his feet made fell inward and down into his loafers around his ankles. He pulled his collar<br />
up, but <strong>the</strong> coat had no way to fasten <strong>the</strong> collar close around his neck. He walked around to <strong>the</strong><br />
pickup’s nose, and flakes swirled around his head and beneath his collar.<br />
Ed got out, stopped even with <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r front tire, and crouched below John’s line of<br />
sight. John lifted <strong>the</strong> hood and propped it open, and <strong>the</strong>n Ed rose and stepped next to him. Ed had<br />
one of his mittens off and held his abnormally long <strong>for</strong>efinger out in front of John’s face. Oil<br />
coated <strong>the</strong> pad of Ed’s fingertip.<br />
“See?” he said. “You’ve blown your engine.”<br />
“It’s always leaked oil.”<br />
15
John looked past Ed’s finger at <strong>the</strong> engine but couldn’t tell anything. It looked <strong>the</strong> same as<br />
always.<br />
“Smell it,” Ed said and held his finger beneath John’s nose. “Smells like antifreeze.”<br />
John sniffed. His nostrils hurt from <strong>the</strong> cold, and he couldn’t smell much. He thought<br />
maybe he did smell antifreeze.<br />
Ed wiped his fingertip on <strong>the</strong> underside of <strong>the</strong> hood. John couldn’t tell whe<strong>the</strong>r Ed’s finger<br />
was cleaner or dirtier as a result.<br />
Ed pulled his mitten back on and said, “It’s all over <strong>the</strong> snow beneath your truck. And if<br />
your antifreeze has gotten into your oil, that means your engine’s blown, or your block’s cracked,<br />
or something. Anyway, you can’t drive.”<br />
“Great,” John said again.<br />
The engine ticked as it cooled. Snowflakes drifted under <strong>the</strong> hood and vanished against<br />
<strong>the</strong> engine’s top as soon as <strong>the</strong>y touched.<br />
Ed said, “You got triple A?”<br />
“No.”<br />
“You need a new engine block.”<br />
“Truck’s not worth that.”<br />
“Then we’re on LPCs.”<br />
“On what?”<br />
“Lea<strong>the</strong>r personnel carriers.”<br />
Ed nodded on down <strong>the</strong> pair of semi ruts and <strong>the</strong> trail of reflector poles, closed his eyes<br />
and pressed his lips toge<strong>the</strong>r tight, <strong>the</strong>n nodded three more times, exactly as <strong>the</strong> first.<br />
“Come on,” he said. “This pickup’s not doing us any good now.”<br />
John wiggled his toes. His shoes were already wet. The snow was too deep <strong>for</strong> dress<br />
shoes, his socks too thin, and his pants loose and frail.<br />
John said, “In a minute,” and walked around to <strong>the</strong> driver’s door.<br />
Ed went around <strong>the</strong> passenger side and got in, too. He watched John dig into his gym bag.<br />
John said, “I’m going to change pants.”<br />
Ed said, “Oh. You don’t want me to watch.”<br />
“No.”<br />
“Okay.”<br />
16
Ed smiled, as if everything were a joke.<br />
Then Ed opened his door and got out. He held <strong>the</strong> door and stared at where his hand<br />
gripped it, squinting his eyes and tightening up <strong>the</strong> muscles in his face. He slightly but repeatedly<br />
twisted at <strong>the</strong> waist, moving <strong>the</strong> door only an inch or two each time, his face unchanged, and on<br />
<strong>the</strong> eighth tiny twist, he slammed <strong>the</strong> door shut. Then he faced <strong>the</strong> falling snow out past <strong>the</strong><br />
reflector and leaned back against <strong>the</strong> pickup, his arms crossed.<br />
John opened his gym bag’s zipper and dug through <strong>the</strong> clo<strong>the</strong>s and hand towel folded<br />
above his mixing bowl, iron skillet, and canned goods. The clo<strong>the</strong>s were so cold <strong>the</strong>y felt damp,<br />
and he realized just how few clo<strong>the</strong>s he’d packed. He almost hadn’t packed at all, he had wanted<br />
to get out of Billie’s house so quickly, but he couldn’t leave his grandmo<strong>the</strong>r’s iron skillet or his<br />
mo<strong>the</strong>r’s mixing bowl or <strong>the</strong> spice jar with <strong>the</strong> minuscule tuft of saffron—expensive like gold.<br />
Then, <strong>for</strong> some reason, he had grabbed <strong>the</strong> cream of tarter, too. The skillet, bowl, and saffron, he<br />
understood; <strong>the</strong> cream of tarter baffled him. What was he going to do, whip up a meringue on <strong>the</strong><br />
side of <strong>the</strong> road?<br />
He focused back on his clo<strong>the</strong>s and decided that, instead of swapping pants, he would<br />
wear both pair at <strong>the</strong> same time. He pulled <strong>the</strong> jeans over his shoes and tried to pull <strong>the</strong>m all <strong>the</strong><br />
way on. Halfway up, <strong>the</strong> legs hung on his shoes. He pulled at <strong>the</strong> empty leg bottoms to get <strong>the</strong>m<br />
back off. One came off easily, but <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r stuck solid. He yanked on <strong>the</strong> stuck one, and when it<br />
gave, he banged his hand on <strong>the</strong> bottom of <strong>the</strong> steering wheel.<br />
“Damn it,” he said.<br />
He felt one of <strong>the</strong> tiny dry-skin cracks on his thumb tip ache, and he bet it had started to<br />
bleed inside <strong>the</strong> glove again. Then he felt <strong>the</strong> stickiness.<br />
He looked at Ed, expecting Ed to turn around or laugh, but Ed had walked a couple of<br />
paces off into <strong>the</strong> snow and was peeing on <strong>the</strong> base of <strong>the</strong> reflector pole, his dick in plain sight. He<br />
was leaning slightly back, as nonchalantly as if he were barbequing, his left fist on his hip, holding<br />
his parka open.<br />
A huge knife hung shea<strong>the</strong>d on Ed’s belt. The sheath was black, with black duct tape<br />
wrapped around <strong>the</strong> sheath’s point. Even <strong>the</strong> knife’s handle was black. Ed had <strong>the</strong> knife strapped<br />
not at his side or just around toward his back, but slightly in front and upside down, as if it were<br />
something he needed to whip out regularly.<br />
Ed turned and saw John watching him. He made a face mocking shock and turned so that<br />
17
John couldn’t see his dick, but <strong>the</strong> knife was still in plain sight.<br />
John focused on getting his shoes off and tried to ignore Ed’s antics and <strong>the</strong> knife. It made<br />
him nervous that Ed had <strong>the</strong> thing, more so <strong>the</strong> strange way he carried it, but <strong>the</strong>re was nothing he<br />
could do about it. It was impossible to leave Ed shrinking in his rearview now, and he certainly<br />
couldn’t take <strong>the</strong> knife or ask Ed <strong>for</strong> it. He had to hope that ignoring it might make Ed ignore it,<br />
too.<br />
John pulled his shoes off and thought of how stupid it was to try leaving <strong>the</strong>m on in <strong>the</strong><br />
first place. He put all his socks on. His feet immediately felt warmer, and he wondered why he<br />
hadn’t stopped to do that be<strong>for</strong>e. He pulled <strong>the</strong> jeans over his dress slacks, and <strong>the</strong> denim pressed<br />
<strong>the</strong> icy, thin wool against his skin in bunched-up wrinkles. At first, it felt like he had crammed<br />
broken icicles all down inside his pants legs, but as <strong>the</strong> wool warmed, he decided <strong>the</strong> rough press<br />
of wrinkles was far better than <strong>the</strong> loose cold fabric of be<strong>for</strong>e, no matter how smoothly it had<br />
touched his skin.<br />
His shoes wouldn’t go on over all <strong>the</strong> socks, so he took two pair back off and loosened his<br />
shoe laces as far as <strong>the</strong>y would go, and <strong>the</strong>n his shoes went on. He pulled one shoe’s side flaps<br />
over its tongue’s edges and tried to tie <strong>the</strong> lace ends, but <strong>the</strong> aglets slipped from his gloved<br />
fingers. He wished he had longer laces. He pulled his gloves off and tied <strong>the</strong> lace ends in tiny<br />
granny knots, <strong>the</strong> aglets barely clearing <strong>the</strong> knots and jutting out like thorns. The blood from his<br />
cracked thumb end made <strong>the</strong> aglets sticky, and his thumb throbbed. He ignored that and did <strong>the</strong><br />
same with his o<strong>the</strong>r shoe, and he was finally able to put his gloves back on.<br />
His hands shook from <strong>the</strong> cold. He squeezed <strong>the</strong>m into fists, all except <strong>the</strong> throbbing<br />
thumb, and felt <strong>the</strong> ice crystals in <strong>the</strong> fabric inside his fists. He wished he had extra gloves, too. He<br />
picked up <strong>the</strong> two pairs of socks he had taken back off his feet and pulled <strong>the</strong>m over his gloves. It<br />
took longer <strong>for</strong> his hands to warm up than it had his feet or legs, but again, he wondered why he<br />
hadn’t thought of something that simple be<strong>for</strong>e.<br />
Ed opened <strong>the</strong> passenger door. “You done yet?”<br />
“Almost.”<br />
Ed’s parka was closed tight, his hood back on, <strong>the</strong> knife hidden again.<br />
John rolled up his hand towel lengthwise, wrapped it around his neck, and tucked <strong>the</strong> ends<br />
down inside <strong>the</strong> front of his coat. He had a spare T-shirt, too, but left it in <strong>the</strong> open bag. That<br />
might be too much once he started walking.<br />
18
No o<strong>the</strong>r vehicles had come by. Nothing had come into sight at all. There was still only<br />
John and Ed, <strong>the</strong> dead pickup, <strong>the</strong> snaking lines of poles and semi tracks, and <strong>the</strong> lonesome<br />
grayness instead of a visible horizon.<br />
John turned off <strong>the</strong> pickup’s headlights, got out of <strong>the</strong> pickup, and walked around its nose<br />
to Ed’s side.<br />
Ed looked at John and nodded approvingly.<br />
“You need a hat,” Ed said and peered through <strong>the</strong> window. “Use that T-shirt.” Ed pulled<br />
his hood back half a foot, pulled off his ball cap, and handed it to John. “And this.”<br />
John froze. The top part of Ed’s <strong>for</strong>ehead was a mass of jumbled hills and valleys. His<br />
hairline didn’t start until three or four inches back from where it should have, and his skin <strong>the</strong>re<br />
smoothly hugged <strong>the</strong> deep jumbles in his skull, which made <strong>the</strong> mess seem oddly planned. It<br />
looked as if someone had taken a router to <strong>the</strong> top and front of Ed’s head and cut deep gouges<br />
into it and <strong>the</strong>n carefully draped new baby’s skin over every gouge and upturned piece of bone.<br />
“Here,” Ed said, still holding out his ball cap, and he pulled his parka hood all <strong>the</strong> way<br />
back on.<br />
John took <strong>the</strong> ball cap, awkwardly at first in his double-socked hands, until he had worked<br />
<strong>the</strong> thumbs of his gloves around inside <strong>the</strong> socks enough to grip it. His hands looked like sock<br />
puppets biting Ed’s ball cap. They seemed to beg <strong>for</strong> colorful sewn-on buttons <strong>for</strong> eyes, each not<br />
knowing <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r was trying to chow down on Ed’s ball cap, too, unaware of <strong>the</strong> stains—or<br />
maybe ravenous because of <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
John half expected <strong>the</strong> cap to hold <strong>the</strong> mal<strong>for</strong>med shape of Ed’s head, but its dome was<br />
smooth. The underside of <strong>the</strong> bill was worn through to <strong>the</strong> cardboard where Ed’s thumb had<br />
touched it maybe a million times. The cap’s bottom edges were black with dirt and oil, <strong>the</strong> cloth<br />
<strong>the</strong>re worn smooth and shiny. The strange dark spots showed through on <strong>the</strong> underside, but not in<br />
<strong>the</strong>ir entirety.<br />
John told himself, Surely that’s not blood.<br />
John opened <strong>the</strong> passenger door and pulled out <strong>the</strong> T-shirt. He draped it over his head like<br />
a cloth you might use to cover <strong>the</strong> back of your neck in <strong>the</strong> desert, and he put <strong>the</strong> ball cap over<br />
that. It was easier to put <strong>the</strong> cap on knowing that it wasn’t actually touching his head, and it<br />
struck him as strange that costumes <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> desert and <strong>for</strong> a blizzard resembled each o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
“Okay,” John said.<br />
19
Ed glanced into <strong>the</strong> pickup’s bed. “What you bringing with you?”<br />
John suddenly realized <strong>the</strong> permanence of leaving <strong>the</strong> pickup behind, and it made his heart<br />
beat faster. He brea<strong>the</strong>d heavily, and every layer of clo<strong>the</strong>s rubbed against <strong>the</strong> next <strong>for</strong> room. It<br />
seemed harder to leave <strong>the</strong> pickup than it had been to leave Billie, and he felt worth less <strong>for</strong> that.<br />
Something sour rose in John’s stomach and tasted bitter in <strong>the</strong> back of his mouth. Saliva<br />
pooled around his tongue and wet his lips, and he thought he might puke.<br />
John held on to <strong>the</strong> open passenger door, sat on <strong>the</strong> floorboard, and leaned over his knees,<br />
swallowing <strong>the</strong> saliva.<br />
Ed asked, “You okay?”<br />
“Yeah,” John said, but he didn’t feel okay. He spit into <strong>the</strong> snow and wished he had a sip<br />
of water. He felt weak.<br />
Ed reached over <strong>the</strong> side of <strong>the</strong> pickup’s bed and pulled out his rolled-up blanket. It was<br />
tied at both ends with <strong>the</strong> ends of a rope, and Ed draped <strong>the</strong> rope over his head and shoulder like<br />
a sling, hanging <strong>the</strong> roll beneath his right arm and behind him. The roll’s middle was bulky and<br />
sagged, as if stuffed with a few small but heavy belongings.<br />
Ed asked, “Do you want to carry <strong>the</strong> cooler or <strong>the</strong> bag? Or do you want to combine <strong>the</strong>m<br />
somehow?”<br />
John thought about <strong>the</strong> food in <strong>the</strong> cooler, <strong>the</strong> odds and ends from Billie’s fridge. He had a<br />
carton of eggs in <strong>the</strong>re, half a package of bacon, a jug of orange juice, lunch meat. Thinking of <strong>the</strong><br />
raw bacon and <strong>the</strong> lunch meat made <strong>the</strong> bitter taste worse, and he threw up in <strong>the</strong> snow. He<br />
hadn’t eaten since dinner <strong>the</strong> night be<strong>for</strong>e, yet <strong>the</strong>re seemed tons of vomit. It came again and again<br />
until he dry-heaved and orange chunky saliva hung in long strings from his lower lip. Bits of food<br />
wedged in <strong>the</strong> slime around his teeth. His tongue pushed <strong>the</strong>m up to between his lips, and he spit<br />
<strong>the</strong>m out.<br />
Ed scooped up a mittenful of snow and held it out to John. “Here,” he said.<br />
John scooped up his own handful of clean snow and shoved it inside his mouth. The cold<br />
felt refreshing, and <strong>the</strong> grainy crystals scoured <strong>the</strong> food particles from <strong>the</strong> insides of his cheeks<br />
and around his tongue and teeth. Letting <strong>the</strong> snow melt in <strong>the</strong> back of his mouth eased <strong>the</strong> bitter<br />
taste.<br />
John spit that mouthful out and shoved a fresh scoop in, swallowing as that one melted.<br />
Ed crushed his handful of snow in his mittened fist, and it crumbled to <strong>the</strong> ground.<br />
20
“Fine,” he said.<br />
John said, “Thanks. The snow was a good idea.”<br />
John scooped up ano<strong>the</strong>r handful and shoved it in. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.<br />
Ed asked, “What’s in <strong>the</strong> cooler?”<br />
John shook his head. “I don’t want anything that’s in <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Ed climbed into <strong>the</strong> pickup’s bed and opened <strong>the</strong> cooler. “It’s mostly frozen,” he said.<br />
Suddenly Ed had his knife in his hand, and he stabbed and stabbed at <strong>the</strong> ice inside <strong>the</strong><br />
cooler. Chips and half-moon-shaped cubes erupted up and out. John thought it silly that people<br />
called any ice from a tray “cubes,” no matter what <strong>the</strong> shape.<br />
Ed held <strong>the</strong> package of salami out to John. “You don’t want this? It seems okay.”<br />
“No,” John said, and he bit into ano<strong>the</strong>r handful of snow.<br />
Ed opened <strong>the</strong> package and pulled out <strong>the</strong> stack of meat and bit into it like it were a<br />
burger, complete with buns, lettuce, tomato, cheese. He chewed only three or four times,<br />
swallowed, and took ano<strong>the</strong>r bite. Within a minute, he had eaten <strong>the</strong> entire thing.<br />
“Your eggs have all frozen and busted,” he said. “And <strong>the</strong> juice is solid, but you’re going<br />
to need liquids.”<br />
He pried out <strong>the</strong> juice bottle and three frozen bottles of water and jumped out of <strong>the</strong><br />
pickup. He set <strong>the</strong> bottles next to John and ate a handful of snow himself.<br />
“Gym bag it is,” he said.<br />
Ed reached past John and pulled <strong>the</strong> bag from <strong>the</strong> pickup. His knife had disappeared<br />
somehow, most likely shea<strong>the</strong>d again, but John hadn’t seen Ed put it away.<br />
“Damn!” Ed said and set <strong>the</strong> bag in <strong>the</strong> snow. “What you got in here, a pair of<br />
dumbbells?”<br />
“My iron skillet.”<br />
Ed looked at <strong>the</strong> frozen juice and water, <strong>the</strong>n into <strong>the</strong> sky, which had grown lighter. The<br />
snow had eased, and John could make out <strong>the</strong> swirls of <strong>the</strong> bottoms of clouds.<br />
Ed picked up <strong>the</strong> frozen bottles and asked, “You sure you want to carry that skillet, too?”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“You use it to make pancakes?”<br />
“It makes great pancakes.”<br />
Ed shoved <strong>the</strong> bottles into John’s bag and pulled out <strong>the</strong> skillet. He grabbed <strong>the</strong> loose end<br />
21
of rope jutting from <strong>the</strong> knot at <strong>the</strong> back end of his bundle, stuck <strong>the</strong> rope end through <strong>the</strong> hole in<br />
<strong>the</strong> skillet’s handle, tied <strong>the</strong> rope snug, and let <strong>the</strong> skillet dangle from his bundle. The weight<br />
dragged that end of Ed’s bundle low.<br />
Ed said, “Let’s go.”<br />
From far behind <strong>the</strong> pickup, snow crunched faintly and intermittently at first, <strong>the</strong>n grew<br />
louder and steady, and a pair of headlights pierced <strong>the</strong> gray. A row of five amber lights appeared<br />
above that, <strong>the</strong> three in <strong>the</strong> middle close toge<strong>the</strong>r. An engine rumbled.<br />
Ed ran around <strong>the</strong> front of <strong>the</strong> pickup and stood with his thumb out. A semi pulling two<br />
trailers went by and spewed a cloud of snow across <strong>the</strong> pickup, John, and Ed. The rumble of <strong>the</strong><br />
engine waned, and red tail lights and marker lights dimmed and <strong>the</strong>n disappeared in <strong>the</strong> distant fog<br />
of <strong>the</strong> dying snow.<br />
Ed turned to John. “Come on. More trucks will come, and one of <strong>the</strong>m is bound to see<br />
this pickup and <strong>the</strong>n us and give us a ride, but we gotta be walking far enough from <strong>the</strong> pickup <strong>for</strong><br />
a person to feel sorry <strong>for</strong> us. No one feels sorry <strong>for</strong> anyone that’s only struggled a few yards.”<br />
John wondered if, <strong>the</strong> night be<strong>for</strong>e, Ed had hidden a car somewhere be<strong>for</strong>e he had stuck<br />
his thumb out in front of John’s pickup.<br />
Ed marched down <strong>the</strong> shoulder, John’s grandmo<strong>the</strong>r’s iron skillet dangling behind him,<br />
shrinking and fading in <strong>the</strong> foggy grayness.<br />
John picked up his gym bag and slung it from his shoulder. He struggled with it and<br />
slipped in <strong>the</strong> snow as he jogged around <strong>the</strong> nose of <strong>the</strong> pickup.<br />
He finally caught Ed, and <strong>the</strong>y walked through <strong>the</strong> snow side by side, John keeping <strong>the</strong><br />
pitch blackness of his grandmo<strong>the</strong>r’s iron skillet in his peripheral vision. The grayness behind <strong>the</strong>m<br />
soon swallowed up John’s pickup, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> pinpoint flashes of its dimming hazard lights, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n even <strong>the</strong> last faint hint of <strong>the</strong>ir glow.<br />
22
CHAPTER 4<br />
John’s last morning in Denver had been Friday. The snow would catch John and his<br />
pickup at two <strong>the</strong> next morning way out around Burlington, after John’s long Friday afternoon<br />
nap in Limon, but on that morning in Denver, as <strong>the</strong> sun just began to rise, <strong>the</strong> sky was still mostly<br />
clear, <strong>the</strong> few early, wispy clouds growing far brighter and redder than <strong>the</strong> sky possibly could<br />
have on its own.<br />
On his drive home from Leopold’s, after closing up <strong>the</strong> bar and taking care of <strong>the</strong><br />
paperwork and <strong>the</strong> deposit, John had watched <strong>the</strong> sky brighten behind <strong>the</strong> black symmetrical<br />
peaks and squares of silhouetted suburbia. The light grew deeper red and more intensely focused<br />
into a single spot on <strong>the</strong> horizon where <strong>the</strong> sun itself was about to rise. The air was dead calm<br />
under <strong>the</strong> thin streaks of cayenne-pepper-red clouds. In John’s rearview, <strong>the</strong> Rockies’ peaks<br />
already glowed yellow and white in direct sunlight, <strong>the</strong> glow bleeding downward as <strong>the</strong> sun crept<br />
closer to revealing itself to Denver itself. Sunrise had come later each day <strong>for</strong> months, and this<br />
time it hadn’t come at all by <strong>the</strong> time John pulled into <strong>the</strong> drive at Billie’s house.<br />
It surprised him that his key still worked in Billie’s door. He had used <strong>the</strong> key to lock <strong>the</strong><br />
door only nineteen hours be<strong>for</strong>e, but so much had changed that he had thought, She will change<br />
<strong>the</strong> locks. Of course she will change <strong>the</strong> locks. She will throw my things onto <strong>the</strong> lawn. She will<br />
scratch out my eyes and pound my ribs into splinters when she sees me again.<br />
He climbed <strong>the</strong> stairs and tiptoed into Billie’s bedroom. She lay in bed in <strong>the</strong> faint light,<br />
light that somehow changed from brilliant red and yellow outside into something dull and gray<br />
once it had filtered around and through <strong>the</strong> drapes. Billie slept in <strong>the</strong> grayness on her right side,<br />
facing John.<br />
He froze, afraid of waking her, but he knew he needed to hurry, that she would sense his<br />
presence soon and wake up, whe<strong>the</strong>r he moved or not. Every second he stayed in her bedroom<br />
was a second he risked her eyes opening, those green eyes that had spellbound him in Biloxi. So<br />
much rested on <strong>the</strong> involuntary contraction of two of <strong>the</strong> tiniest muscles in her body, so small a<br />
motion that it seemed it should be insignificant, but one that could—and had in Biloxi—<br />
23
completely alter his world.<br />
He stepped past her to <strong>the</strong> closet and pulled his gym bag from <strong>the</strong> shelf. Then he tiptoed<br />
back past her to <strong>the</strong> dresser and packed a spare T-shirt, a sweater, a pair of jeans, underwear, and<br />
socks. He wanted to pack more. He wanted to change out of his dress clo<strong>the</strong>s. But he couldn’t<br />
risk that. He did pull off his ice-blue tie and his suit’s coat and hung those up and pulled out his<br />
brown lea<strong>the</strong>r jacket and put that on.<br />
He zipped <strong>the</strong> gym bag, and Billie rolled over, turning away from him. John stood<br />
absolutely still. He wondered if she had actually woken but was pretending to sleep, though he<br />
couldn’t imagine why she would do that. He felt as if he should shove his clo<strong>the</strong>s back into <strong>the</strong><br />
dresser and put his gym bag away, as if he should apologize, make breakfast, make up.<br />
Her blonde curly locks looked <strong>the</strong> same as <strong>the</strong>y had <strong>the</strong> first time he’d seen her, on<br />
Leopold’s birthday vacation at <strong>the</strong> casino where John had worked in Biloxi, how <strong>the</strong> casino had<br />
seemed to swing around her as he walked around to her table. The distant dings of <strong>the</strong> slot<br />
machines outside <strong>the</strong> dining room had blended into a cacophony like someone playing <strong>the</strong> rims of<br />
crystal glasses by fingertip. It was a sound you heard in dreams. Then <strong>the</strong> casino had swung and<br />
swung around until her eyes were upon him, and like <strong>the</strong> light in that instant be<strong>for</strong>e sunrise,<br />
everything had become brightened and focused, and <strong>the</strong> next thing he knew, he had chased her all<br />
<strong>the</strong> way to Denver.<br />
John clenched his teeth and brea<strong>the</strong>d heavily, watching Billie’s com<strong>for</strong>ter-covered back<br />
slowly shrink and swell with her breathing. Her blonde curls were fake, of course. Locks that<br />
blonde and that curly were almost always unnatural. He wondered if she had somehow dyed her<br />
eyes, too.<br />
He turned and left <strong>the</strong> bedroom, stopping in <strong>the</strong> bathroom <strong>for</strong> his toothbrush and a hand<br />
towel, and <strong>the</strong>n tiptoed downstairs to <strong>the</strong> kitchen.<br />
His smashed dishware still littered <strong>the</strong> floor, chips, chunks, and crumbles of light gray with<br />
white broken edges scattered all over <strong>the</strong> huge charcoal-colored squares, sixteen starbursts of<br />
chalky white where <strong>the</strong> pieces had hit, like some bizarre, made-up constellation on a grid of white<br />
lines. John stepped carefully through <strong>the</strong> broken stoneware, opened a cabinet door, and pulled out<br />
his grandmo<strong>the</strong>r’s cast-iron skillet and slid it into his bag. Then he wrapped his chef’s, filet, and<br />
paring knives in an apron and packed that. He packed his mo<strong>the</strong>r’s hand-thrown mixing bowl; a<br />
few cooking utensils; a bag of dried great nor<strong>the</strong>rn beans and one of rice; a can of ready-to-eat<br />
24
lack beans; his sea salt, pepper mill, and saffron; and, <strong>for</strong> some reason, his cream of tarter.<br />
He took <strong>the</strong> camping cooler from <strong>the</strong> hall closet and loaded it from <strong>the</strong> fridge. He pulled<br />
<strong>the</strong> large bin of ice from beneath its maker in <strong>the</strong> freezer and dumped <strong>the</strong> ice rattling and banging<br />
all over <strong>the</strong> cooler’s contents.<br />
He knew Billie had to have woken from <strong>the</strong> noise of <strong>the</strong> ice, from <strong>the</strong> front door banging,<br />
or at least from his slamming <strong>the</strong> cooler down onto <strong>the</strong> bed of his pickup or <strong>the</strong> pickup’s door<br />
opening and closing. He looked up at <strong>the</strong> bedroom window and expected her to be watching him,<br />
but <strong>the</strong> window was dark and empty. She never called down and asked what he was doing or<br />
rushed out of <strong>the</strong> house crying and begging <strong>for</strong> him to stay. Nothing. That’s when he knew <strong>for</strong><br />
certain he had made <strong>the</strong> right decision.<br />
He drove through <strong>the</strong> winding neighborhood, still ghostly quiet, and turned onto <strong>the</strong> road<br />
leading to <strong>the</strong> interstate. The sun had already risen. He had missed <strong>the</strong> sunrise itself, but its face<br />
was still red enough to stare at, and <strong>the</strong> clouds were changing to gold.<br />
Then Billie, Leopold, Denver, and <strong>the</strong> Rockies were behind him, disappearing in his<br />
rearview, but so was love, it seemed, or his hope <strong>for</strong> it, that silly chase halfway across <strong>the</strong> country<br />
that always seemed a happy ending in movies and children’s tales. Soon <strong>the</strong> sun was too bright to<br />
look at directly, and John hid it behind his visor and noticed that his muscles were achy tired. He<br />
knew he would need to sleep soon, or sleep would choose him instead and push him off <strong>the</strong> road<br />
and into a ditch or God-knows-where, but he <strong>for</strong>ced himself to remain awake <strong>for</strong> a moment, two,<br />
three, to keep that fresh dreamy feeling that dawn brings, to hold it as long as he safely could<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e finally consigning himself to pull over, park, and curl up alone in his idling old beat-up<br />
pickup and drift off to sleep.<br />
25
CHAPTER 5<br />
A half dozen more semis and two cars passed John and Ed be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> next exit finally<br />
emerged from <strong>the</strong> foggy snow. Though everyone had crept by cautiously enough on <strong>the</strong> snow and<br />
ice, and though that had given each driver ample opportunity to look, no one had stopped in<br />
answer to Ed’s thumb. At <strong>the</strong> top of <strong>the</strong> exit ramp, in <strong>the</strong> brighter though still ever-present snow<br />
and grayness, stood two tiny gas stations, one on ei<strong>the</strong>r side of <strong>the</strong> overpass, and a long, low<br />
restaurant-slash-motel.<br />
John was beat. He had not slept since his nap in Limon <strong>the</strong> day be<strong>for</strong>e, and he and Ed had<br />
pushed on and on on a trudging, frozen trek that had felt like Ernest Shackleton’s own, and <strong>the</strong><br />
hike up <strong>the</strong> exit ramp made John feel as if his legs and heart would give out be<strong>for</strong>e he ever made it<br />
to <strong>the</strong> top.<br />
But his legs and heart didn’t fail him, and John was hungry, but he figured he wouldn’t be<br />
able to take one bite without falling dead asleep, so he ignored his stomach’s weak, empty, dry<br />
rumbling and made straight <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> motel’s office. He expected <strong>the</strong> red orange neon “vacancy”<br />
sign’s dark-brown “no” partner to spring to life any moment and deny him even a dingy, stalesmoke-scented<br />
room. But it didn’t.<br />
John was grateful that <strong>the</strong>re was a room available, that he had enough cash <strong>for</strong> it, that Ed<br />
didn’t offer half <strong>the</strong> room’s rate or imply that he wanted to share, that this seemed like where <strong>the</strong><br />
two of <strong>the</strong>m would part. John said goodbye to Ed and silently thanked his pickup <strong>for</strong> breaking<br />
down so completely that he no longer felt obligated to stick with Ed all <strong>the</strong> way to <strong>the</strong> sea.<br />
John took his grandmo<strong>the</strong>r’s iron skillet from Ed and gave Ed back his spotted cap.<br />
“I’ll find myself a spot somewhere,” Ed said.<br />
John wondered if Ed meant <strong>for</strong> sleeping or <strong>for</strong> life in general, or if it was some strange<br />
reference to his ball cap. John’s mind was so groggy that each of those made sense, and nothing<br />
made sense.<br />
“Okay,” John said and went inside <strong>the</strong> room and closed <strong>the</strong> door.<br />
He dropped his gym bag to <strong>the</strong> floor next to <strong>the</strong> tiny table and chairs, set his skillet heavily<br />
26
on <strong>the</strong> bag, plopped onto <strong>the</strong> bed fully dressed, and fell into a deep sleep.<br />
He slept <strong>for</strong> hours, and when he finally woke completely, it was night again, and he was<br />
beneath <strong>the</strong> covers. He somewhat remembered waking and undressing and crawling beneath <strong>the</strong>m,<br />
but it seemed more like a dream. The ordeal with his pickup and Ed seemed a part of that dream,<br />
yet here he was in <strong>the</strong> motel. He hoped his pickup was parked outside, that this motel was on <strong>the</strong><br />
outskirts of Topeka or Kansas City, or even better, Nashville, and that all but <strong>the</strong> motel part<br />
actually had been a dream. But he knew better.<br />
He sat up and <strong>for</strong>ced his muscles to wake up, to let <strong>the</strong> buzzing leave his ears enough so<br />
that he could stand and keep his balance, and he went to <strong>the</strong> sink and tore <strong>the</strong> amazingly resilient<br />
cellophane from <strong>the</strong> tiny plastic glass and drank five glassfuls of water. Then he plopped onto <strong>the</strong><br />
bed again, ready to sleep all through <strong>the</strong> night, but his rumbling stomach made him get dressed to<br />
see if <strong>the</strong> restaurant was an all-nighter.<br />
John opened <strong>the</strong> door to <strong>the</strong> night and found Ed lying in <strong>the</strong> breezeway between <strong>the</strong><br />
clo<strong>the</strong>s washer and a vending machine filled with toothpaste, laundry soap, toenail clippers, and<br />
<strong>the</strong> like. Ed lay rolled up in his blanket with his parka hood pulled tightly over his head and his<br />
coiled-up rope, a large square canteen, a can of ravioli, and an empty soup can between him and<br />
<strong>the</strong> brick wall. A pair of gray socks hung draped over <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> washer, apparently left out<br />
to dry but frozen instead, tiny, white, flaky crystals in masses across <strong>the</strong> nap of <strong>the</strong> wool.<br />
John said, “Ed, it’s cold out here.”<br />
Ed looked up. John doubted he had slept at all.<br />
“Come inside, Ed.”<br />
Ed seemed to fall asleep as soon as he crawled into bed and pulled <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>ter over<br />
himself. He lay on his back like he were in a coffin, like someone had lain his body perfectly<br />
straight and draped his weird hands over his chest, his mal<strong>for</strong>med head looking like a sculptor had<br />
goofed up while shaping <strong>the</strong> clay but had <strong>the</strong>n decided to leave <strong>the</strong> flaw and see how it might<br />
impact <strong>the</strong> composition. Ed seemed to sleep as if he hadn’t in weeks.<br />
The room’s clock radio read 1:00 a.m. John went into <strong>the</strong> bathroom, closed and locked<br />
<strong>the</strong> door, and showered while Ed slept. By <strong>the</strong> time John finished, <strong>the</strong> mirror above <strong>the</strong> sink had<br />
thickly fogged over. John wiped it with his towel, but <strong>the</strong> bathroom’s heat and humidity made it<br />
fog back over almost instantly. So John wrapped his towel around his waist and cracked <strong>the</strong><br />
bathroom door, <strong>the</strong>n opened it fully and peeked at Ed in <strong>the</strong> darkened room. Ed still slept. He<br />
27
didn’t seem to have budged.<br />
John went back into <strong>the</strong> bathroom and pulled <strong>the</strong> door shut. The mirror had cleared<br />
enough <strong>for</strong> him to see, so he shaved his face and <strong>the</strong> back of his neck. He grabbed his scissors and<br />
snipped off <strong>the</strong> ends of his armpit hairs, and he pulled out his tweezers and plucked <strong>the</strong> bigger,<br />
blacker, more aggressive hairs out of his ears and nose. Plucking <strong>the</strong> nose hairs was painful and<br />
made him sneeze, and his nose began to run, so he pulled off a wad of toilet paper, blew his nose<br />
into it, made sure <strong>the</strong>re was no blood, and flushed <strong>the</strong> wad down <strong>the</strong> toilet.<br />
He got dressed and went to check on <strong>the</strong> restaurant, but it was closed. The wind blew<br />
fresh and bitter cold, and John wished he were back in all his clo<strong>the</strong>s instead of just his jeans,<br />
T-shirt, sweater, and coat. The sky was black with gray puffed-out lower edges of low clouds.<br />
Snow trickled into <strong>the</strong> uppermost glow of <strong>the</strong> street lamps and on down onto <strong>the</strong> yellow-white<br />
circular fields beneath.<br />
It reminded John of his last night at Leopold’s, and he was relieved that he was done with<br />
that, but he wished, too, that he wasn’t. A year be<strong>for</strong>e, he had convinced himself that that was<br />
where he should be, and that he had finally gotten his life toge<strong>the</strong>r, but he had lied. He had no idea<br />
where he should be. He was glad he had admitted <strong>the</strong> lie to himself, but that honesty was a lost,<br />
lonely feeling, and it made his dried-up prune of a stomach feel like it were a pile of stones<br />
instead. The weight fixed John’s soles to <strong>the</strong> sidewalk like <strong>the</strong>y had been <strong>the</strong>re since <strong>the</strong> start of<br />
time. He watched <strong>the</strong> flakes ga<strong>the</strong>r on <strong>the</strong> toes of his loafers and in <strong>the</strong> weave and mesh of his<br />
laces and slowly fill <strong>the</strong> footprints behind him until <strong>the</strong> prints had dulled and he no longer<br />
recognized <strong>the</strong>m as his own.<br />
28
CHAPTER 6<br />
At six years old, little Edwin MacGuffin followed his neighbor’s toddler around <strong>the</strong> trailer<br />
court <strong>for</strong> an entire afternoon, pulling up her diaper every time it began to slip. At six and a half, he<br />
started running from trains. By <strong>the</strong> time he was eight, he found himself frantic if school stairwells<br />
didn’t have an even number of steps. If he climbed a set of stairs and it ended odd, he would make<br />
it even himself by creating an imaginary extra step with a huge swoop and stomp of his foot. If he<br />
turned <strong>the</strong> same direction too many consecutive times at hallway intersections or through<br />
doorways, he would pirouette in <strong>the</strong> next doorway to unwind <strong>the</strong> accumulation. Four right turns<br />
through hallways and doors without a left required one full leftward spin in <strong>the</strong> next doorway;<br />
four lefts, a rightward spin. Eventually he had to keep track of how many total lefts and rights<br />
he’d made over <strong>the</strong> course of <strong>the</strong> day, <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> week, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>for</strong> eternity. It had to even out. He<br />
had to make it even out. Soon, he was spinning to counteract what he’d determined were prior<br />
erroneous spins. By age ten, he had to make <strong>for</strong>ks click on dinner plates just so, glimpse himself at<br />
<strong>the</strong> edges of mirrors and polished windows exactly four times be<strong>for</strong>e he could leave <strong>the</strong>m behind,<br />
and always, always run from trains.<br />
Ed loved <strong>the</strong> army. They were obsessive compulsive, too: no food particles whatsoever<br />
could remain on a toothbrush; clo<strong>the</strong>s hanging in closets had to be fully buttoned; pushups and situps<br />
were counted in fours—everything was even—left, right, left, right; no one cared if Ed buffed<br />
and buffed his boots, swishing <strong>the</strong> brush across each toe in multiples of fours, as long as <strong>the</strong>y were<br />
shiny, and Ed’s were so, so shiny.<br />
Then, <strong>the</strong> day after his last breakfast of blueberry pancakes, that one Ranger Instructor in<br />
<strong>the</strong> patrol base had looked straight at Ed, seemingly peering deep into Ed’s eyes alone, and talked<br />
about people not belonging, and Ed had remembered <strong>the</strong> trains and his dead big bro<strong>the</strong>r Marcus<br />
and knew he couldn’t finish Ranger School. But quitting would get him an LOM—a lack-ofmotivation<br />
letter—in his permanent file, and that would be worse than never having volunteered<br />
in <strong>the</strong> first place.<br />
Later that same day, Ed and his fellow Ranger-wannabes parachuted deep into <strong>the</strong><br />
29
mountains of nor<strong>the</strong>ast Georgia, and Ed saw <strong>the</strong> world laid out below him in a vast, gray-green<br />
yet distinctive scape. His chute drifted laterally above <strong>the</strong> land while everyone else’s slipped down<br />
to it. There was no sound except <strong>the</strong> flutter of his chute’s silk edges and <strong>the</strong> faint hum of air in his<br />
risers. It was a beautiful day, full of sunshine, <strong>the</strong> hills thick with green in every direction. Ed<br />
watched <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r chutes shrink toward <strong>the</strong> tiny green pasture, <strong>the</strong> billowy tan bulbs looking more<br />
like a strangely smooth lichen <strong>the</strong> tinier <strong>the</strong>y got, and Ed knew that he were meant <strong>for</strong> bigger<br />
things than <strong>the</strong> men drifting below. As soon as that realization had come to him, his chute slung<br />
him suddenly down toward <strong>the</strong> wooded mountainside, threw him into <strong>the</strong> trees, flung him against<br />
a huge pine trunk, broke his nose, dropped him thirty feet straight down onto <strong>the</strong> steeply sloping<br />
ground, and shattered his leg, and Ed thanked his lucky stars.<br />
After Ed had been medically dropped from Ranger School and <strong>for</strong>bidden to ever<br />
parachute again—lest he shatter what remained of his femur and shove it up through his<br />
abdomen—he had been sent to Fort Riley, Kansas, with <strong>the</strong> Big Red One and all its track vehicles<br />
instead of chutes. He also began counting <strong>for</strong>k clicks in sixteens instead of fours, and he could feel<br />
<strong>the</strong> two-fifty-sixes coming. That old panicky feeling that trains used to give him crept into even<br />
his sleep. He dreamed long, violent dreams, and his bed sheets would end up thrown on <strong>the</strong> floor<br />
in tangled masses by <strong>the</strong> time he woke.<br />
When he finally fell prey to <strong>the</strong> two hundred and fifty-sixes and couldn’t even wash his<br />
hands after a piss in less than an hour, and he felt even larger numbers tugging at him, he couldn’t<br />
take it anymore. He shoved <strong>the</strong> barrel of his pistol into his mouth and touched <strong>the</strong> muzzle against<br />
his hard palate, once, <strong>the</strong>n four times, <strong>the</strong>n four times four times. After <strong>the</strong> seventeenth,<br />
eighteenth, nineteenth tap, he thought, It’ll never stop. I have to repeat even this. But I can pull<br />
<strong>the</strong> trigger only once, not two hundred and fifty-six times. And that scared <strong>the</strong> bejezus out of him,<br />
and it made him think of his dead bro<strong>the</strong>r Marcus, and so he rocked and tapped and counted, and<br />
on <strong>the</strong> two hundred and fifty-eighth tap, he pulled <strong>the</strong> trigger.<br />
30
CHAPTER 7<br />
Ed sat across <strong>the</strong> tiny table from John in <strong>the</strong> motel’s restaurant, about to dig into his plate<br />
of blueberry pancakes. Ed had unzipped his parka to his waist, slipped <strong>the</strong> parka off his shoulders,<br />
and pulled his arms from <strong>the</strong> sleeves, bunching up <strong>the</strong> bulk of <strong>the</strong> parka into a wad between his<br />
lower back and <strong>the</strong> chair’s back while leaving <strong>the</strong> parka’s waist fastened around his waist, where<br />
it hid his knife. His light-gray sweatshirt’s cuffs and neck, and <strong>the</strong> neck of his T-shirt showing<br />
from beneath <strong>the</strong> sweatshirt, were black with dirt and old body oil.<br />
No one but <strong>the</strong>m and one waitress and one cook was in <strong>the</strong> restaurant. The walls’ lower<br />
halves were paneled with fake, dark wood, and covering <strong>the</strong>ir top halves was dingy wallpaper<br />
with a pattern of miniature flowers. The trim between <strong>the</strong> paneling and <strong>the</strong> wallpaper held a ledge<br />
with room enough <strong>for</strong> small knickknacks, though it was empty, save <strong>for</strong> a dull, fuzzy layer of dust<br />
that seemed glued in place by years of airborne grease. Here and <strong>the</strong>re along <strong>the</strong> wallpapered part,<br />
tiny Western-style oil lamps sat in gimbaled wall mounts. The glass domes of some were sootkissed,<br />
as if <strong>the</strong> restaurant had been open since be<strong>for</strong>e electricity, or regularly lost it.<br />
Ed peeled open plastic cubule after plastic cubule and poured <strong>the</strong>ir combined servings of<br />
syrup all over his pancakes. He had sent <strong>the</strong> waitress back and back again <strong>for</strong> more of <strong>the</strong> syrup<br />
cubules until he had drenched his pancakes and surrounded <strong>the</strong>m with a syrupy moat.<br />
The top pancake on Ed’s plate showed three tiny dark spots that John assumed were<br />
blueberries, though <strong>the</strong>y looked more like smudges from a dull charcoal pencil. John blew across<br />
his coffee and sipped it while he watched Ed. The coffee was stale and overhot and tasted horribly<br />
burnt. It left him little hope <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> raw-flour-smelling splayed biscuit and gravy <strong>the</strong> waitress had<br />
set in front of him, but he picked up his <strong>for</strong>k anyway.<br />
Ed said, “These aren’t blueberry pancakes.”<br />
John said, “There are <strong>the</strong> blueberries, <strong>the</strong>re.” He pointed with his <strong>for</strong>k.<br />
When Ed had ordered <strong>the</strong> pancakes, John had mentioned that he couldn’t treat Ed, and Ed<br />
had said, “I know. I have a pancake fund,” and John had thought, Strange, that a man who<br />
hitchhikes and sleeps in a blizzard has enough money to quest <strong>for</strong> pancakes.<br />
31
Ed asked John, “Would you have made blueberry pancakes like this?”<br />
“No.”<br />
John cut a bite of gravy-covered biscuit with <strong>the</strong> edge of his <strong>for</strong>k and put <strong>the</strong> bite in his<br />
mouth. It turned his stomach.<br />
He pushed <strong>the</strong> pasty gravy around his plate with his <strong>for</strong>k and said, “This gravy tastes like<br />
greasy, wet flour.”<br />
Ed asked, “Isn’t that what gravy is?”<br />
Ed cut a short, narrow wedge out of his stack of pancakes and shoved <strong>the</strong> oversized bite<br />
into his mouth.<br />
John said, “Those are <strong>the</strong> main ingredients, but <strong>the</strong> ratios are off, and it doesn’t taste like<br />
<strong>the</strong>y cooked <strong>the</strong> gravy at all. It’s like shoving a bunch of people toge<strong>the</strong>r and calling it a family.<br />
There’s more to it than that.”<br />
Ed chewed and swallowed. “These pancakes suck, too.”<br />
John dipped his index fingertip inside one of Ed’s discarded syrup cubules and licked <strong>the</strong><br />
spot of syrup off his fingertip.<br />
“Not real syrup,” he said, “of course.”<br />
Ed blinked, <strong>the</strong>n tasted <strong>the</strong> syrup again himself. “What do you mean?”<br />
“This is high-fructose corn syrup with a bunch of chemicals. If you want a perfect<br />
pancake, <strong>the</strong> easiest thing to do first is to get real maple syrup, something from a tree.”<br />
Ed’s head rocked in three short, fast nods, his mouth slightly open.<br />
“It’s different?” he said.<br />
“Like <strong>the</strong> difference between jerking off and making love.”<br />
“Where do I get real syrup, <strong>the</strong>n?” Ed asked, looking around, as if bottles of it might be<br />
lined up on <strong>the</strong> wall’s filthy trim.<br />
John said. “It’s in grocery stores and normal places like that. Look <strong>for</strong> tiny bottles with big<br />
prices. Then look <strong>for</strong> ‘real maple syrup’ on <strong>the</strong>ir labels, or ‘one hundred percent real maple<br />
syrup,’ something like that.”<br />
“Okay.” Ed smiled bigger than John had seen him do yet. “See? I knew it was fate.” He<br />
nodded again. “This is going to be fruitful. What do I need <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> pancakes <strong>the</strong>mselves?”<br />
“You mean blueberry pancakes?”<br />
“Yes.” Ed gave a half shudder, half shrug. “Of course.”<br />
32
“For starters, blueberries.”<br />
“What else?”<br />
“Flour—or Bisquick. Bisquick would be better. Then you wouldn’t need baking powder<br />
and all that stuff, and you can just follow <strong>the</strong> directions on <strong>the</strong> box. You’ll need milk, though, and<br />
eggs.”<br />
“Okay. Eggs.”<br />
“The fresher you can get everything—and real—<strong>the</strong> better.”<br />
“Real. You mean <strong>the</strong>y make fake eggs?”<br />
“Sure <strong>the</strong>y do. What I mean is that everything comes in different qualities, like syrup. Get<br />
eggs that come from some sort of natural farm, where hens walk around outside and eat real grain<br />
instead of processed feed full of antibiotics and <strong>the</strong> ground-up bones and skin of <strong>the</strong>ir ancestors.”<br />
“They do that, feed chickens to chickens?”<br />
John nodded. “Crack open a real egg, a fresh one, and pour it next to one of those massproduced<br />
things, and you’ll see <strong>the</strong> difference. The white will hold up better. It’ll be thicker. It’ll<br />
be more a part of <strong>the</strong> whole than that runny mess mass-produced egg whites are, and you’ll taste<br />
<strong>the</strong> difference, too.”<br />
Their waitress came back holding a half-full decanter of coffee. A strong odor of cigarette<br />
smoke emanated from her.<br />
“How are you two doing?” she asked.<br />
Ed pointed at his pancakes and asked her, “Did <strong>the</strong> chickens that laid <strong>the</strong> eggs in <strong>the</strong>se<br />
pancakes eat o<strong>the</strong>r chickens?”<br />
She opened her mouth, <strong>the</strong>n closed it, turned her lips inside, swallowed, and said, “I don’t<br />
know, mister. I surely hope not.” She turned to John and gestured with <strong>the</strong> coffee decanter. “You<br />
want a warm-up?”<br />
John smiled facetiously at her. “No. Thank you.”<br />
She pulled <strong>the</strong>ir ticket from her apron pocket and set it on <strong>the</strong> table in front of <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
Stapled to <strong>the</strong> handwritten ticket was a thin strip of cash register paper, <strong>the</strong> top and bottom edges<br />
serrated, <strong>the</strong> strip curled slightly from where it had come off <strong>the</strong> roll in <strong>the</strong> register.<br />
John rubbed his fingertip across <strong>the</strong> numbers on <strong>the</strong> strip of paper, feeling where <strong>the</strong> paper<br />
had been impressed with <strong>the</strong> strike of <strong>the</strong> metal. The number six had struck lower than <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
numbers, and it gave <strong>the</strong> print on <strong>the</strong> ticket a jagged, though personalized, look. John felt charmed<br />
33
y <strong>the</strong> throwback and found he preferred it to Leopold’s flawless, cleanly cropped computer<br />
receipts. Even <strong>the</strong> dingy papered-and-paneled walls seemed more appealing <strong>the</strong>n, though he<br />
wished <strong>the</strong>y’d been scrubbed sometime in <strong>the</strong> last decade.<br />
“Well,” <strong>the</strong> waitress said, “if you need anything else, let me know.”<br />
“Just a minute,” John said. He pulled out his debit card and handed it to her. “This is <strong>for</strong><br />
my part.”<br />
Ed reached into his pants pocket and pulled out a wadded-up ten.<br />
“Here’s mine,” he said.<br />
The waitress took <strong>the</strong> ticket, Ed’s cash, and John’s card back toward <strong>the</strong> counter and <strong>the</strong><br />
register.<br />
Ed shoveled his pancakes in.<br />
“You’d better eat,” he said around a mouthful. “Whe<strong>the</strong>r you like this stuff or not, you’re<br />
going to need <strong>the</strong> energy.”<br />
John sipped his coffee and grimaced. “I’ll get something else later.”<br />
“You need fuel <strong>for</strong> walking.”<br />
“I’m not walking anywhere. I’m getting a bus ticket and waiting here, or cab fare to a bus<br />
station, or something, but I’m not walking anymore.”<br />
Ed stopped chewing and stared at John. “But we’re supposed to be a team. We’re<br />
supposed to travel toge<strong>the</strong>r.”<br />
John set his coffee cup down and pushed it and his plate toward <strong>the</strong> center of <strong>the</strong> table.<br />
“I hope you’re successful in your quest, Ed, but I’m not going to be a part of it.”<br />
Ed swallowed. “If you really wanted me to be successful, you’d come with me. Christ.”<br />
He slapped his <strong>for</strong>k onto <strong>the</strong> table. “How am I supposed to find a perfect pancake without a<br />
chef?”<br />
“I’m not a chef, Ed. I’m just a plain old cook.”<br />
“You knew that syrup stuff. You can help me, and you’re refusing to. Look,” he said and<br />
counted off points on his fingers, “You’re a chef; we’re heading <strong>the</strong> same place—”<br />
“Not exactly <strong>the</strong> same place.”<br />
“Close enough.” Ed counted on, “And we’re both on foot, traveling <strong>the</strong> same speed and<br />
all that. I carried your fucking frying pan <strong>for</strong> miles.”<br />
The waitress came back, and John looked immediately at her so that Ed might stop his<br />
34
tirade.<br />
Ed crossed his arms and huffed, “I don’t believe you.”<br />
“Um . . .” The waitress handed back John’s card. “This was declined.”<br />
“Declined? The ticket’s six dollars and fifty-eight cents.”<br />
She said, “It was declined, sir.”<br />
“Try it again.”<br />
“I tried three times. Do you have ano<strong>the</strong>r card?”<br />
“That’s a debit card. I have money in <strong>the</strong> bank. It’s not like <strong>the</strong>y can cut it off.”<br />
“Do you have ano<strong>the</strong>r card, sir? Or any cash?”<br />
Ed smiled. “Call your bank, John.”<br />
John glared at Ed. “It’s Sunday.”<br />
John put his card back in his wallet, looked inside its cash pocket, and <strong>the</strong>n dug into his<br />
jeans pocket. He had one dollar and twenty cents.<br />
He said to <strong>the</strong> waitress, “I paid <strong>for</strong> my room with cash. I don’t have enough left. Is <strong>the</strong>re<br />
an ATM around?”<br />
Ed said, “I would have done it <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r way around, put <strong>the</strong> room on credit and paid <strong>for</strong><br />
breakfast with cash.”<br />
“It’s a debit card, Ed. Hotels will lock up hundreds from my account <strong>for</strong> weeks. It’s not<br />
<strong>the</strong> same as credit.”<br />
Ed shrugged. “Guess you’re in a pickle, huh.” He asked <strong>the</strong> waitress, “So, does he do<br />
dishes or go to jail? He’s a chef, you know. Maybe he could work on <strong>the</strong>se recipes a little.”<br />
She ignored Ed and said to John, “Sir, you have to pay somehow.” She glanced at his<br />
plate and coffee cup. “Even if you haven’t partaken much.”<br />
John blinked at <strong>the</strong> word “partaken,” <strong>the</strong>n asked Ed, “You think you can spot me <strong>for</strong> this?<br />
I mean, you did sleep in my room.”<br />
Ed dug out ano<strong>the</strong>r wadded-up ten and handed it to <strong>the</strong> waitress. “Here. Take it out of<br />
that.”<br />
She left.<br />
“Thanks,” John said. “So maybe we’ll call it even?”<br />
“What do you mean, even? I just made you a loan.”<br />
“I let you sleep in my room, in a warm bed.”<br />
35
“I didn’t ask you to let me. You invited me. You don’t have many manners, do you,<br />
John?”<br />
John thought of how Ed had yanked out his knife on <strong>the</strong> highway and stabbed and stabbed<br />
at <strong>the</strong> ice.<br />
Ed said, “Here’s what we’ll do. You make me a perfect blueberry pancake, and teach me<br />
how, and I’ll buy you your bus ticket, cab fare, or whatever it is you need to get to <strong>Florida</strong>. How<br />
about a plane ticket? That’d be fast, right? Hell, you might even get <strong>the</strong>re ahead of schedule, if<br />
your pancakes are perfect on <strong>the</strong> first try.”<br />
“I’ll have money tomorrow, once I call <strong>the</strong> bank and straighten this out. I’ll pay you back<br />
<strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
“No. My loan, my rules. What, are you afraid you can’t make a perfect blueberry pancake?<br />
It’s not like it’s a soufflé or anything. It’s a fucking pancake.”<br />
“I’ll call my sister, have her buy me a bus ticket.”<br />
“You still owe me six dollars and fifty-eight cents, John. Have her send that by Western<br />
Union while she’s at it, will you?”<br />
John thought about getting quarters <strong>for</strong> his dollar and calling Pamela, but he doubted a<br />
dollar twenty would be enough. He certainly didn’t want his first call in over a year to be collect.<br />
He imagined Pamela picking up <strong>the</strong> phone and hearing <strong>the</strong> phone company’s recording first, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n him explaining how he was on his way without an invitation, and how he needed her to pay<br />
<strong>for</strong> even that. It sickened him more than <strong>the</strong> pasty gravy had.<br />
He figured he could put up with Ed <strong>for</strong> one more day, until he could call his bank and<br />
straighten everything out. Then he’d just wait until Ed was asleep somewhere, and he’d disappear.<br />
Simple.<br />
“Okay, Ed,” he said. “Let’s do it your way.”<br />
Ed smiled and nodded. “Eat those biscuits and gravy. You’re going to need <strong>the</strong> fuel.”<br />
36
CHAPTER 8<br />
Pamela scrubbed one of her café’s booth tables. The wood was thick and <strong>the</strong> color of<br />
coffee beans, worn with scars and burnishes. She followed up with a dry bar towel, polishing until<br />
at least parts of <strong>the</strong> old wood shone here and <strong>the</strong>re. The café wasn’t open yet, and morning<br />
sunlight streamed through <strong>the</strong> two end windows’ louvered blinds and cast long, bright stripes<br />
across <strong>the</strong> table.<br />
She tucked her bar towel into her apron’s waist ties, brushed aside a strand of hair that<br />
had escaped <strong>the</strong> tight bun high on her head, rested her stomach against <strong>the</strong> table’s end, and set <strong>the</strong><br />
table with freshly wiped ketchup and mustard bottles, refilled salt and pepper shakers, small<br />
bottles of red and green Tabasco sauce, and a little porcelain boat stuffed with paper packets of<br />
sugar and artificial sweeteners.<br />
Kevin walked through <strong>the</strong> kitchen door, through <strong>the</strong> service counter’s open flap, and past<br />
<strong>the</strong> two freestanding tables, his thick salt-and-pepper curls hanging to his T-shirt’s collar, a red<br />
ball cap in his hands. He stopped behind Pamela but didn’t touch her or help her with <strong>the</strong><br />
condiments.<br />
She asked without turning around, “You going out to check crab traps again?”<br />
“Lobster,” he said.<br />
She turned toward him. “I hate it when you check lobster traps.”<br />
“It’s good money,” he said smiling, “and your customers like <strong>the</strong>m.”<br />
“You have to go so far out, and you’re gone <strong>for</strong> days.”<br />
He pulled his ball cap on so that <strong>the</strong> bill jutted out over <strong>the</strong> back of his neck. Their café’s<br />
tiny crab logo faced behind him. The cap was luscious red in <strong>the</strong> deepest parts of its seams and<br />
just under <strong>the</strong> edges of <strong>the</strong> button on <strong>the</strong> cap’s very top, faded red everywhere else.<br />
She said, “Be back by tomorrow night, be<strong>for</strong>e that cold front hits. That thing was a<br />
blizzard in Des Moines. It’s supposed to dump snow as far south as Dothan.”<br />
“I’ll be fine.”<br />
“Snow in Dothan, Alabama,” she said. “Are you listening to me?”<br />
37
“If it looks bad, I’ll slide into St. George’s wind shadow and sit it out.”<br />
“Maybe we’ll shut down and I’ll go with you.”<br />
“You don’t have to do that.”<br />
She looked at him coldly. “If something happens to you, <strong>the</strong> truck and trailer will be in<br />
Apalachicola, and I’ll be here. What’ll I do <strong>the</strong>n? I don’t have time to go traipsing across John<br />
Gorrie bridge to try to hunt down wherever it is you park, just so I can cater that wedding on<br />
Saturday.”<br />
“I have to go,” he said. “Traps are waiting.”<br />
“Let <strong>the</strong>m wait <strong>for</strong> once.” She turned and adjusted <strong>the</strong> condiments, though <strong>the</strong>y were<br />
already flush next to one ano<strong>the</strong>r. “I’m serious about needing help.”<br />
She stopped adjusting <strong>the</strong> condiments but <strong>the</strong>n wasn’t sure what to do with her hands.<br />
One rubbed <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r. They clasped each o<strong>the</strong>r. She sighed and turned back toward him.<br />
“Catering could fill our off-season lag,” she said, “if we work toge<strong>the</strong>r.”<br />
He didn’t budge.<br />
She said, “I don’t like you being out <strong>the</strong>re alone, with that old boat, those beat-up<br />
outboards. They’re not what <strong>the</strong>y used to be.”<br />
“Don’t worry. Each is strong enough if <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r fails.”<br />
He never wore his wedding band working traps, and his ring finger had tanned evenly over<br />
<strong>the</strong> years.<br />
She said, “What if both quit at <strong>the</strong> same time?”<br />
“It’ll be alright. Always has.” He crossed his arms, his left hand disappearing into <strong>the</strong><br />
crook of his right elbow. “I have to go.”<br />
“Be back by tomorrow night. And plan on sticking around on Saturday. I’ll need your help<br />
<strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
“Can’t. I’m checking crab traps off Alligator Point Saturday.”<br />
He nodded to his side, as if she could magically look through <strong>the</strong> walls and zoom in on <strong>the</strong><br />
snaking line of floats miles away in <strong>the</strong> Gulf.<br />
“What am I supposed to do <strong>for</strong> that wedding gig?”<br />
“I told you not to start catering.”<br />
He squinted through <strong>the</strong> front windows and out into <strong>the</strong> bright light of <strong>the</strong> parking lot. His<br />
pupils shrank to pinpoints, and his irises glowed gray like <strong>the</strong> Gulf be<strong>for</strong>e a squall.<br />
38
He gave her a peck of a kiss, and she smiled wanly, <strong>the</strong>n looked at her feet.<br />
He left through <strong>the</strong> front door, <strong>the</strong> bright light glancing in off <strong>the</strong> bleached-out shells in <strong>the</strong><br />
lot and <strong>the</strong> already-muggy air rushing in be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> door closed.<br />
Pamela watched Kevin’s silhouette pass <strong>the</strong> front windows and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> two side<br />
windows. His soles crunched on <strong>the</strong> scattered shells of long-dead oysters, and <strong>the</strong>n he was gone.<br />
She sighed, looked down at <strong>the</strong> thinning stripes of sunlight, and adjusted her condiments again.<br />
39
CHAPTER 9<br />
In <strong>the</strong> motel room, Ed stood ready with his roll slung from his shoulder, and John<br />
repacked his gym bag. John searched <strong>the</strong> bathroom and under <strong>the</strong> bed, and <strong>the</strong>n opened one of <strong>the</strong><br />
top dresser drawers.<br />
Ed asked, “What are you looking <strong>for</strong>?”<br />
“Making sure I’m not leaving anything behind.”<br />
John opened <strong>the</strong> next drawer down, slid it shut, and opened <strong>the</strong> bottom one.<br />
Ed asked, “Did you put anything in those drawers?”<br />
“Not that I recall.”<br />
“Then why check?”<br />
“To make sure.”<br />
“—that you didn’t walk in your sleep and pull out your driver’s license and credit cards<br />
and slide <strong>the</strong>m in <strong>the</strong>re? Or write your social security number in magic marker in <strong>the</strong> bottom of<br />
one?”<br />
“I don’t have any credit cards.”<br />
Ed rolled his eyes, walked to <strong>the</strong> room’s door, leaned against its frame, and crossed his<br />
arms.<br />
John ignored Ed and searched <strong>the</strong> second column of drawers. Then he searched <strong>the</strong> far<br />
nightstand. Its drawer held a phone book, a small pad of unruled paper, and a pen. He went<br />
around <strong>the</strong> foot of <strong>the</strong> bed to <strong>the</strong> second nightstand. Its drawer held a bible.<br />
“Steal that bible,” Ed said from <strong>the</strong> door.<br />
“What?”<br />
Ed marched to <strong>the</strong> nightstand, his eyes glistening. He pulled <strong>the</strong> bible from <strong>the</strong> shallow<br />
drawer and held it out to John.<br />
“Steal this bible,” he said. “Wouldn’t that be something? Like cleaning your M-16 with a<br />
‘make love, not war’ T-shirt.”<br />
Ed’s closeness made John’s skin prickle. John could smell Ed’s onioniness again.<br />
40
John said, “I think whoever supplies those wants you to take it—and read it. Isn’t that <strong>the</strong><br />
point?”<br />
Ed plopped <strong>the</strong> bible back into <strong>the</strong> drawer, stepped around John to right next to <strong>the</strong> bed,<br />
and yanked <strong>the</strong> bed’s com<strong>for</strong>ter back, exposing <strong>the</strong> tattered, tan blanket beneath.<br />
“Take that blanket,” he said.<br />
John was glad Ed had moved far<strong>the</strong>r away, but Ed’s antics made John grit his teeth.<br />
“Why would I do that?” John asked.<br />
“We’ll have to sleep in <strong>the</strong> cold be<strong>for</strong>e this trip is over. Mark my words.” Ed jerked his<br />
head sideways toward where his hand still gripped <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>ter. “I’m serious about <strong>the</strong> blanket.”<br />
John thought about not being able to call his bank until <strong>the</strong> next morning. He wondered<br />
where he would sleep in <strong>the</strong> intervening night.<br />
Ed said, “You’re going to need a blanket.”<br />
“We can get ano<strong>the</strong>r room tonight.”<br />
“With what?” Ed’s tone was that of an impatient parent scolding a three-year-old. “Do<br />
you have money?”<br />
Ed’s tone made John’s blood pump thickly into his chest, shoulders, and neck.<br />
Ed moved to right in front of John. Again, <strong>the</strong> rotten oniony smell. John wanted to shove<br />
Ed away or run away himself, something, anything. He couldn’t recall ever feeling that way that<br />
strongly be<strong>for</strong>e, not even around Leopold.<br />
John clenched his teeth and his fists.<br />
“No,” John said, “I don’t have any money, none that I can access today, anyway.”<br />
“Then we’ll have to sleep outside. Period.”<br />
Still, <strong>the</strong> tone.<br />
John was sure he would end up hitting Ed.<br />
John said, “You have money.”<br />
Ed stepped closer to John, his crooked nose only inches from John’s face. John was<br />
cornered between <strong>the</strong> nightstand and <strong>the</strong> bed and couldn’t back away.<br />
“It’s a pancake fund,” Ed said, “not a motel fund. And you’ve made a deal with me, and<br />
you’re going to keep your end of that deal, and we’ll most likely be sleeping outside tonight. So<br />
you’re going to need that blanket, or <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>ter, but <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>ter’s too damned bulky to<br />
carry anywhere, even though it’d be warmer.”<br />
41
Ed’s breath smelled like a dog’s, like shit. John half expected a swarm of flies to pour out<br />
of Ed’s mouth.<br />
John held his breath and turned his head to <strong>the</strong> side, toward <strong>the</strong> bed.<br />
The blanket was thin, unbleached, and undyed and had cigarette burns. It wouldn’t cost<br />
anyone more than a few dollars to replace.<br />
Still, John thought, it’s not mine to take.<br />
But he knew Ed was right. They would most likely be sleeping outside that night, and<br />
John would need more than his clo<strong>the</strong>s to keep warm. He would need more than that blanket,<br />
even. And he had made a deal with Ed.<br />
Ed leaned around until his face was in front of John’s again. Ed’s jaw muscles flexed<br />
somewhere down within his puffy cheeks, making patches of his whiskers wiggle.<br />
John turned more toward <strong>the</strong> bed and said, “Okay.”<br />
Ed walked to <strong>the</strong> foot of <strong>the</strong> bed and yanked <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>ter off. It sank to <strong>the</strong> floor in front<br />
of Ed like a huge tree falling.<br />
John dragged <strong>the</strong> blanket toward himself. It hung on <strong>the</strong> far corner of <strong>the</strong> bed, so John<br />
pulled harder. It gave, but still seemed to grip <strong>the</strong> sheets, as if it were digging fingernails in. The<br />
more blanket John pulled in, <strong>the</strong> easier it came, and soon he had <strong>the</strong> entire blanket in a wad<br />
against his chest.<br />
Ed slung John’s bag onto <strong>the</strong> bed, unzipped it, and jerked <strong>the</strong> opening wide.<br />
“Put it in. We’re burning daylight.”<br />
Ed pulled out <strong>the</strong> iron skillet and stuck one end of his bundle’s rope through <strong>the</strong> hole in<br />
<strong>the</strong> handle.<br />
“No,” John said. “I’ll carry that.”<br />
Ed’s brows rose. “What, <strong>the</strong> frying pan?”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“It’s pretty heavy, and you’ve got those water bottles.”<br />
“I’ll carry it,” John said.<br />
He took <strong>the</strong> skillet and wrapped <strong>the</strong> blanket around it, shoved <strong>the</strong> blanket-wrapped skillet<br />
into his bag, and yanked his gym bag’s zipper closed. Then he hefted <strong>the</strong> bag and slung <strong>the</strong> strap<br />
over his head and shoulder. The strap dug into his shoulder, and he knew he would ache from it<br />
soon.<br />
42
“Let’s get out of here,” John said. “We’re burning daylight, right?”<br />
John opened <strong>the</strong> room’s door. The cold swarmed in, encircled him like a ring of bandits,<br />
and penetrated all <strong>the</strong> way to his skin within seconds. He waited <strong>for</strong> Ed to leave.<br />
John said, “Let’s go.”<br />
Ed sauntered to and through <strong>the</strong> doorway, and John followed and slammed <strong>the</strong> motel door<br />
behind <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
Ed barely waited <strong>for</strong> John to turn in <strong>the</strong> key be<strong>for</strong>e marching off toward <strong>the</strong> ramp that led<br />
to <strong>the</strong> interstate.<br />
As John struggled to catch up, he shifted his bag’s strap far<strong>the</strong>r out, onto <strong>the</strong> bony part of<br />
his shoulder. It eased <strong>the</strong> pain, but he wondered <strong>for</strong> how long.<br />
Ed stormed ahead at an amazing speed. John assumed Ed wanted him to beg <strong>for</strong> a slower<br />
pace, or to offer <strong>the</strong> skillet again, but instead, John grit his teeth, shifted his strap again, and<br />
jogged to close <strong>the</strong> distance between <strong>the</strong>m while trying hard not to slip in his loafers in <strong>the</strong> snow.<br />
43
CHAPTER 10<br />
Back on Thursday afternoon, eighteen and a half hours be<strong>for</strong>e John had packed his gym<br />
bag and walked out on Billie, he had begun his work day at Leopold’s like normal. He had turned<br />
up <strong>the</strong> lights; turned on <strong>the</strong> heat; picked out one of Leopold’s two-hour compilations of Sinatra,<br />
Holiday, Armstrong, and <strong>the</strong> like; gotten his bar staff <strong>the</strong>ir banks; made certain that <strong>the</strong> wait staff<br />
had all shown up and were well into setting tables and prepping side stations; and gotten <strong>the</strong> new<br />
cook to sauté a skilletful of sliced garlic and carry it through <strong>the</strong> entire bar.<br />
The cook waved <strong>the</strong> sizzling skillet left and right like a priest’s censer, zigzagging a trail of<br />
dissipating garlicy steam that masked <strong>the</strong> odor of <strong>the</strong> sewer-smelling bar drains. Then, just be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
opening <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> afternoon, Leopold had called and summoned John to his home office.<br />
John crossed <strong>the</strong> street to <strong>the</strong> four-storied brick building, straightening his ice-blue tie and<br />
brushing <strong>the</strong> sleeves of his coat as he went, and climbed <strong>the</strong> stairs to <strong>the</strong> top floor. He wound his<br />
way through <strong>the</strong> sunlit, courtyard-windowed inner hallway, across plushly carpeted, new-smelling<br />
turns of recent additions, and around to <strong>the</strong> shadowy part of <strong>the</strong> circle to Leopold’s pair of almost<br />
hidden, ancient-as-hills black metal doors. Leopold’s apartment door was closed, its two brassy<br />
dead bolts shining even in <strong>the</strong> shadows, but his office door hung wide open.<br />
John tapped a loose-fisted knuckle on <strong>the</strong> frame.<br />
Leopold didn’t acknowledge. He sat at his desk facing <strong>the</strong> door, but his head was down,<br />
and he dug through a stack of Micros register receipts. Leopold appeared like John imagined<br />
vampires did: pale, pale skin; Vandyke and eyebrows so dark <strong>the</strong>y looked inked on; so tall and<br />
lanky that his back was hunched over his desk as if he were an adult squatting in a child’s<br />
furniture set; and long, thin hands with fingers and nails that looked like claws.<br />
Behind Leopold’s high-backed black-lea<strong>the</strong>r chair, a tall metal frame stuffed with rows of<br />
closed-circuit monitors showed black-and-white views of <strong>the</strong> insides of <strong>the</strong> bar, <strong>the</strong> side stations,<br />
<strong>the</strong> storage room, and <strong>the</strong> bright sunlight on <strong>the</strong> street out front. The frame full of monitors<br />
blocked <strong>the</strong> office’s windows and <strong>the</strong> real sun and <strong>the</strong> real view of <strong>the</strong> very same street below.<br />
Leopold had trimmed his Vandyke and shaved his head, though he hadn’t changed into his<br />
44
starched shirt and coat yet. It was Thursday, <strong>the</strong> first day of Leopold’s weekly three-night<br />
ritualistic pressing of <strong>the</strong> flesh and buying drinks as if he were running <strong>for</strong> president.<br />
Leopold finally looked up and said, “Sit down, John.” He motioned to <strong>the</strong> tiny metal foldup<br />
chair that sat dwarfed dead center in front of his desk as if in an interrogator’s cell. His eyes<br />
pierced harshly from beneath his thick brows and made his lanky frame seem hard instead of frail,<br />
like a wrought-iron graveyard gate.<br />
John entered <strong>the</strong> office and sat in <strong>the</strong> chair.<br />
“What’s this?” Leopold pulled out one of <strong>the</strong> Micros receipts and handed it over.<br />
John drew it from Leopold’s tinelike digits, trying not to touch his flesh, and read it.<br />
“Dinner comp,” John said.<br />
Leopold glared at John. “Why?”<br />
“Food was late, almost an hour. They were pretty upset, so I comped <strong>the</strong> meal.”<br />
“Just like that. On your own.”<br />
“It’s <strong>the</strong> same as <strong>the</strong> Petersons’ dinner last month, except you weren’t around last night,<br />
so I did exactly what you did last time.”<br />
Leopold snatched <strong>the</strong> receipt from John’s hand. “This ticket’s <strong>for</strong> thirty dollars. The<br />
Petersons’ was over a hundred.”<br />
“Yes.” John knit his brows.<br />
“And yet you feel justified in this?”<br />
“I don’t understand,” John said. “You’re willing to comp a hundred-dollar ticket but not a<br />
thirty-dollar one?”<br />
“The Petersons spend a lot of money at my place.”<br />
“They didn’t spend anything. You comped it.”<br />
“They’re good clientele. These . . .” he scrunched <strong>the</strong> receipt in his spiderlike fist “. . . are<br />
riffraff.”<br />
He crumpled <strong>the</strong> receipt up so tightly that what little fleshy color existed in Leopold’s<br />
knuckles vanished, and his hand turned as white as <strong>the</strong> receipt.<br />
He threw <strong>the</strong> pea-sized wad across <strong>the</strong> office, just missing John’s head, and said, “I don’t<br />
care if a thirty-dollar customer comes back. Keep <strong>the</strong> table available <strong>for</strong> hundred-dollar<br />
customers.”<br />
“Your policies change based on how much a person spends?”<br />
45
Leopold glared. His face flushed red. His eyes bugged as if about to pop out.<br />
“Haven’t you figured that out by now?” he asked. “It’s all about how much <strong>the</strong>y spend.”<br />
John said, “That doesn’t seem fair.”<br />
Leopold planted his elbows on <strong>the</strong> desk and buried his face in his hands, his head turning<br />
maraschino-cherry red. He dug his fingers into his scalp, pushing up rows of wrinkles as if he<br />
were a psychic surgeon trying to make it look like he were sinking his fingers deep into his brain.<br />
His shoulders stopped rising and falling, and John imagined Leopold trying to hold his breath,<br />
counting to ten to keep from losing his temper. Leopold seemed to count to twenty, <strong>the</strong>n thirty.<br />
Leopold finally looked up and said, each word distinctively, “It’s a business. We’re here to<br />
make money. Even if you fill every table, if no one spends as much as o<strong>the</strong>rs might, get rid of<br />
<strong>the</strong>m. Keep <strong>the</strong> thirty-dollar riffraff out.” He screamed, “Throw <strong>the</strong>m out!”<br />
“Okay.”<br />
Leopold pointed to somewhere behind John. “What are you going to do about that<br />
comp?”<br />
“I’ll pay it.”<br />
John had almost said, “I’ll pay <strong>for</strong> it,” but that would have left itself open <strong>for</strong><br />
interpretation. Leopold could have applied that to John’s relationship with Billie, to John’s<br />
lackadaisical attitude about running Leopold’s business, or even to who John was in general. John<br />
wondered if Billie had already phoned crying to daddy about her and John’s lunch spat and if that<br />
was what this was really about—payback <strong>for</strong> upsetting daddy’s little girl.<br />
John stood, pulled a twenty and a ten from his wallet, and held <strong>the</strong>m out <strong>for</strong> Leopold.<br />
Leopold took <strong>the</strong> money. His scalp faded back to pink.<br />
“Do you understand?” Leopold asked.<br />
“Yes.”<br />
John walked back out of <strong>the</strong> office, back down <strong>the</strong> four flights of stairs, back across <strong>the</strong><br />
street, and back into <strong>the</strong> bar, <strong>for</strong>cing himself to show no emotion, keeping each of his muscles’<br />
contractions mechanical, and keeping a fake little smile on his face, fully conscious of Leopold’s<br />
cameras.<br />
John felt like he were becoming Leopold, felt like he imagined Leopold did on his three<br />
nights of schmaltzy greetings <strong>for</strong> his bar’s biggest spenders, everything a facade.<br />
John had no idea who Leopold really was, o<strong>the</strong>r than <strong>the</strong> facetious part, <strong>the</strong> host Leopold<br />
46
played to his customers, and <strong>the</strong> temperamental part, which John seemed to see more of every<br />
day. John knew <strong>the</strong>re had to be more to Leopold than that, something good, something apparently<br />
only Billie saw, but John didn’t have <strong>the</strong> slightest inkling of what that could be, not even after<br />
having spent hours upon hours with Leopold each week <strong>for</strong> more than a year, and that made<br />
John’s heart sink more than <strong>the</strong> realization that he absolutely had to get away be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> last<br />
vestige of anything good he felt about himself sank into oblivion, too.<br />
47
CHAPTER 11<br />
John and Ed walked down <strong>the</strong> shoulder of I-70 somewhere between Hays and Salina,<br />
avoiding <strong>the</strong> inner part of <strong>the</strong> shoulder because <strong>the</strong> snow had been clumped into a ridge <strong>the</strong>re by<br />
<strong>the</strong> snowplows. Tiny flakes of snow still drifted down, and cars and semis slipped by fairly<br />
regularly, <strong>the</strong>ir tires making airy sounds on pavement dampened from <strong>the</strong> snowplows’ scattered<br />
salt (<strong>the</strong> smaller cars’ tires sounding like a mo<strong>the</strong>r gently shushing a baby; <strong>the</strong> semis’, like a<br />
dentist’s spit-suction hose tucked over <strong>the</strong> side of a patient’s bottom lip).<br />
The north wind blew misty tire spray and exhaust across John and Ed. The wind and<br />
John’s nose were so cold that his sinuses ached every time he inhaled, and, except <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> acrid<br />
bite of exhaust, he could smell nothing. He tried inhaling through his mouth instead, but that<br />
shifted <strong>the</strong> freezing ache to deep inside his chest and made him constantly need to spit out gritty<br />
particles that had hitched rides in <strong>the</strong> tire spray.<br />
The snow still lay thick on <strong>the</strong> shoulder and made <strong>the</strong> walking strenuous, especially at<br />
Ed’s furious pace. At first, John alternated between letting his feet plow through <strong>the</strong> snow, which<br />
tired <strong>the</strong> fronts of his hips, and lifting his knees enough to sling each foot free of <strong>the</strong> snow, which<br />
tired ano<strong>the</strong>r part of <strong>the</strong> fronts of his hips as well as his thighs. After tiring of both of those<br />
methods, John settled in behind Ed and used Ed’s tracks ra<strong>the</strong>r than trying to walk next to him.<br />
But <strong>the</strong>n he had to copy Ed’s pace and stride exactly, and Ed’s walk was an awkward one <strong>for</strong><br />
John and made his legs hurt in new places.<br />
And <strong>the</strong>re was Ed’s speed. Ed seemed to possess an uncanny stamina, and after three mile<br />
markers, John’s leg muscles burned, and he panted and sweated in his layered clo<strong>the</strong>s.<br />
None of <strong>the</strong> drivers did more than glance at Ed and John, even after John tried sticking his<br />
own thumb out along with Ed’s. John wondered whe<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong> drivers were scared, or if <strong>the</strong>y didn’t<br />
care, or if <strong>the</strong>y simply didn’t want to get stuck on <strong>the</strong> snowplows’ ridge while trying to pull over.<br />
The snow stopped falling by midday and revealed a low, thin layer of dark gray clouds<br />
sliding across <strong>the</strong> sky, breaking apart into ever-shifting individual puffs. Far above that<br />
disintegrating layer, a solid field of steel-gray clouds stretched across <strong>the</strong> entire sky. Tiny ripples<br />
48
an across its wider, flatter parts, looking like long but thin waves flowing slower than <strong>the</strong> eye<br />
could see across upside-down lakes.<br />
The lack of falling snow also exposed <strong>the</strong> wide Kansas horizon, and John wished it hadn’t.<br />
The highway pointed toward a grain elevator, and Ed and John walked and walked, never<br />
stopping, never slowing, and yet <strong>the</strong> grain elevator seemed not one fraction of an inch closer. It<br />
seemed to be leading <strong>the</strong>m, or fleeing from <strong>the</strong>m. Combined with <strong>the</strong> seemingly conspiratorial lack<br />
of an offered ride, <strong>the</strong> fleeing grain elevator made <strong>the</strong> walk seem a useless endeavor, as if John<br />
and Ed had merely been stepping in place all morning.<br />
John removed <strong>the</strong> hand towel from beneath his coat collar and enjoyed <strong>the</strong> cold air<br />
touching his bare, overheated neck, though <strong>the</strong> cold still cut icy and sharp inside his sinuses,<br />
throat, and chest.<br />
Next, he peeled off his coat, draped it across his gym bag, and held it <strong>the</strong>re with one hand,<br />
and he enjoyed that same cold air slipping all <strong>the</strong> way through <strong>the</strong> weave of his sweater and<br />
T-shirt and kissing his sweaty skin. It seemed bizarre to him that he should feel cold inside his<br />
chest but hot outside instead of <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r way around.<br />
John’s mouth was cottony dry, and his legs and breathing were shaky from thirst. He had<br />
drunk all his juice and water early, and though he didn’t miss <strong>the</strong> weight, he wished <strong>the</strong> empty<br />
bottles were full again. Every quarter mile or so, he scooped up a handful of <strong>the</strong> cleanest snow<br />
within reach and sucked on that as he walked, and though it eased <strong>the</strong> dryness in his mouth, it did<br />
little to feed his exhausted legs or lighten <strong>the</strong> leadlike weight of his rib cage over his lungs. And<br />
no matter how white <strong>the</strong> snow seemed, it tasted like tire and dirt.<br />
The long trudge through <strong>the</strong> snow had made John wish he had followed his initial urge and<br />
beaten Ed to a pulp and <strong>the</strong>n called Pamela collect and begged <strong>for</strong> <strong>for</strong>giveness and a bus ticket.<br />
But time and a gazzillion million steps had made that urge wane until all John could think of was<br />
putting one foot in front of <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
John was beat far worse than <strong>the</strong> day be<strong>for</strong>e, he was hungry, and he began to get a<br />
headache.<br />
Then a semi crunched through <strong>the</strong> plowed-up ridge ahead of <strong>the</strong>m, braked on <strong>the</strong><br />
shoulder, and stopped. The brake lights stayed on, and a denim-coated arm stuck out <strong>the</strong> driver’s<br />
window and beckoned to <strong>the</strong>m. The arm disappeared, and <strong>the</strong> passenger door swung open.<br />
John and Ed jogged through <strong>the</strong> snow. Once <strong>the</strong>y reached <strong>the</strong> semi’s tracks on <strong>the</strong><br />
49
shoulder, <strong>the</strong> running became easy, and <strong>the</strong>y reached <strong>the</strong> semi in no time.<br />
The trailer’s back doors were shiny and pressed in a diamond pattern, as if someone had<br />
quilted a mirror, and above <strong>the</strong> mud flaps’ chrome-trimmed bottom edges were two chrome<br />
silhouettes of seated, large-breasted women facing each o<strong>the</strong>r, looking more like Barbie doll<br />
silhouettes than anything human. The trailer had its own fuel tank on its belly and a refrigeration<br />
unit on its nose. The unit’s compressor raised a clattering din, <strong>the</strong> control panel on <strong>the</strong> unit’s side<br />
showing tiny red, green, and amber lights and gauges. The needle of one gauge vibrated in what<br />
seemed a self-absorbed, animated shiver.<br />
Ed reached <strong>the</strong> door first, and John heard <strong>the</strong> trucker ask Ed something.<br />
Ed told <strong>the</strong> trucker, “However far you’re going.”<br />
Then John reached <strong>the</strong> door, and <strong>the</strong> trucker said, “Forty dollars.”<br />
The cab was big, square-nosed, and shiny red, full of amber lights and chrome, with a<br />
hood ornament of a winged naked lady. Twin CB antennae thrust up and <strong>for</strong>ward over <strong>the</strong> hood,<br />
as thick as John’s big toe at <strong>the</strong>ir bases and tapering off to tips <strong>the</strong> width of Ed’s <strong>for</strong>efinger. Tiny,<br />
wirelike ridges coiled <strong>the</strong>ir way up <strong>the</strong> antennae’s full lengths and made <strong>the</strong> antennae look like<br />
painted rebar.<br />
Ed said, “I didn’t think you’d charge us.”<br />
The trucker told Ed, “Well, diesel fuel ain’t cheap, boy, and you look like you might<br />
knock my mileage down a notch.”<br />
The trucker was an old man with silvery hair. He wore a blue denim overcoat with thick<br />
sheepskin inside, and he sat leaning over from <strong>the</strong> driver’s seat so that he could look down on<br />
both Ed and John.<br />
“Twenty,” Ed said, “and I’ll need to get it from an ATM when we get <strong>the</strong> chance.”<br />
“Thirty,” <strong>the</strong> trucker said, “and that’s if you have ten as a deposit right now.”<br />
The trucker’s denim coat was faded and frayed, and <strong>the</strong> sheepskin looked real. The<br />
trucker’s eyes were bloodshot, with pupils as tiny as pinpoints and irises as pale as <strong>the</strong> sky. He<br />
didn’t blink, and <strong>the</strong> scowl made his stare seem supernatural and piercing, like <strong>the</strong> eyes of a<br />
demon. Age spots mottled his puffy tanned skin.<br />
Ed dug in his pocket and said, “I’ve only got a five on me right now.”<br />
“What about him?”<br />
Ed reared his head back in a silent laugh. “He’s as poor as dirt.”<br />
50
The trucker said, “Thirty-five, <strong>the</strong>n, and give me that five now.”<br />
Ed handed it to him and climbed in.<br />
The trucker took <strong>the</strong> five, pocketed it, and stuck his hand back out to Ed.<br />
“I’m Cecil,” he said.<br />
Ed climbed into <strong>the</strong> semi, pulled off his mitten, and shook Cecil’s hand.<br />
“Ed,” he said, <strong>the</strong>n pointed his long <strong>for</strong>efinger at John. “That’s John.”<br />
Ed took John’s gym bag and disappeared with it back into <strong>the</strong> semi’s sleeper.<br />
Cecil told Ed, “Don’t fuck with nothing back <strong>the</strong>re. Just put your shit on <strong>the</strong> floor and sit<br />
down.” He stuck his hand out to John and said, “John?”<br />
“Yeah,” John said and shook Cecil’s hand.<br />
The hand was cold, <strong>the</strong> skin like wax paper or cheap plastic gloves. The older wrinkles<br />
were shiny, as if molded <strong>the</strong>re, and <strong>the</strong> new ones, <strong>the</strong> ones that <strong>for</strong>med each time Cecil moved his<br />
hand, seemed to try to shear that plastic.<br />
John sat heavily on <strong>the</strong> passenger seat and strapped himself in.<br />
Cecil said, “Close that door, will you boy?”<br />
John did.<br />
Heat rushed from <strong>the</strong> dash vents, and <strong>the</strong> semi smelled to John like old vinyl and musty<br />
carpet, tainted with <strong>the</strong> staleness of years of cigarette smoke. It smelled like John’s grandfa<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />
’78 Impala, and it made John want to open <strong>the</strong> door again or roll down <strong>the</strong> window. John hadn’t<br />
liked his grandfa<strong>the</strong>r much, what he could recall of him, a loud, balding old man holding longashed<br />
cigarettes and tumblers of diluted whiskey. The man’s presence had always made John’s<br />
mo<strong>the</strong>r act like a stranger, and Pamela would take John into <strong>the</strong> back of <strong>the</strong> house. For such a<br />
loud man, John’s grandfa<strong>the</strong>r had made <strong>the</strong> house amazingly quiet.<br />
Ed sat on <strong>the</strong> front edge of Cecil’s narrow bunk, facing <strong>for</strong>ward between <strong>the</strong> two bucket<br />
seats, his roll and John’s bag on <strong>the</strong> floor on ei<strong>the</strong>r side of him, <strong>the</strong> snow on <strong>the</strong>m beginning to<br />
melt.<br />
Cecil stomped on his accelerator and pulled back onto <strong>the</strong> highway. The truck wobbled<br />
going over <strong>the</strong> snowplowed ridge but didn’t slow. Cecil quickly shifted through five gears, flipped<br />
up a small flat lever on <strong>the</strong> front of his gear shift knob, and shifted back into what should have<br />
been first, but instead, while moving through neutral, <strong>the</strong> gear made a light clack and gave a tiny<br />
kiss of air, like miniature air brakes setting, and what used to be first had apparently become sixth.<br />
51
The semi kept accelerating, Cecil working his way through all <strong>the</strong> gear shift’s positions a second<br />
time, and <strong>the</strong>y were off, speeding down <strong>the</strong> highway.<br />
A CB radio was fastened to <strong>the</strong> ceiling by a metal bracket, centered just inside <strong>the</strong><br />
windshield. A thin bungee cord hooked to <strong>the</strong> ceiling next to and slightly in front of Cecil held, at<br />
its o<strong>the</strong>r end, <strong>the</strong> CB mic, dangling <strong>the</strong> mic between <strong>the</strong> bungee cord and <strong>the</strong> coiled black mic<br />
cord coming from <strong>the</strong> radio. The bumps in <strong>the</strong> road made <strong>the</strong> mic dance between <strong>the</strong> two cords.<br />
Ed pulled his parka hood back and let it drop behind him. Chunks of snow fell from <strong>the</strong> hood and<br />
landed on Cecil’s bunk, where <strong>the</strong>y melted and seeped into <strong>the</strong> rumpled blanket and gray sheets.<br />
Ed pulled off his o<strong>the</strong>r mitten, shoved both into one parka pocket, leaned <strong>for</strong>ward, and braced<br />
himself by grabbing <strong>the</strong> rubber-trimmed edges of <strong>the</strong> submarine-portal-looking opening between<br />
<strong>the</strong> cab and <strong>the</strong> sleeper.<br />
Cecil asked, “Why you boys walking in this shit?”<br />
Ed nodded toward John. “His truck broke down.”<br />
Cecil stared at John. “You a trucker?”<br />
“Pickup,” John said.<br />
Cecil looked <strong>for</strong>ward again and asked, “Back <strong>the</strong>re about <strong>the</strong> state line?”<br />
“I guess,” John said.<br />
“Yeah, I seen it. On <strong>the</strong> side of <strong>the</strong> road.”<br />
Ed said, almost gleefully, “That’s <strong>the</strong> one.”<br />
John said, “Maybe that was mine. Who knows?”<br />
Cecil looked at John and Ed. “You mind if I smoke?”<br />
It didn’t seem a question to John so much as a challenge, as if Cecil had actually said, “I’m<br />
going to smoke now. Just one of you sons of bitches try to stop me.”<br />
John shook his head “No,” and Ed just barely perceptively shrugged.<br />
Cecil pushed in his truck’s lighter, reached into a cubby hole above his visor, and pulled<br />
out a pack of Winstons. He shook a cigarette loose and pulled it out of <strong>the</strong> pack with his lips, <strong>the</strong>n<br />
shoved <strong>the</strong> pack back into <strong>the</strong> cubby hole. The lighter popped out, and Cecil lit his cigarette,<br />
cracked his window, and looked over at John, again like a challenge. The smoke whirled mostly<br />
around <strong>the</strong> cab instead of drifting outside.<br />
They drove <strong>for</strong> more than an hour that way, with Cecil working his way through three<br />
more Winstons. John’s head throbbed worse, and Ed eventually peeled his parka off his shoulders<br />
52
and arms, like he had in <strong>the</strong> restaurant, keeping his knife hidden. The clouds thinned and seemed<br />
like <strong>the</strong>y might break up soon and finally show <strong>the</strong> sun again, but <strong>the</strong>y didn’t. Snow still lay<br />
everywhere except on <strong>the</strong> roads, though it had been plowed from even <strong>the</strong> shoulders now.<br />
They passed <strong>the</strong> grain elevator and Salina and eventually Junction City, and as <strong>the</strong>y went<br />
past a sign that read, “Fort Riley,” Ed stiffened and closed his eyes tight.<br />
John asked him, “You okay?”<br />
Ed opened his eyes, breathing heavily, and said, “Yeah. Just . . . Never mind.”<br />
Ed kept his eyes open <strong>the</strong>n and seemed to try to relax, but one of his cheeks went into<br />
spasms that made it look as if that eye wanted to wink and Ed desperately wanted it not to.<br />
After two or three miles, Ed finally settled down, and <strong>the</strong>n after ano<strong>the</strong>r fifteen or so, <strong>the</strong>y<br />
came upon ano<strong>the</strong>r hitchhiker, a ratty-looking, thickly bearded older man. Everything about him<br />
seemed brown: his layers upon layers of clo<strong>the</strong>s, his beard, his small backpack. He seemed a<br />
snowman made from muddied snow.<br />
John wondered if Cecil might stop <strong>for</strong> that hitchhiker, too, and try <strong>for</strong> ano<strong>the</strong>r <strong>for</strong>ty bucks,<br />
but Cecil didn’t. As <strong>the</strong>y passed and it became apparent <strong>the</strong>y weren’t going to stop, <strong>the</strong> hitchhiker<br />
leaned toward <strong>the</strong> truck and thrust his fist into <strong>the</strong> air and flipped off Cecil, John, and Ed.<br />
“Son of a bitch,” Cecil said. “That son of a fucking bitch.” Cecil turned to John and Ed.<br />
“You boys wouldn’t have done that if I’d’ve passed you up, would you?”<br />
“No,” Ed said. “We’re nice boys.”<br />
Cecil fumed <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> next minute, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong>y passed a sign that indicated an exit was<br />
coming up in ano<strong>the</strong>r mile.<br />
Cecil threw his cigarette butt out <strong>the</strong> window and said, “We’re doing a flip-flop. We’re<br />
going back to that son of a bitch.” He looked at John, <strong>the</strong>n Ed. “Hey, Ed—It’s Ed, right?”<br />
Ed said, “Yes.”<br />
“Reach back <strong>the</strong>re and grab that jug of piss.”<br />
Ed looked left and right in <strong>the</strong> sleeper.<br />
Cecil said, “It’s <strong>the</strong> gallon milk jug.”<br />
Ed asked, “You have a napkin or something?”<br />
Cecil exaggerated rolling his eyes. “Oh, come on. It’s just piss. Whatchu think, I peed all<br />
over <strong>the</strong> damn thing, all over my truck? Just pick it up.”<br />
Cecil braked more <strong>for</strong>cibly than John would have thought safe <strong>for</strong> a big truck on a wet<br />
53
oad, and <strong>the</strong>y pulled onto <strong>the</strong> exit ramp. Then Cecil stomped <strong>the</strong> accelerator to get <strong>the</strong>m up to<br />
<strong>the</strong> overpass. He slowed <strong>the</strong>m just enough at <strong>the</strong> stop sign, it seemed to John, to turn without<br />
jackknifing or flipping over, <strong>the</strong>n crossed over <strong>the</strong> highway, turned down <strong>the</strong> westbound ramp,<br />
sped up, and merged back onto <strong>the</strong> highway going <strong>the</strong> opposite direction.<br />
Ed squatted ready between <strong>the</strong> two seats with <strong>the</strong> jug. It was filled almost to <strong>the</strong> cap with<br />
dark orangy, cloudy urine. John hoped <strong>the</strong> cloudiness had come from <strong>the</strong> urine’s mixing with <strong>the</strong><br />
remnants of milk, or from having aged over days of accumulation. He hated to think of what must<br />
be going on inside a man who peed cloudy orange.<br />
They went by <strong>the</strong> hitchhiker again, but on <strong>the</strong> opposite side of <strong>the</strong> highway. He was still<br />
flipping people off, and Cecil sped along focused on <strong>the</strong> next exit ramp. John cringed at <strong>the</strong> idea<br />
of being pointed back toward Denver. He was relieved when Cecil finally turned <strong>the</strong>m all around<br />
again and stomped <strong>the</strong> accelerator all <strong>the</strong> way to <strong>the</strong> floor.<br />
Cecil seemed to do nothing in gradations, and John thought about suggesting that he<br />
replace his brake and gas pedals with a simple toggle switch: full brake or full gas. John snickered<br />
at <strong>the</strong> thought of Cecil flipping a little switch instead of being able to stomp his cowboy boot<br />
down on each pedal as if smashing roaches or tiny people. He figured Cecil would never gain<br />
satisfaction from a little switch. Cecil would need two huge buttons on top of <strong>the</strong> dash instead,<br />
like hockey pucks, something he could pound with a fist.<br />
Cecil noticed John’s snickering and said, “Yeah, we’re going to show this son of a bitch a<br />
thing or two. Roll that window down.”<br />
John hesitated.<br />
“Roll that Goddamned window down.”<br />
John did. The cold air whipped in and around <strong>the</strong>m. Ed held his ball cap down snug.<br />
“Now take that piss, and when—”<br />
“I’m not touching that.” John shook his head.<br />
“Oh, <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> love of God. It’s only piss.” He glared at John, <strong>the</strong>n said to Ed, “Get over<br />
<strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Ed looked at Cecil, <strong>the</strong>n John. “Trade with me, John,” he said.<br />
John unbuckled his seat belt, scooted past Ed into <strong>the</strong> front edge of <strong>the</strong> sleeper, and<br />
squatted on <strong>the</strong> floor with his butt on his heels, between <strong>the</strong> blanket roll and <strong>the</strong> gym bag,<br />
avoiding Cecil’s rumpled bed sheets.<br />
54
Cecil told Ed, “Don’t try to hit him with it. When we get up <strong>the</strong>re, throw it down right in<br />
front of him, hard, so it’ll bust open at his feet and splash all over him.”<br />
John couldn’t see <strong>the</strong> road or <strong>the</strong> hitchhiker. He didn’t care. He felt like he were watching<br />
two kids playing video games, or like watching two neighborhood bullies picking on a third. He<br />
sympathized with <strong>the</strong> third bully, but not enough to risk anything to try to stop it. It seemed a<br />
sorry way <strong>for</strong> people to act, but he figured if bullies wanted to fight among <strong>the</strong>mselves, <strong>the</strong>y<br />
should be left to it.<br />
“Now,” Cecil said.<br />
Ed threw <strong>the</strong> jug out and down through <strong>the</strong> open window.<br />
Cecil watched his passenger side mirror. “Yeah!” He cackled at Ed. “<strong>Perfect</strong>.”<br />
Then he turned <strong>for</strong>ward, his grip relaxed on <strong>the</strong> wheel, and his shoulders sank. He seemed<br />
to have just taken a huge dose of pain killer. His wax-paper fingers danced along <strong>the</strong> top edges of<br />
his oversized steering wheel.<br />
“Flip me off, will you, you piece-of-shit son of a bitch.”<br />
John thought about orange icicles <strong>for</strong>ming all over <strong>the</strong> poor guy.<br />
They drove on quietly <strong>the</strong>n, peacefully, <strong>for</strong> ten or fifteen minutes. Ed eventually offered<br />
John his seat back, and John took it, rolled <strong>the</strong> window back up, and securely buckled his seat<br />
belt.<br />
Cecil squeezed <strong>the</strong> wheel again, clenching his jaw and squinting, as if he were<br />
remembering something painful or had just stepped on a tack. Each time <strong>the</strong>y crept up on a car or<br />
ano<strong>the</strong>r semi, Cecil nudged his accelerator to get around it, but he never eased back off, so <strong>the</strong><br />
truck sped up in increments until <strong>the</strong>y were racing again.<br />
They drove <strong>for</strong> over thirty minutes without saying much, Cecil working his way into a new<br />
pack of cigarettes, and <strong>the</strong> heat from <strong>the</strong> vents and <strong>the</strong> smell of <strong>the</strong> smoke making John’s head<br />
hurt worse.<br />
The busier <strong>the</strong> highway got, <strong>the</strong> angrier Cecil seemed to become, and <strong>the</strong> more<br />
aggressively he drove, until <strong>the</strong>y were approaching Topeka, <strong>the</strong> interstate thickening with traffic,<br />
with Cecil cursing and banging on his steering wheel, tailgating, and whipping back and <strong>for</strong>th<br />
between lanes. John wished he had kept Ed’s seat on <strong>the</strong> floor instead, out of view of what was<br />
going on.<br />
They made it through Topeka and got onto <strong>the</strong> turnpike heading <strong>for</strong> Kansas City, <strong>the</strong><br />
55
traffic finally thinning. They passed o<strong>the</strong>r vehicles again, Cecil’s shoulders tensing and his lips<br />
curling each time, and again, <strong>the</strong>y slowly sped up.<br />
Cecil got behind ano<strong>the</strong>r semi and checked his tall side mirror, <strong>the</strong>n pulled his CB mic<br />
down against his lips. “Hey westbound, westbound, anyone got your ears on?” His voice took on<br />
a strained, grainy texture like a DJ’s. He sounded constipated.<br />
No one answered.<br />
Cecil said into <strong>the</strong> mic, “Heeeey, westbound, come on,” and added after letting go of <strong>the</strong><br />
mic button, “Goddammit.”<br />
A voice blared distorted over <strong>the</strong> CB, “You got a westbound, come on.”<br />
Amazingly, Cecil turned <strong>the</strong> volume higher. “How’s it look over your shoulder? Seen any<br />
bears?”<br />
“You’re clear all <strong>the</strong> way to KC, eastbound.” The voice boomed and crackled, like a<br />
garage-sale LP played far too loud.<br />
“Ten-four,” Cecil said. “You’re clear back to that Salina town. Hammer down. You got<br />
<strong>the</strong> Hell Hound.”<br />
Cecil seemed proud of his off-rhyme, and John imagined Cecil never tiring of adding<br />
“town” to every place-name on <strong>the</strong> map.<br />
The o<strong>the</strong>r voice came back over <strong>the</strong> CB, less emphatic, deeper, as if final, “Have a safe<br />
journey, Hell Hound.”<br />
Cecil let <strong>the</strong> bungee cord sling <strong>the</strong> mic bouncing back into place, and John felt <strong>the</strong> truck<br />
accelerate.<br />
Ed said, “I didn’t know people still talked on CBs.”<br />
Cecil pulled out ano<strong>the</strong>r Winston and lit it. “You folk don’t anymore. Thank God. It’s<br />
back to business now.” He peered into his side mirror. “Goddamned trucker wannabes.”<br />
“I never saw <strong>the</strong> big deal,” Ed said.<br />
Cecil glared at him, <strong>the</strong>n watched <strong>for</strong>ward again. “Like you’d know. You’re too young to<br />
know. You got even hair-one on your dick yet?”<br />
“Wanna see?” Ed said.<br />
Cecil jerked as if given an electric shock. “You one of those faggots or something? Don’t<br />
you pull that thing out in here. I’ll shoot it off.”<br />
Ed said, “You mean jerk it off? Is that your offer?”<br />
56
Cecil said, “I’m dead serious,” <strong>the</strong>n to himself, “Fucking faggot sons of bitches. I knew I<br />
shouldn’t have picked you up.”<br />
They came up behind a black VW Beetle in <strong>the</strong> passing lane traveling next to and at <strong>the</strong><br />
same speed as a cream-colored SUV in <strong>the</strong> right lane. Cecil pulled to within ten feet of <strong>the</strong><br />
Beetle’s rear bumper, and John squirmed in his seat.<br />
“Come on, little lady,” Cecil said, “some of us out here are on a schedule.” He glanced at<br />
Ed. “Jerk it off. You fucker.”<br />
John said, “If you’re in such a hurry, maybe you shouldn’t have done that flip-flop.”<br />
Cecil glared at John, <strong>the</strong>n at Ed. “You boys got a lot of nerve <strong>for</strong> people being provided a<br />
courtesy.”<br />
Ed said, “It’s not a courtesy. We’re paying <strong>for</strong> it. Give me my five dollars back, and we’ll<br />
be nice.”<br />
Cecil shook his head and pulled closer to <strong>the</strong> Beetle.<br />
“You fuckers,” he said. “Everybody’s a fucker.”<br />
John watched Cecil’s winged-naked-lady hood ornament creep up on and <strong>the</strong>n mask <strong>the</strong><br />
Beetle’s license plate.<br />
Cecil peered over his hood. “Goddammit, you cunt. Speed up, slow down, or whatever,<br />
but get <strong>the</strong> fuck out of <strong>the</strong> way!”<br />
He pressed <strong>the</strong> accelerator, and <strong>the</strong> Beetle’s rear bumper disappear beneath <strong>the</strong> nose of<br />
Cecil’s hood. John’s entire body tingled and his ears buzzed. He found it hard to brea<strong>the</strong>.<br />
The Beetle disappeared beneath <strong>the</strong> nose of <strong>the</strong> truck, and <strong>the</strong>n John felt a slight jar, barely<br />
perceptible.<br />
“Come on, bitch,” Cecil shouted. “Move it!”<br />
The SUV’s brake lights came on, and <strong>the</strong> SUV sank back next to and <strong>the</strong>n on behind <strong>the</strong><br />
truck’s trailer.<br />
Ed leaned <strong>for</strong>ward and peered toward <strong>the</strong> hood where <strong>the</strong>y used to be able to see <strong>the</strong><br />
Beetle, but he seemed only curious.<br />
John told Cecil, “Don’t do this. Please stop.”<br />
Cecil whipped his head toward John, <strong>the</strong> red-streaked whites of his eyes showing all<br />
around his storm-cloud-gray irises and pinpoint pupils. “What?” he screamed at John. “You said<br />
what? Changed your attitude awfully fast, didn’t you, mister?”<br />
57
John tried to appear calm. “You don’t have to do this.”<br />
Ed looked at John, and <strong>the</strong>n sat back on <strong>the</strong> bunk.<br />
Cecil pointed his finger at John and screamed, “Are you . . .” <strong>the</strong>n pointed at himself, “ . . .<br />
telling me . . . how to drive my truck?” He pounded his <strong>for</strong>efingertip onto his own chest with each<br />
of <strong>the</strong> last two words. He shoved his pointer finger toward John again, as if he could shoot<br />
lightening bolts from it. “You don’t know what driving’s all about. Nobody does anymore.” He<br />
grabbed his wheel and glared through his windshield. “These Goddamned little pissant . . .<br />
Nobody knows what driving is anymore.”<br />
Ed smiled at Cecil like a salesman. “I know what you mean, Cecil.”<br />
“Hell Hound!”<br />
“Hell Hound. I know what you mean. You’re a dying breed, man, one of a kind.”<br />
“Damn right, I am.” Cecil turned and looked at Ed, as if to see if Ed were serious or<br />
poking fun.<br />
Ed said, “Sorry about that jerk-off comment. No need to take it out on that little lady<br />
<strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
“I’m not taking anything out on anyone. You boys are done with this ride soon as I teach<br />
this bitch a lesson. Lucky I don’t throw you out right now, while we’re still moving, or take you<br />
out somewhere and shoot you.”<br />
John couldn’t see <strong>the</strong> Beetle. It was hidden somewhere beneath <strong>the</strong> tiny winged lady and<br />
<strong>the</strong> truck’s huge nose. The SUV was only a tiny dot in Cecil’s side mirror by <strong>the</strong>n.<br />
Cecil looked <strong>for</strong>ward and stomped on his accelerator, and John felt <strong>the</strong> jar again.<br />
The Beetle reappeared in front of <strong>the</strong>m, accelerating.<br />
Ed said, calm and matter-of-factly, “Why don’t we pull over and get a cup of coffee, or a<br />
beer, talk about—”<br />
“Talk! That’s all anyone does anymore is talk. We’re done talking.”<br />
Through <strong>the</strong> Beetle’s rear window, John saw <strong>the</strong> back of <strong>the</strong> driver’s head. She was a<br />
young woman, possibly a teenager, with blonde hair in a ponytail. A small black dog standing on<br />
<strong>the</strong> back seat, bracing its front paws on <strong>the</strong> seat’s back, barked and barked through <strong>the</strong> Beetle’s<br />
back window at Cecil and John and Ed, though John couldn’t hear <strong>the</strong> barks.<br />
Cecil turned <strong>for</strong>ward and mashed his accelerator to <strong>the</strong> floor, but <strong>the</strong> Beetle accelerated<br />
faster. John figured it must have been doing ninety. It pulled far<strong>the</strong>r away and whipped into <strong>the</strong><br />
58
ight lane, wiggling from <strong>the</strong> speed and <strong>the</strong> shallow ruts in <strong>the</strong> road. John expected <strong>the</strong> girl to lose<br />
control any second and ei<strong>the</strong>r slip on across <strong>the</strong> shoulder and into <strong>the</strong> snow-filled ditch or<br />
boomerang sideways back in front of Cecil’s charging truck.<br />
Cecil hollered, “Worked. Bitch is out of <strong>the</strong> way. People don’t know how to drive<br />
anymore.” He screamed at <strong>the</strong> Beetle, “Passing lane! Doesn’t that mean anything to you, bitch?<br />
Sheeeeiiiiiit, woman.”<br />
The Beetle slowed in <strong>the</strong> right lane, and Cecil gained on it in <strong>the</strong> left. The girl seemed to<br />
have regained control, though she hugged <strong>the</strong> white line at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> shoulder, as if she<br />
expected <strong>the</strong> truck to try to veer over once it was next to her and run her off <strong>the</strong> road. She raised<br />
her cell phone to her ear, both her hand and <strong>the</strong> phone shaking. Her o<strong>the</strong>r hand seemed latched<br />
onto <strong>the</strong> wheel so tightly that she might be trying to pinch <strong>the</strong> wheel in half to make a balloon<br />
animal. Her brake lights came on.<br />
John knew she’d be able to look up at him in <strong>the</strong> next moment. He lowered his face and<br />
shielded his right cheek and eye with his hand. He wanted to mouth a “Sorry” to her, or to<br />
somehow make up <strong>for</strong> Cecil’s asinine antics, but most, he wanted to vanish.<br />
Cecil’s truck roared past her and whipped into <strong>the</strong> right lane, <strong>the</strong> tail end of his trailer<br />
snapping over like <strong>the</strong> end of a whip, barely missing <strong>the</strong> Beetle.<br />
“You,” Cecil said to John, “are walking, mister.” He whined, “Pleeeeasssse stop. Waaah.<br />
My pussy hurts.” Then he huffed.<br />
Cecil braked hard, pulled over to <strong>the</strong> shoulder, his tires skidding on <strong>the</strong> wet pavement, and<br />
stopped with his tractor and trailer slightly askew. He pulled a big yellow button on his dash, and<br />
it popped loudly and air brakes hissed.<br />
Ed stuck his arms back into his parka sleeves and zipped up his parka.<br />
Cecil turned toward John and said, “Get your shit and get out.” Then he said to Ed, “You,<br />
too, you Goddamned faggot.” Cecil looked at John again and <strong>the</strong>n past him, as if something had<br />
caught his eye. “What <strong>the</strong> hell?”<br />
John turned around to see what was next to <strong>the</strong> highway that had drawn Cecil’s attention,<br />
but <strong>the</strong> snow and <strong>the</strong> distant wood line seemed empty. The trees <strong>the</strong>mselves were empty: bare of<br />
leaves, bare of birds, bare of life of any kind.<br />
Cecil said, “What <strong>the</strong> fuck is she doing?”<br />
John looked in <strong>the</strong> passenger side mirror. The Beetle had stopped on <strong>the</strong> shoulder a couple<br />
59
hundred yards behind <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
Cecil turned to Ed. “Both of you get out. Now.”<br />
Ed grabbed <strong>the</strong> rope to his roll and <strong>the</strong> strap to John’s gym bag.<br />
“I’ll get that shit myself,” Cecil said.<br />
He seized Ed’s parka and tried to drag Ed from <strong>the</strong> sleeper.<br />
Ed shrugged off Cecil’s hands and, never taking his eyes off Cecil’s, draped <strong>the</strong> rope to his<br />
roll through <strong>the</strong>ir stares and across his shoulder and calmly adjusted <strong>the</strong> roll to his satisfaction.<br />
John opened <strong>the</strong> passenger door and climbed out of <strong>the</strong> truck. Ed followed John, but<br />
slowly, like a three-toed sloth. He stared at Cecil without blinking, his lids partially closed, <strong>the</strong><br />
rest of his face expressionless. Ed’s look gave John <strong>the</strong> creeps.<br />
Cecil seemed to try to hurl John’s bag and coat all <strong>the</strong> way to <strong>the</strong> wood line, but <strong>the</strong> bag<br />
was too heavy and fell right into John. John grabbed at <strong>the</strong> bag in <strong>the</strong> air and, though not catching<br />
it, managed to soften its impact on <strong>the</strong> shoulder and, he hoped, keeping his mo<strong>the</strong>r’s bowl from<br />
breaking. His coat landed at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> ditch behind him.<br />
Cecil disappeared again and <strong>the</strong>n came back to <strong>the</strong> door and clambered out of <strong>the</strong> truck<br />
behind Ed, almost knocking Ed from <strong>the</strong> lowest step. Cecil locked and slammed his truck’s door<br />
and gestured ahead of <strong>the</strong> truck.<br />
“Go on,” he said. “Get <strong>the</strong> hell away from me and my truck.”<br />
He turned and marched toward <strong>the</strong> Beetle, adjusting something at his waistline within <strong>the</strong><br />
folds of his denim and sheepskin. Then he swung his arms in huge sweeps and picked up his pace.<br />
His walk seemed exaggerated, <strong>for</strong>ced, as if he were new at it.<br />
Ed dropped his roll next to John and paced after Cecil, slipping his left hand beneath <strong>the</strong><br />
parka’s lower edge and pulling out his knife.<br />
John put on his coat and picked up his bag, but he wasn’t sure whe<strong>the</strong>r to rush after Ed or<br />
run <strong>the</strong> opposite direction. He thought about climbing <strong>the</strong> concrete barrier in <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong><br />
turnpike and escaping to <strong>the</strong> north, or even trying to disappear into <strong>the</strong> trees to <strong>the</strong> south. He<br />
didn’t like <strong>the</strong> idea of being near Ed and Cecil, or being anywhere Cecil’s truck could go, but his<br />
feet didn’t budge.<br />
Ed gained on Cecil. Cecil seemed not to notice Ed was behind him, and Cecil didn’t seem<br />
to get much closer to <strong>the</strong> Beetle. Then John realized <strong>the</strong> Beetle was backing up, keeping Cecil at a<br />
distance. John blew out a deep breath and thought, Good girl. Smart.<br />
60
Cecil saw it, too, and pulled a huge black pistol from beneath his coat. Ed ran toward<br />
Cecil <strong>the</strong>n, and <strong>the</strong> Beetle accelerated in reverse. Ed tackled Cecil from behind, and <strong>the</strong>y both fell<br />
onto <strong>the</strong> wet black shoulder. Ed straddled Cecil and seemed to punch Cecil in <strong>the</strong> back, but John<br />
knew Ed had his knife in that hand. Cecil and Ed struggled on <strong>the</strong> ground <strong>for</strong> a moment, and <strong>the</strong>n<br />
John saw a puff of smoke. A split second later he heard a pop like a loud firecracker, and Cecil<br />
got up and ran limping toward <strong>the</strong> truck. Ed stood and watched Cecil, <strong>the</strong> black knife hanging in<br />
Ed’s left hand, his right hand in tight against his stomach.<br />
John ran from Cecil, but after only a few yards, his legs burned with exhaustion from his<br />
two days’ walk and <strong>the</strong> weight of his bag. He knew he couldn’t keep away from Cecil along <strong>the</strong><br />
highway, so he tried to cross <strong>the</strong> ditch but slid and fell in its bottom. He let loose of his bag and<br />
looked back. Cecil was back at his truck. John couldn’t see <strong>the</strong> pistol and figured Cecil must have<br />
slid it back inside his coat. Cecil looked at John, <strong>the</strong>n looked back at Ed, who had started to run<br />
toward <strong>the</strong> truck again. John lay behind his bag, kneading <strong>the</strong> heavy vinyl to find his blanketwrapped<br />
skillet. He turned <strong>the</strong> skillet on its side within <strong>the</strong> bag, holding it and <strong>the</strong> bag in front of<br />
his chest like a breastplate, wishing he’d had a restaurant-sized skillet instead. He wished he could<br />
simultaneously guard both his chest and his head behind <strong>the</strong> thick metal, but at <strong>the</strong> same time, he<br />
was glad he had an excuse to not take his eyes off anything.<br />
Cecil unlocked and opened <strong>the</strong> passenger door and climbed up his steps, resting briefly on<br />
<strong>the</strong> second and last steps. Blood soaked <strong>the</strong> back of his coat. Cecil sighed heavily, <strong>the</strong>n climbed in<br />
<strong>the</strong> truck and closed <strong>the</strong> door. The truck’s stacks spewed smoke, and <strong>the</strong> truck jerked <strong>for</strong>ward<br />
and pulled onto <strong>the</strong> highway.<br />
John turned his bag so that it was always between him and <strong>the</strong> truck, rolling it over on top<br />
of his chest and covering his head with his arms. He couldn’t see Cecil. The ditch was deep<br />
enough and <strong>the</strong> truck’s cab wide enough that <strong>the</strong> passenger door masked John’s and Cecil’s views<br />
of each o<strong>the</strong>r. The truck went by, and John let his arms fall to <strong>the</strong> snow at his sides. He brea<strong>the</strong>d<br />
<strong>the</strong> cold air deeply, leaving his bag resting against his chest.<br />
Ed leaned over him. “You okay?”<br />
Ed’s knife was out of sight again. He tightened a red paisley-patterned bandanna around<br />
his right hand. Blood dripped from <strong>the</strong> hand and <strong>the</strong> bandanna. Blood coated <strong>the</strong> belly of his<br />
parka, too, but John couldn’t see a bullet hole anywhere in <strong>the</strong> parka’s front.<br />
John sat up and asked, “He shoot you?”<br />
61
“In <strong>the</strong> hand.”<br />
“Are you okay?”<br />
Ed laughed while grimacing. “No. I have a hole in my hand. What makes you think I could<br />
be okay?” He tucked <strong>the</strong> last corner of <strong>the</strong> bandanna under its tightly wrapped bands. “I’ve had<br />
worse, though.”<br />
John stood up. The Beetle was still on <strong>the</strong> shoulder. Cecil’s truck was a tiny dot on <strong>the</strong><br />
interstate’s vanishing point.<br />
Ed said, “I need whiskey or something <strong>for</strong> this thing.”<br />
“Rubbing alcohol would be better.” John brushed <strong>the</strong> snow off his jeans.<br />
Ed looked into <strong>the</strong> sky and scrunched his nose. “I hate hospital smell. Besides, whisky<br />
does two jobs.”<br />
“Did you stab Cecil?” John asked.<br />
Ed smiled and took John’s bag from him. “Oh, yeah. Next jug of piss that guy throws at<br />
someone will be red.”<br />
He set John’s bag on <strong>the</strong> shoulder and helped John out of <strong>the</strong> ditch.<br />
John said, “You were <strong>the</strong> one who threw <strong>the</strong> piss.”<br />
“Yeah. Well . . .”<br />
The Beetle crept up <strong>the</strong> shoulder toward John and Ed, its tires crunching on an occasional<br />
pebble, piece of glass, or o<strong>the</strong>r bit of debris, <strong>the</strong> engine humming at idle. The air seemed too calm,<br />
John thought, and <strong>the</strong> sky too light, <strong>for</strong> something so horrendous to have just happened.<br />
62
CHAPTER 12<br />
Kevin followed Apalachicola Bay’s main channel, shooting across <strong>the</strong> bay <strong>for</strong> nearly half<br />
an hour toward St. George and Little St. George islands. Then <strong>the</strong> channel turned ninety degrees<br />
to port and headed to East Pass without him. Kevin turned five or ten degrees to starboard<br />
instead and headed due south, straight toward a tiny mark jutting above and in front of <strong>the</strong> low<br />
line of land on <strong>the</strong> horizon.<br />
Over <strong>the</strong> next five minutes, <strong>the</strong> mark grew higher and eventually stuck thirty-six feet into<br />
<strong>the</strong> sky, taller than his boat was long. He passed that tower and homed in on <strong>the</strong> twenty-footer,<br />
<strong>the</strong> next mark leading to <strong>the</strong> cut between <strong>the</strong> islands. He could see <strong>the</strong> cut <strong>the</strong>n, beyond <strong>the</strong><br />
twenty-foot tower, <strong>the</strong> thin notch of landless Gulf between, to its right, pines and shrubbery above<br />
a beach and, to its left, houses and docks punctuating a lesser beach.<br />
He passed <strong>the</strong> twenty-foot tower and slowed as <strong>the</strong> water turned beige to port where <strong>the</strong><br />
shoal was. Then <strong>the</strong> starboard shoal appeared, and <strong>the</strong> two shoals squeezed in closer, <strong>the</strong> one to<br />
port rising so near <strong>the</strong> surface that <strong>the</strong> water lightened to almost <strong>the</strong> bright tan of <strong>the</strong> beach. He<br />
slipped between <strong>the</strong> pilings with <strong>the</strong> number three and four markers at <strong>the</strong>ir tops, slowing more<br />
and staying in <strong>the</strong> narrowing path of olive water between.<br />
At <strong>the</strong> end of one of <strong>the</strong> docks were a man and a girl, fishing or hanging a baited line<br />
down <strong>for</strong> crab. They had a large bucket and a net with a long handle.<br />
The shoal to port hove in close, and Kevin stopped watching <strong>the</strong> man and child and arced<br />
his boat in a slight sweep to starboard, more toward Little St. George Island, where <strong>the</strong><br />
government practiced bombing and missile runs.<br />
He straightened his path again after <strong>the</strong> shoal slipped back to where it was supposed to be,<br />
and <strong>the</strong>n he was between <strong>the</strong> islands. The beach to starboard and <strong>the</strong> boat ramps and docks to<br />
port closed in to within half a football field of him, and he reached <strong>the</strong> narrowest part, where<br />
piled-rock walls replaced <strong>the</strong> beach, docks, and houses, and he motored through <strong>the</strong> straight,<br />
rock-lined cut. The land ended, but <strong>the</strong> rock-pile walls went on, becoming jetties instead, and <strong>the</strong>n<br />
Kevin was past <strong>the</strong>ir ends and headed into <strong>the</strong> Gulf, <strong>the</strong> horizon ahead now broken by only <strong>the</strong><br />
63
last three channel markers.<br />
He swayed to port to avoid lighter-colored water, slowly arcing around until <strong>the</strong> water<br />
was dark ahead and on both sides again, and <strong>the</strong>n he looked up, smiled at <strong>the</strong> empty horizon, and<br />
pushed <strong>the</strong> twin throttle handles <strong>for</strong>ward. The knotmeter reached twenty-five, thirty, thirty-five,<br />
and he tapped <strong>the</strong> throttles back to hold <strong>the</strong> speed <strong>the</strong>re <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> time being.<br />
He shot between <strong>the</strong> green can close to starboard and <strong>the</strong> red nun off to port, turning <strong>the</strong><br />
wheel to swing his boat and <strong>the</strong> compass’ glass bubble around <strong>the</strong> slightly undulating compass<br />
card, and lined up <strong>the</strong> bubble’s rule with <strong>the</strong> card’s “195.” Then he brought <strong>the</strong> tiny Turk’s head<br />
on his wheel back to top dead center, and <strong>the</strong> boat’s deck leveled out and settled into a gentle<br />
rocking over <strong>the</strong> swells.<br />
He throttled on up to <strong>for</strong>ty and left <strong>the</strong> cut and <strong>the</strong> shore far behind. The depthmeter<br />
climbed, and <strong>the</strong> water changed from <strong>the</strong> beige and olive of <strong>the</strong> cut to an umber-cobalt mix and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n to eggplant purple-black. The sun sent fingerlike rays dancing into <strong>the</strong> purple, lighting up<br />
hints of cobalt and gold, colors you never see in <strong>the</strong> murkier waters close to shore.<br />
Today <strong>the</strong> breeze caressed <strong>the</strong> water in long, even swells, and <strong>the</strong> slow sway of deep water<br />
beneath <strong>the</strong> hull, <strong>the</strong> humming of <strong>the</strong> twin outboards, <strong>the</strong> rich dancing colors beneath <strong>the</strong> piercing<br />
baby blue sky made Kevin smile, beckoned to him more than he could fathom, and once he passed<br />
that final marker far off to starboard, at Cape St. George Shoal, he never glanced back at <strong>the</strong> land.<br />
64
CHAPTER 13<br />
The Beetle pulled close to John and Ed, and Ed waved at <strong>the</strong> girl inside.<br />
She stopped <strong>the</strong> car on <strong>the</strong> shoulder next to <strong>the</strong>m and rolled her passenger window down<br />
an inch.<br />
The cream-colored SUV crept by, and Ed smiled and waved at <strong>the</strong> couple in it, too. They<br />
sped up and went on down <strong>the</strong> road.<br />
“Are you okay?” <strong>the</strong> girl in <strong>the</strong> Beetle shouted at Ed.<br />
Ed held up his tightly wrapped hand, laughed, and said under his breath to John, “Looks<br />
like you two were made <strong>for</strong> each o<strong>the</strong>r.” Blood coated most of <strong>the</strong> bandanna, but it had stopped<br />
dripping. He said to her, “Sure. Just a scratch.”<br />
The girl peered through <strong>the</strong> cracked passenger window.<br />
“I called <strong>the</strong> police,” she said.<br />
“Good,” Ed said and stepped closer to <strong>the</strong> car.<br />
She said, “I don’t know where <strong>the</strong>y are.”<br />
“Did you give <strong>the</strong>m <strong>the</strong> mile marker?”<br />
She rolled her window down ano<strong>the</strong>r six inches. “The what?”<br />
Ed nodded, <strong>the</strong>n looked east. “You from around here?”<br />
She shook her head. “Going home, from school.”<br />
“Kansas <strong>State</strong>?” he asked, but she didn’t react. He nodded east. “Just how many miles<br />
away is <strong>the</strong> next town, <strong>the</strong> closest police station?”<br />
“Oh,” she said. “I’m sorry. I guess <strong>the</strong>y . . .” She looked around, as if expecting <strong>the</strong><br />
highway patrol and an ambulance to whip into sight. O<strong>the</strong>r cars slowed as <strong>the</strong>y went by, but none<br />
stopped. The girl asked, “Can I give you a lift? You saved my life, I guess.”<br />
“Ah,” Ed said, “I don’t think that guy was much of a shot.” He showed his bandaged hand<br />
again. “But we’ll take <strong>the</strong> ride, if you’re sure you don’t mind.”<br />
She opened <strong>the</strong> passenger door without unstrapping her seat belt.<br />
“Stay here, Hawking,” she said and pulled her little black dog close.<br />
65
Ed said, “So you are from K <strong>State</strong>. Jayhawks.”<br />
“What?”<br />
Ed nodded at <strong>the</strong> dog. “Hawkin’.”<br />
“That makes no sense,” she said. “Hawking, as in Stephen.”<br />
Ed shrugged, looked inside <strong>the</strong> Beetle, <strong>the</strong>n at his hand. “You have a plastic bag or<br />
anything? I don’t want to get blood all over your car.”<br />
“Yeah, in <strong>the</strong> trunk.”<br />
She pushed a tiny button on her key chain remote, and <strong>the</strong> hatch popped.<br />
Using his left hand, Ed lifted <strong>the</strong> hatch, reached into <strong>the</strong> trunk, and emptied a clear plastic<br />
shopping bag of its bundle of clo<strong>the</strong>s. The clo<strong>the</strong>s had no tags and had been folded differently than<br />
stores seemed to prefer, tighter, more efficient than showy.<br />
Ed wrapped his right hand, bandanna and all, inside <strong>the</strong> empty bag, <strong>the</strong>n reached back into<br />
<strong>the</strong> trunk and pushed two more bags to <strong>the</strong> side, one of clo<strong>the</strong>s and one of moderately sized boxes<br />
wrapped in colorful paper printed with Christmas trees, Santas, and holly.<br />
Ed loaded first his roll and <strong>the</strong>n John’s gym bag into <strong>the</strong> trunk, slammed <strong>the</strong> hatch closed,<br />
and walked around to <strong>the</strong> passenger side of <strong>the</strong> Beetle. He folded <strong>the</strong> passenger seat <strong>for</strong>ward, slid<br />
<strong>the</strong> whole seat up away from <strong>the</strong> back, and clambered onto <strong>the</strong> back seat. The back of his head hit<br />
<strong>the</strong> back window, and he whipped around scowling as if <strong>the</strong> window had reached out and bopped<br />
him on <strong>the</strong> head on purpose.<br />
“Get in, John,” he said and tapped his good hand on <strong>the</strong> passenger seat’s bent-over back.<br />
“Let’s get on out of here. No need to wait <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> police.”<br />
The girl looked curiously at Ed.<br />
Ed said, “You gave <strong>the</strong>m <strong>the</strong> truck’s tag number, right?”<br />
“Uh-huh.”<br />
John pushed <strong>the</strong> seat back into place. It hit Ed’s knees.<br />
“Ow,” Ed said. “Pull that seat up a little, would you, John?” He said to <strong>the</strong> girl, “The<br />
police will call you if <strong>the</strong>y need you to testify or anything.”<br />
John got in, closed <strong>the</strong> door, and adjusted <strong>the</strong> seat.<br />
“That’s better,” Ed said. “Let’s get out of here.”<br />
John strapped on his seat belt. The girl checked her mirror, turned on her blinker, and<br />
pulled onto <strong>the</strong> highway.<br />
66
The Beetle smelled new and lea<strong>the</strong>ry, with a hint of perfume that made John think of<br />
Christmas again. John couldn’t place <strong>the</strong> scent exactly, but it hit him with images of big Christmas<br />
tree lights, <strong>the</strong> old painted ones with scratches and chips in <strong>the</strong> paint where sparkling bright white<br />
light shone through. It was an older perfume.<br />
The girl looked at Ed in her rearview and asked, “Don’t you want an ambulance or<br />
anything?”<br />
John got a whiff of pine <strong>the</strong>n, of a Christmas tree, but he couldn’t see a car air freshener<br />
anywhere. He drew a long breath in through his nose, but he couldn’t pick up <strong>the</strong> pine scent<br />
again.<br />
Ed said, “Nah. Like I said, it’s just a scratch. No big deal.”<br />
Hawking crawled in back and scrunched into a ball on <strong>the</strong> back seat as far from Ed as he<br />
could.<br />
“Okay,” <strong>the</strong> girl said to <strong>the</strong> rearview, and <strong>the</strong>n to John, “Your name’s John?”<br />
He nodded.<br />
“I’m Cassandra,” she said.<br />
“Hi.” John gestured toward <strong>the</strong> back seat. “That’s Ed.”<br />
Cassandra’s hazel eyes caught even that cloudy day’s faint light like a lion’s, yet <strong>the</strong>y<br />
seemed weary, like those of a lioness who’d lost cub after cub to warring males. They were <strong>for</strong>tyyear-old<br />
eyes in <strong>the</strong> face of a nineteen-year-old, and John found himself drawn to her.<br />
Ed didn’t seem to notice. He opened his parka down to his waist and pulled out a foldedup<br />
sheet of paper. Using his left hand and his teeth, he unfolded <strong>the</strong> paper part way and inspected<br />
it, peering at its edges and within <strong>the</strong> folds, studying <strong>the</strong> flat parts with his eyes only inches from<br />
it. At first, John thought it was something Ed had wanted to show <strong>the</strong>m, but <strong>the</strong>n he figured Ed<br />
must have been making sure blood hadn’t seeped through his parka and onto <strong>the</strong> paper. The<br />
paper’s back side was plain and unruled. The parts of <strong>the</strong> paper’s front John saw were filled with<br />
dark black lines and heavy shading.<br />
John looked back at Cassandra and <strong>the</strong>n through <strong>the</strong> windshield and wondered at how<br />
different his life had been only half a week earlier. He would never have imagined that quitting<br />
Leopold’s would have brought that much change that quickly.<br />
“Hey, stop!” Ed yelled. “No.”<br />
Cassandra braked but didn’t stop. She looked in her rearview at Ed.<br />
67
“Hawking, no,” Ed said.<br />
Hawking had a corner of Ed’s paper in his mouth, and Ed was trying to get <strong>the</strong> dog to let<br />
go, pressing his injured hand down on Hawking’s back, his thumb pressed on one side of<br />
Hawking’s mouth, but Ed’s fingers didn’t seem to want to work to press on <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r side of<br />
Hawking’s mouth.<br />
Cassandra said, “Leave Hawking alone.”<br />
Hawking tore a corner <strong>the</strong> size of a saucer from <strong>the</strong> drawing and scurried back to his side<br />
of <strong>the</strong> seat.<br />
“No,” Ed gasped.<br />
He grabbed at <strong>the</strong> torn paper in Hawking’s mouth, but Hawking reared his head back and<br />
swallowed <strong>the</strong> piece.<br />
Cassandra said, “Leave Hawking alone!”<br />
Ed took huge breaths, staring at his torn paper, his mouth hanging open and his eyes wide.<br />
He brea<strong>the</strong>d heavier than John had ever seen him do, heavier even than when <strong>the</strong>y had been<br />
running toward Cecil’s truck.<br />
“No,” Ed said again. “Hawking ate . . . Hawking ate . . .”<br />
“Hawking?” Cassandra asked. “Are you alright?”<br />
Ed snapped, “Hawking is fine!” Ed stared at his paper, <strong>the</strong>n glared at Hawking. “He ate<br />
part of my fa<strong>the</strong>r’s drawing.”<br />
“Can you get your fa<strong>the</strong>r ano<strong>the</strong>r one?”<br />
“It’s not <strong>for</strong> my fa<strong>the</strong>r, it’s by him.” Ed still glared at Hawking as if talking to <strong>the</strong> dog<br />
instead of Cassandra. “And he’s dead, and it’s <strong>the</strong> only one left in <strong>the</strong> world.” Ed looked at<br />
Cassandra. “Make him spit it up.”<br />
Cassandra said, “It’s just a drawing.”<br />
Ed glared at her, his eyes boring into <strong>the</strong> back of her head and his mouth twisting.<br />
“Where’d you say you were going again, Cassandra?” Ed asked.<br />
“Home.”<br />
Ed folded his torn paper and shoved it back inside his parka.<br />
“Where’s that?”<br />
Ed’s tone seemed a bit off to John, as if Ed were interrogating Cassandra.<br />
Hawking lay down and curled into a ball.<br />
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Cassandra said into <strong>the</strong> rearview, “A little place near Lamar.”<br />
Ed asked, “Where’s that?”<br />
“North of Joplin.”<br />
“Where’s Joplin?”<br />
Cassandra smiled a silent little laugh. “You don’t know where Joplin is?”<br />
“No.”<br />
“In southwest Missouri. It’s kind of a famous town.”<br />
Ed shrugged.<br />
Cassandra asked John, “How far are you going? Should I drop you near Kansas City? I’m<br />
not going into <strong>the</strong> city itself, just kind of bypassing it and going south.”<br />
John said, “As near to Kansas City as you’ll get will be fine.”<br />
“No,” Ed said, “We’ll go as far as you are, to L’Amour, or wherever it is you said.”<br />
“Lamar,” she said and laughed quietly again. “You said it like <strong>the</strong> French word <strong>for</strong> love.”<br />
Ed said, “Yeah, well.”<br />
Ed’s head bumped <strong>the</strong> rear window again, and he scowled. Then he scrunched his eyes<br />
tight and slowly tapped <strong>the</strong> back of his head against <strong>the</strong> window three more times.<br />
John said, “I’m not going to Lamar.” He turned toward Ed. “I’m going through St. Louis,<br />
<strong>the</strong>n Nashville, and Birmingham.”<br />
Ed said, “You were going through St. Louis. Now you’re going to Lamar. Don’t ever<br />
pass up a ride that gets you closer to your destination, John, even if it takes you a different route<br />
than you’d planned.”<br />
Ed grimaced and tapped <strong>the</strong> back of his head against <strong>the</strong> window four more times, <strong>the</strong>n<br />
eight.<br />
John said, “Sounds like she’s leaving <strong>the</strong> interstate, though.”<br />
Cassandra nodded.<br />
“But rides are comfy, John. Come on. Be smarter than that. Getting as far south as we can<br />
as soon as we can is better anyway, if we’re going to be bivouacking at night.”<br />
When Ed reached sixteen taps total, he stopped, and <strong>the</strong>n he brea<strong>the</strong>d freely.<br />
John mumbled, “South it is, I guess.”<br />
The Beetle continued down <strong>the</strong> turnpike, Ed watching Hawking and Cassandra watching<br />
<strong>the</strong> road. The sky was still overcast and gray. Each time John put his bare palm to <strong>the</strong> passenger<br />
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window, <strong>the</strong> cold still ached. Outside <strong>the</strong> car, <strong>the</strong> first hints of <strong>the</strong> shadows of evening crept in.<br />
Within hours, John thought, it will be black, and even colder. The cold will cut all <strong>the</strong> way<br />
through you <strong>the</strong>n, ratty motel blanket pulled over your head or not.<br />
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CHAPTER 14<br />
As a cook, John had liked closing <strong>the</strong> kitchen, not just because it marked <strong>the</strong> end of <strong>the</strong><br />
most stressful part of <strong>the</strong> day, but because once he turned out <strong>the</strong> kitchen lights and was immersed<br />
in darkness, <strong>the</strong> main bar and dining area shone through <strong>the</strong> service window in contrast. None of<br />
<strong>the</strong> bartenders, servers, or clientele up front could see John <strong>the</strong>n, but he could see <strong>the</strong>m, and <strong>the</strong><br />
window framed <strong>the</strong> view like <strong>the</strong> masking at a movie screen’s edges. Even after becoming<br />
manager, John usually found an excuse to go to <strong>the</strong> kitchen after it’d closed.<br />
The night after Leopold’s berating, John settled in to watch <strong>the</strong> bar <strong>for</strong> longer than usual.<br />
Light filtered in through Leopold’s bank of front windows and silhouetted <strong>the</strong> mass of<br />
groomed heads, dark suits, overcoats, and evening gowns stuffed between <strong>the</strong> windows and <strong>the</strong><br />
glossy black bar. It had begun to snow again, and <strong>the</strong> glow from <strong>the</strong> corner street lamps had<br />
turned <strong>the</strong> fine meandering of flakes into falling glitter, seemingly drifting free of <strong>the</strong> grasp of<br />
gravity, some whirling upward and disappearing behind <strong>the</strong> top frame of <strong>the</strong> windows as if<br />
returning to <strong>the</strong>ir source.<br />
Deep within <strong>the</strong> shadows of <strong>the</strong> bar, ghostlike flashes of pressed white ox<strong>for</strong>ds and aprons<br />
danced behind <strong>the</strong> bar and wove with trays held high through <strong>the</strong> sea of dark coats. The dim<br />
overhead globes cast an eerie light through <strong>the</strong> swirling cigar smoke and tickled <strong>the</strong> bar mirror<br />
and seemingly endless glass shelves of amber-filled bottles, martini glasses, snifters, and tumblers<br />
and all <strong>the</strong>ir looking-glass twins.<br />
The customers’ details <strong>the</strong>mselves began to materialize, and John recognized a few faces.<br />
He pulled <strong>the</strong> thin stack of index cards from his hip pocket. Down <strong>the</strong> left side of each card, he<br />
had written <strong>the</strong> names of Leopold’s regular customers and drawn or written simple descriptions,<br />
and next to each name, he’d written a favorite drink, favorite cigar, company and position, wife’s<br />
name, children’s names, pet peeves, you name it. The mere act of writing a name next to a<br />
description burned that name into John’s memory, so he didn’t have to refer to <strong>the</strong> cards <strong>for</strong><br />
those, but he needed <strong>the</strong> cards <strong>for</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r in<strong>for</strong>mation.<br />
John slid <strong>the</strong> cards back into his pocket, glanced at <strong>the</strong> snow, and <strong>the</strong>n turned and grabbed<br />
71
<strong>the</strong> tray of cold cuts, sliced French bread, and o<strong>the</strong>r finger food prepped <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> last hours of <strong>the</strong><br />
night and carried it all to <strong>the</strong> side station. He slid it in <strong>the</strong> small fridge under <strong>the</strong> Micros and heard<br />
a muffled voice outside <strong>the</strong> door.<br />
“You leaving, Dorian?”<br />
Dorian pushed <strong>the</strong> door open and smiled back at a customer. “No, mate,” he said. “I’m<br />
here all night. Just taking a break. See you in a bit, eh?”<br />
Dorian held a unique bartender trump by being Australian. He didn’t have to write down<br />
names. He simply showed off his pretty porcelain caps and Tasman Sea–blue irises and called<br />
everyone “mate.” Boom. Exotic accent, everybody’s best friend, big tips, and a shoe-in <strong>for</strong><br />
Westword’s “Best Of” list <strong>for</strong> Denver’s favorite bartender. Dorian had been at Leopold’s perhaps<br />
as long as Leopold himself. Dorian had been an old employee even back when John had been just<br />
a cook.<br />
Dorian let <strong>the</strong> door swing closed and seemed to age fifteen years. His mouth closed, eyes<br />
dulled, and shoulders slumped, and his belly sank relaxed over his apron ties. He lit a cigarette and<br />
pulled up his sales on <strong>the</strong> Micros screen.<br />
Without looking up, Dorian said, “Could be a good night, John. Almost a grand. Twenty<br />
percent in tips . . .” Dorian saw John watching and asked in a more serious tone, “How’s it<br />
going?”<br />
“All right.”<br />
“Still living with Billie?”<br />
John shrugged.<br />
“I couldn’t do that, see my boss’s daughter. You ever hear ‘Don’t get laid where you get<br />
paid’? If you lose <strong>the</strong> job, you lose <strong>the</strong> girl, and vice versa.”<br />
John didn’t say anything.<br />
Dorian said, “I don’t want to see you get into things without knowing that stuff, is all.”<br />
John shrugged. “I’d kind of like to get rid of both right now.”<br />
Dorian looked at <strong>the</strong> tiny camera in <strong>the</strong> ceiling’s corner.<br />
“You think Leopold has a mic in here, too?” he asked.<br />
“No. I’ve seen <strong>the</strong> monitors.”<br />
“Think he’s watching now?”<br />
“Probably.”<br />
72
Dorian stepped as close to <strong>the</strong> camera as he could, craned his neck back, and dug his<br />
index finger deep into his nose. He held <strong>the</strong> booger up to <strong>the</strong> lens and grinned proudly.<br />
“That’ll get his blood going,” he said.<br />
“Why do you do that?” John asked.<br />
“Fuck him. If he fires me, I take my clientele with me. I’ve lost too many customers now<br />
because of his paranoia.”<br />
John didn’t respond.<br />
Dorian wiped his finger on a bevnap and said, “Bloody cameras all over <strong>the</strong> place. No one<br />
wants his picture taken while he’s out cheating on his wife. Right. Put it on camera. That’ll drum<br />
up business.”<br />
Dorian snubbed out his cigarette, took a deep breath, sucked in his gut, and pushed his<br />
way back through <strong>the</strong> door.<br />
John followed him.<br />
Except <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> drinks and cigars, Leopold’s clientele looked like <strong>the</strong>y had just stepped out<br />
of Forbes or GQ. They were light-skinned, mostly male, and thin. Most were taller than John by a<br />
half foot or more. Their collars and cuffs were pressed, crisp, clean; <strong>the</strong>ir hands, manicured. Their<br />
drinks glittered with ice and <strong>the</strong> reflections of gold rings and watches and straight white teeth. Not<br />
a one seemed to sweat, despite most still wearing <strong>the</strong>ir overcoats. John would sometimes come<br />
across a self-built man, a junkyard dog sporting a pedigree cut, but by and far, <strong>the</strong> men in<br />
Leopold’s were celebrities, owned <strong>the</strong>ir own businesses, or were associate vice presidents of blah<br />
blah blah promoted ad infinitum due to <strong>the</strong>ir dashing good looks, sales pitches, and not much else.<br />
The women wore strapless evening gowns or revealing skirts and blouses, most without<br />
coats, despite <strong>the</strong> snow and cold, because that’s <strong>the</strong> way <strong>the</strong> men expected <strong>the</strong>m to look. Women<br />
froze to death getting to Leopold’s because <strong>the</strong>y couldn’t hit on <strong>the</strong> men <strong>the</strong>re while wearing<br />
coats, and Leopold’s had nowhere to hang coats. You never saw a gloved, scarfed, puffy-haired<br />
blue-collar woman at Leopold’s. It was part of John’s job to make sure of that.<br />
John worked his way through <strong>the</strong> bar greeting <strong>the</strong> customers he’d looked up on his index<br />
cards. He asked how <strong>the</strong>ir drinks and cigars were, encouraging <strong>the</strong>m to spend more.<br />
“No Opus X tonight?” John asked one regular who’d smoked one <strong>the</strong> weekend be<strong>for</strong>e. It<br />
was a fifty-dollar cigar.<br />
Someone’s buddy asked <strong>for</strong> a Cuban, getting smart.<br />
73
“You don’t want a Cuban cigar <strong>the</strong>se days,” John said. “You want one from pre-embargo<br />
days . . . Yes, <strong>the</strong>y last that long, if <strong>the</strong>y’re cared <strong>for</strong> properly . . . It’ll cost hundreds, just <strong>for</strong><br />
one . . . No, it’s only illegal to trade after <strong>the</strong> embargo. Anything in <strong>the</strong> U.S. prior to that is fair<br />
game. Better off with Dominican. We carry a really nice one I can show you.”<br />
John walked behind <strong>the</strong> bar, grabbed <strong>the</strong> cigar display case, and mixed on <strong>the</strong> floor again,<br />
but no sale.<br />
“Ted, How’ve you been? Who’s <strong>the</strong> young lady? . . . My pleasure, ma’am . . . Here, Ted,<br />
let me light that <strong>for</strong> you . . . No, I only have my lighter . . . You’re absolutely right, Ted. That<br />
strip of cedar you have won’t mar <strong>the</strong> flavor like this lighter would’ve.”<br />
John had taught Ted that, but it was John’s job to help customers show off to young<br />
ladies, not to pull out his own strip of cedar.<br />
John relieved his doorman <strong>for</strong> a break, and <strong>the</strong> doorman wasn’t gone two minutes be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
<strong>the</strong> front door opened and a huge silhouette masked <strong>the</strong> streetlight and glitter. Dyed black hair<br />
puffed to <strong>the</strong> door frame and out and down. A long, thick coat with stark shoulder pads filled <strong>the</strong><br />
doorway from side to side. The woman swayed, took one baby step, and leaned against <strong>the</strong><br />
doorjamb <strong>for</strong> support. A crack of light showed on her opposite side. She regained her balance,<br />
blocked out <strong>the</strong> light again, and took two more baby steps. She made it to <strong>the</strong> inside half of <strong>the</strong><br />
vestibule and out of its shadow. Her face was painted as if she were about to step beneath glaring<br />
stage lights instead of into a dimly lit bar. She knit her brows and seemed to work hard at trying<br />
to focus her tiny black eyes. Lines crinkled around her mouth as if she were working out an<br />
algebra problem. The rest of her face slept. Snowflakes stuck suspended in her hair and covered<br />
her shoulders.<br />
John tried to figure out how he was going to get rid of her. Even if all this drunk woman<br />
did was pass out, it would be trouble. She was too big <strong>for</strong> him to manhandle—womanhandle—<br />
personhandle—without embarrassment, and she was far too drunk to listen to common sense.<br />
A rocks glass fell from somewhere within her coat and out <strong>the</strong> bottom and banged flat on<br />
<strong>the</strong> floor, geysering its contents all over her feet. John wondered where she had hidden <strong>the</strong> drink,<br />
her armpit?<br />
She stopped and bent to retrieve <strong>the</strong> drink, but didn’t have room in <strong>the</strong> vestibule. She<br />
looked at John, as if just <strong>the</strong>n realizing he was watching her and that she’d been found out. She<br />
mumbled something in <strong>the</strong> tone of an apology, turned, and left. The light flowed back through <strong>the</strong><br />
74
open doorway, and a dozen flakes slipped in just be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> door swung shut. The flakes lit on <strong>the</strong><br />
vestibule’s floor and vanished instantly, and John counted his blessings while feeling disgusted<br />
with himself.<br />
After his doorman returned from his break, John mixed with <strong>the</strong> clientele again,<br />
occasionally sneaking back to <strong>the</strong> kitchen, wanting to watch only <strong>the</strong> snow and <strong>the</strong> eerie light<br />
effects, desperately not wanting to pull out <strong>the</strong> index cards but knowing that it looked good in<br />
front of Leopold’s cameras.<br />
Once Leopold showed up, John took a break from brown-nosing, deferring that job to <strong>the</strong><br />
master, though Leopold never seemed to kiss up. He seemed in his element, and John imagined<br />
him eventually running <strong>for</strong> mayor, or <strong>the</strong> state legislature, or <strong>the</strong> U.S. Senate.<br />
Billie never came in that night. John hadn’t expected her to, after she’d smashed his<br />
dinnerware like that. He wondered if his key would still fit by <strong>the</strong> time he closed up Leopold’s and<br />
went back home.<br />
At precisely one-thirty, long after Leopold had left <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> night, Floyd had come in. Floyd<br />
had long, graying braids, burnt sienna skin, and lips that looked fuller than <strong>the</strong>y were because of<br />
his prominent philtrum and <strong>the</strong> harsh creases that ran from <strong>the</strong> sides of his nose to <strong>the</strong> pusheddown<br />
corners of his mouth. Though only three and a half feet high, Floyd weighed nearly three<br />
hundred pounds. On this particular night, Floyd wore a straw fedora with a white-and-orange<br />
floral hatband and a multilayered cape made of tawny-port-red plastic so thick it looked like<br />
rubber. His cane rhythmically protruded from <strong>the</strong> folds of <strong>the</strong> cape as he worked his way up <strong>the</strong><br />
steps and in through <strong>the</strong> vestibule. He stopped to carefully and thoroughly brush <strong>the</strong> snow from<br />
his hat and cape, <strong>the</strong>n peeled off <strong>the</strong> cape, revealing an aloha shirt that matched his hatband. It<br />
looked particularly smart with his cane. John envied a man with balls to dress that way.<br />
Floyd and John exchanged nods, and Floyd draped his cape over <strong>the</strong> back of a chair by <strong>the</strong><br />
door, climbed into its seat, and patiently eyed his watch.<br />
At exactly one-<strong>for</strong>ty-five, Floyd took a deep breath and yelled a guttural yet wondrously<br />
loud “Bucka-buckow, bucka-buckow, bucka-buckow!”<br />
Everyone looked. Some grinned as if watching a stand-up act.<br />
John smiled big and put his fists to his hips. “You heard <strong>the</strong> man, ladies and gentlemen.<br />
That means, ‘Thank you <strong>for</strong> visiting Leopold’s Cigar Lounge. We appreciate your patronage, but<br />
it’s time to finish your drinks and exit through <strong>the</strong> front door.’”<br />
75
John suspected that Floyd actually yelled, “Get <strong>the</strong> fuck out,” and John loved that.<br />
The Christmas be<strong>for</strong>e, John had given Floyd a small box of chocolates with a bow on top,<br />
and Floyd had said as clear as day, “Thank you, John,” and <strong>the</strong>n turned and left. That was <strong>the</strong> only<br />
time John knew of when anyone had understood a word Floyd had said.<br />
By <strong>the</strong> time John had finally cleared out <strong>the</strong> last of <strong>the</strong> customers; given Floyd his ten<br />
dollars and said goodnight; closed <strong>the</strong> bar and locked <strong>the</strong> doors; printed out Friday night’s sales;<br />
checked and counted each employee’s bank; spot-checked <strong>the</strong> tables, condiments, side stations,<br />
silverware roll-ups, and bar stocks; sent all <strong>the</strong> employees home; and retired to <strong>the</strong> office upstairs<br />
and finalized <strong>the</strong> deposit bag and all <strong>the</strong> bar’s paperwork, <strong>the</strong> sky through <strong>the</strong> office windows had<br />
lightened above <strong>the</strong> waning snow, and Leopold’s office and apartment windows across <strong>the</strong> street<br />
were dark.<br />
John turned off <strong>the</strong> light but didn’t close <strong>the</strong> door. He stared into <strong>the</strong> dark and orderly<br />
office. His heart sped up, and his blood seemed to thicken and stick pounding in his jugulars. His<br />
head buzzed. He turned <strong>the</strong> lock on <strong>the</strong> open door’s knob and stared at his bar keys in his palm.<br />
It’s now or never, he thought. He closed his eyes and squeezed <strong>the</strong> keys in his fist.<br />
Then he opened his eyes, tossed <strong>the</strong> keys onto <strong>the</strong> desk, and closed <strong>the</strong> locked office door<br />
behind him. He hurried down <strong>the</strong> stairs and fled Leopold’s through <strong>the</strong> kitchen door. It swept shut<br />
behind him with <strong>the</strong> hiss of its pneumatic arm and <strong>the</strong> kiss and click of <strong>the</strong> latch. He was finally<br />
locked out, had done it himself.<br />
He turned away from <strong>the</strong> bar, still out of breath. The sky was lightening to a brilliant rosegold<br />
mix, and <strong>the</strong> snow had stopped. John cut <strong>the</strong> first path through <strong>the</strong> new snow behind<br />
Leopold’s, past <strong>the</strong> dumpsters and <strong>the</strong> unpainted, cracked brick wall. The snow coated his pants<br />
cuffs and tumbled cold and wet inside his loafers. John looked behind himself and noticed tiny,<br />
thin fragments of crusted snow flipped upside down around his footprints. He looked at<br />
Leopold’s loading ramp, tiny deck, and outside walk-in one last time. Then he turned toward <strong>the</strong><br />
parking lot and took childlike joy in punching each step through <strong>the</strong> snow’s almost nonexistent<br />
crystalline pane.<br />
76
CHAPTER 15<br />
Cassandra, Ed, Hawking, and John didn’t approach Kansas City enough to see any of <strong>the</strong><br />
downtown buildings. They circled all that, still miles away, drove past <strong>the</strong> suburbs and malls,<br />
turned south on Highway 69—or as Cassandra called it, “sixty-nine highway”—and were soon<br />
crawling through scattered towns with stoplights. They drove through Trading Post and stopped<br />
in Fort Scott <strong>for</strong> gas and <strong>the</strong>n drove on through little towns with not much more than post offices.<br />
The sky grew darker, though <strong>the</strong> thick, high clouds were so dense that John didn’t know if <strong>the</strong><br />
sun was still above <strong>the</strong> horizon.<br />
It was deep twilight when Cassandra finally turned across Highway 69 onto a side road<br />
and pulled over on its edge.<br />
She asked, “Do you want out here, or do you want me to take you to seventy-one?”<br />
“What’s seventy-one?” Ed asked.<br />
“It’s a bigger highway, runs between Kansas City and Joplin.”<br />
“Lots of traffic?”<br />
“Oh, yes.”<br />
Ed said, “If you don’t mind.”<br />
Cassandra pulled back onto <strong>the</strong> side road, drove down it away from Highway 69, and<br />
peeked into her rearview at Ed.<br />
“Everyone’s meeting me at my grandparents’ house,” she said, “far<strong>the</strong>r down seventy-one,<br />
but first I have to drop off Hawking at my house. It’s on <strong>the</strong> way. I can drop you where this road<br />
intersects with seventy-one between my house and my grandparents’ house.”<br />
Ed leaned over to his window and looked at <strong>the</strong> sky. “There anything <strong>the</strong>re? At <strong>the</strong><br />
highway?”<br />
“Yeah. A Copious Cone and a little truck stop or something, and a Wal-Mart on <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
side of <strong>the</strong> highway.”<br />
Ed said, “You own your own house?”<br />
Cassandra said, “No. I mean my parents’ house.” She chewed her lips. “Look. I’d offer<br />
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you guys a room or something, but it’s not mine to offer, and my parents will probably stay at my<br />
grandparents’ longer than I will, and—”<br />
“No,” John said. “Thank you, though.”<br />
She said, “I’m just so tired right now.”<br />
“We don’t expect that,” John said. “You’ve already done—”<br />
“It is cold out,” Ed said. “That truck stop have rooms?”<br />
John swung around and glared at Ed.<br />
Ed glared back at John and flared his eyelids, as if he and John were conspirators.<br />
John said, “Cassandra’s already done more than enough.” He smiled at Cassandra and said<br />
to her, “We’ll be fine.”<br />
Cassandra made a right turn, drove down that road a few houses, and pulled into <strong>the</strong> drive<br />
of a single-story red-brick house with a privacy fence. She took her keys, and when she opened<br />
<strong>the</strong> driver’s door, <strong>the</strong> cold air swooped in and bit John and Ed. Cassandra got Hawking and<br />
slammed her door. The door’s seal made a dull thud, and <strong>the</strong> air lightly concussed John and Ed.<br />
Cassandra took Hawking into <strong>the</strong> back yard through a gate in <strong>the</strong> fence.<br />
“What’s gotten into you?” Ed asked, leaning <strong>for</strong>ward.<br />
“What do you mean?”<br />
“That girl was ready to let us crash in her spare room, or on her couch.”<br />
“No, she wasn’t. Didn’t you hear her?”<br />
“She was right in that area of being able to be swayed, and we could have swayed her, <strong>the</strong><br />
two of us. Especially you. You two had a little spark thing going.”<br />
John said, “I’m not going to manipulate her.”<br />
Ed plopped back into his seat in exasperation and bumped his head on <strong>the</strong> back window<br />
again. His nose crinkled.<br />
John heard a train horn in <strong>the</strong> distance, two long blasts, <strong>the</strong>n a short and a long.<br />
“Damn it,” Ed said, “you . . .”<br />
Cassandra walked back to <strong>the</strong> car. Ed smiled and waved to her, <strong>the</strong>n scowled at John.<br />
“Just follow my lead,” he said, “like a good little sidekick.”<br />
John leaned back in his seat and against <strong>the</strong> passenger door and smiled at Cassandra.<br />
She got in <strong>the</strong> car, letting in ano<strong>the</strong>r cold swirl of air, and slammed her door, sending<br />
ano<strong>the</strong>r tiny concussion through <strong>the</strong>m all.<br />
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“Boy,” she said, “gets cold in here fast.”<br />
She restarted <strong>the</strong> engine and turned <strong>the</strong> heat all <strong>the</strong> way up.<br />
Ed said, “Yeah. Stays cold out <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Ed stared at John, added an overacted “Brrr,” crossed his arms, and rubbed his one<br />
mittened hand and his plastic-bagged, bandanna-wrapped o<strong>the</strong>r hand up and down his upper arms.<br />
Cassandra ignored Ed and backed out of <strong>the</strong> drive, pulled away from <strong>the</strong> house, and soon<br />
turned back onto <strong>the</strong> road to Highway 71 and town.<br />
John stared out <strong>the</strong> window. He pulled off his glove and put his bare palm to <strong>the</strong> glass, but<br />
quickly plucked it away, kneading his fingers hard into his palm and <strong>the</strong>n making a tight fist to<br />
warm <strong>the</strong> flesh back up.<br />
Ed plopped back all <strong>the</strong> way back into <strong>the</strong> seat, bending his head <strong>for</strong>ward at <strong>the</strong> last<br />
minute and not banging it against <strong>the</strong> window that time, but he rocked in <strong>the</strong> seat, three more<br />
times, four, five . . .<br />
They crossed a set of railroad tracks, topped a slight rise, and drove down toward what<br />
looked like an interstate. Cars and trucks drove regularly, though not thickly, up and down it,<br />
<strong>the</strong>ir lights shining on <strong>the</strong> gray concrete beneath <strong>the</strong> darker gray sky. The fields and clusters of<br />
trees between <strong>the</strong> top of <strong>the</strong> hill and <strong>the</strong> highway had less snow and were more brown than what<br />
<strong>the</strong>y had been back along <strong>the</strong> turnpike. Patches of brown grass jutted up through <strong>the</strong> snow next to<br />
<strong>the</strong> road, some patches tall, hard, and sienna, o<strong>the</strong>rs short and blonde. The winding patches of<br />
<strong>for</strong>est were sparse, looking manicured, and behind <strong>the</strong> Beetle, along <strong>the</strong> top of <strong>the</strong> rise it had just<br />
come down, <strong>the</strong> sky’s darkening gray cloudiness appeared in patches through <strong>the</strong> branch-laden<br />
horizon.<br />
Ed stopped rocking and said, “Sure gets cold out <strong>the</strong>re at night, doesn’t it, John.”<br />
John said, “It’s winter, Ed. Of course it gets cold.”<br />
Ed said, “Think you’ll freeze tonight with that thin old blanket of yours, John?”<br />
John said, “I doubt it,” but he didn’t look Ed in <strong>the</strong> eyes.<br />
Cassandra drove past an open field and over a tiny bridge over a dried-up creek bed and<br />
up to <strong>the</strong> Copious Cone and a gas-station-slash-convenience-store that shared one big slab<br />
parking lot right next to <strong>the</strong> highway’s off ramp and overpass.<br />
Ed said, “I’ll bet you’ll freeze plumb to death tonight, John.”<br />
John said again, this time without turning, “I doubt it.”<br />
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John heard Ed murmur something, but he couldn’t tell what. Then he heard Ed’s head<br />
clunk against <strong>the</strong> back window.<br />
“Fuck,” Ed said.<br />
Then John heard a fainter bump, bump, bump, pause, bump, bump, bump, bump . . .<br />
In <strong>the</strong> gravel lot behind <strong>the</strong> Copious Cone and <strong>the</strong> convenience store were parked half a<br />
dozen semis and dropped trailers. Only three trucks—a tanker, a household moving van, and a<br />
Wal-Mart truck—showed signs of having been recently driven. The tops of <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> trailers,<br />
sleepers, and hoods remained mostly caked with snow, as if <strong>the</strong> parking lot were a storage lot<br />
instead. The snow draping <strong>the</strong> parking lot around <strong>the</strong> Copious Cone was unbroken.<br />
Cassandra pulled into <strong>the</strong> convenience store’s lot and stopped in one of <strong>the</strong> spaces in front<br />
of <strong>the</strong> front doors.<br />
She said, “Well, thank you guys.”<br />
She looked down at her steering wheel.<br />
Ed stopped his bumping and watched her expectantly.<br />
She fumbled with her key chain and finally managed to press <strong>the</strong> little button that popped<br />
<strong>the</strong> back hatch.<br />
John took a deep breath, opened <strong>the</strong> passenger door, and said, “Thank you, Cassandra. Be<br />
careful.”<br />
He felt stupid saying <strong>the</strong> last part, after what had happened with Cecil. If anything, she<br />
was more careful than <strong>the</strong>y had been.<br />
He got out, and <strong>the</strong> cold bit his ears. He wanted to get inside <strong>the</strong> store fast. He pulled his<br />
and Ed’s stuff out of <strong>the</strong> trunk, straightened up <strong>the</strong> pile of clo<strong>the</strong>s Ed had tumbled from <strong>the</strong> plastic<br />
bag, and slammed <strong>the</strong> hatch closed.<br />
Ed hadn’t gotten out.<br />
John walked around to <strong>the</strong> driver’s side, and Cassandra rolled her window down a few<br />
inches.<br />
“Come on, Ed,” John said. “You can’t stay in <strong>the</strong>re <strong>for</strong>ever.”<br />
Ed sighed and rolled his head around, <strong>the</strong>n got out of <strong>the</strong> car and slammed <strong>the</strong> passenger<br />
door. John felt a tiny burst of warm air rush out through <strong>the</strong> crack in Cassandra’s window.<br />
She ignored <strong>the</strong> slammed door and mechanically pushed <strong>the</strong> passenger seat back into<br />
place, <strong>the</strong>n looked John in <strong>the</strong> eyes.<br />
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“I’ll see you around, okay?” she said, as if she believed <strong>the</strong> whole world consisted of only<br />
three acres and two dozen people, as if she believed it were inevitable that <strong>the</strong>ir paths would cross<br />
again.<br />
John wanted to believe it, too, though, and <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>ty-year-old part of her eyes almost<br />
tricked him into believing in things like that.<br />
“Yeah, see you around,” John said and smiled back.<br />
Ed took his roll from John and slung it from his shoulder. He adjusted it so that it covered<br />
<strong>the</strong> blood on his parka’s belly, most of which had dried and turned brown, and pressed his plasticshopping-bag-wrapped<br />
hand against <strong>the</strong> roll. He stormed through <strong>the</strong> store’s front door, <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>ce<br />
of <strong>the</strong> shove of his o<strong>the</strong>r hand making <strong>the</strong> door’s pneumatic arm hyperextend its elbow with a<br />
loud bang.<br />
Cassandra put <strong>the</strong> Beetle in gear, backed up, and drove off rolling up her window. The<br />
Beetle pulled onto <strong>the</strong> on ramp to Highway 71 and accelerated up it, <strong>the</strong> taillights looking like red<br />
eyes with lids half closed. In less than two minutes, Cassandra was gone. The air felt colder than<br />
ever, and John rushed to get inside, though he eased <strong>the</strong> door open extra carefully, as if that might<br />
compensate <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> way Ed had done things.<br />
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CHAPTER 16<br />
Ed had seated himself at one of three fiberboard-and-Formica tables lining <strong>the</strong> windowed<br />
wall facing <strong>the</strong> back parking lot. The ergonomically curved benches were yellow-orange; <strong>the</strong><br />
tables, red-orange. It looked like dried-up ketchup and mustard. John wondered why anyone<br />
would choose those particular shades individually, more so why anyone would combine <strong>the</strong>m that<br />
way. It turned his stomach, and it certainly didn’t make him want to buy any of <strong>the</strong>ir food.<br />
Ed stared through <strong>the</strong> rear windows of <strong>the</strong> store, studying <strong>the</strong> line of semis and trailers.<br />
The smell of <strong>the</strong> store was of microwaved sandwiches—that stale-bread steam that bursts from<br />
yanked-open hot plastic wrappers—and of artificially lemon-scented mop water.<br />
John sat across from Ed and asked, “What now?”<br />
“It’s your fault <strong>the</strong>re even is a ‘what now.’”<br />
Ed nodded toward <strong>the</strong> lot. The tanker’s driver worked his way down one side of <strong>the</strong> truck,<br />
beating on tires with a miniature wooden baseball bat.<br />
“Now we find ano<strong>the</strong>r ride,” Ed said, “since we don’t have a warm bed or anything.”<br />
“You ought to clean up that hand,” John said.<br />
Ed shook his head. “No. Truck first. It’s late, and my hand is not as important as our ride.<br />
At least I know how to set priorities. You fucker.”<br />
John tried to ignore Ed and looked out <strong>the</strong> window.<br />
A set of steer horns were fastened to <strong>the</strong> top of <strong>the</strong> tanker’s grill. The cab, like Cecil’s,<br />
reeked of chrome and amber lights, rows and rows of lights—along <strong>the</strong> bumper, down <strong>the</strong> fronts<br />
of <strong>the</strong> big side mirrors, on tops of chrome poles running up from <strong>the</strong> outer edges of <strong>the</strong> fenders,<br />
and even on panels jutting out next to <strong>the</strong> hood. The only reason John could see <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> panels<br />
was so that <strong>the</strong> driver could have more room <strong>for</strong> lights. The driver worked his way up <strong>the</strong> truck’s<br />
opposite side, still thumping tires. He wore a black felt cowboy hat with a band of conjoined<br />
silver-looking discs, glowing eerily in <strong>the</strong> parking lot lights. His shirt was turquoise and had a<br />
huge square flap that covered <strong>the</strong> top half of his chest. One top corner of <strong>the</strong> flap hung down in<br />
what seemed to John to be a perfect Hollywood cowboy way. The man didn’t wear a coat, and<br />
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<strong>the</strong> only reason John could think of <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> lack of a coat was so that people could see his cowboy<br />
shirt. John was surprised that <strong>the</strong> man didn’t have furry chaps or ivory-handled pistols.<br />
“Not <strong>the</strong> tanker,” John said.<br />
“My,” Ed said, “you’re being awfully assertive lately: no to a warm bed, no to a ready<br />
ride . . .”<br />
The household moving van sat at <strong>the</strong> end of <strong>the</strong> row of trucks, apparently to make room<br />
<strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> trailer’s big side doors, one of which had been slung open and was hooked against <strong>the</strong> side<br />
of <strong>the</strong> trailer. A small man, or woman, John couldn’t tell which, sat leaning in front of <strong>the</strong> open<br />
doorway, against <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> exposed trailer floor. Dark wavy hair hung from beneath a knit<br />
watch cap to well past <strong>the</strong> shoulders of a thick gray coat. The trucker’s arms were crossed, one<br />
tennis-shoed foot draped over <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r. Inside, <strong>the</strong> trailer was dark, but John could make out<br />
someone moving industriously within <strong>the</strong> shadows. The tractor was ultramarine blue instead of<br />
matching <strong>the</strong> logoed trailer, with what looked like a brown wreath on <strong>the</strong> grill. The tractor had a<br />
huge sleeper, so large that it had its own windowed side door.<br />
“The movers,” John said.<br />
Ed shook his head. “They’re not going anywhere soon. Their engine’s not even running.”<br />
Ed was right. The moving van’s stacks were still, but <strong>the</strong> tanker’s continually coughed out<br />
two long streams of almost invisible exhaust that shimmered <strong>the</strong> black and dark-gray horizon, like<br />
in a dream.<br />
The turquoise cowboy driver climbed inside his cab, and Ed got up and grabbed his<br />
bundle.<br />
“He’s leaving. Come on.”<br />
“Not that one,” John said, but Ed was already going through <strong>the</strong> store’s back doors.<br />
By <strong>the</strong> time John had followed Ed into <strong>the</strong> lot, <strong>the</strong> tanker had jumped to a start and pulled<br />
out of its spot. It crossed between <strong>the</strong>m and <strong>the</strong> moving van, spewing black smoke up toward <strong>the</strong><br />
lot’s lights as it growled out each gear shift, and turned onto <strong>the</strong> road toward <strong>the</strong> highway. Then it<br />
pulled onto <strong>the</strong> ramp, still accelerating, its mass of lights aglow, and merged with <strong>the</strong> sparse<br />
traffic.<br />
“Shit,” Ed said. “And he’s going south.”<br />
The person inside <strong>the</strong> moving van’s trailer stopped working and sat, legs dangling, on <strong>the</strong><br />
exposed floorboards next to <strong>the</strong> gray-coated trucker. He had a head full of white-gray hair, and<br />
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John flinched, thinking <strong>for</strong> a second that it was Cecil. But <strong>the</strong> moving-van trucker was taller and<br />
far thinner than Cecil. The white-headed trucker turned a large clawed hammer over and over in<br />
his hands while talking with <strong>the</strong> gray-coated one. The gray-coated one nodded, glanced at Ed and<br />
John, and <strong>the</strong>n continued nodding to <strong>the</strong> thin old man.<br />
John said, “Come on, Ed. Let’s get back inside. I’m cold and hungry, and I have a<br />
headache.”<br />
Ed turned to <strong>the</strong> Wal-Mart truck. Its driver had gotten out and was walking toward <strong>the</strong><br />
store. Ed met him and walked alongside. John trailed a few steps behind.<br />
Ed asked <strong>the</strong> trucker, “You wouldn’t happen to be going south, would you?”<br />
The driver looked at Ed’s plastic-bag-wrapped hand. “Nope.”<br />
“Your headquarters is in Arkansas, right?”<br />
“That’s right,” <strong>the</strong> driver said and kept walking toward <strong>the</strong> store.<br />
Ed and John followed him inside. The driver paced over to <strong>the</strong> fuel cashier, ignoring Ed.<br />
Ed sat back in his original seat and said, “So much <strong>for</strong> that.”<br />
John sat across from him and stared back through <strong>the</strong> window at <strong>the</strong> moving van.<br />
“Alright,” Ed said, “I’m going to fix this hand up a bit, see if <strong>the</strong>y have any spot remover<br />
<strong>for</strong> this coat.” He grimaced and looked at his hand. “Damn that Cecil.”<br />
“How bad was it hit?”<br />
“Right through <strong>the</strong> center. I think it broke <strong>the</strong> bone to my fuck-you finger.”<br />
“You don’t act like it.”<br />
“Yeah, well, what do you expect me to do, roll around on <strong>the</strong> floor bawling my head off?<br />
What good will that do?”<br />
“You should be in a hospital.”<br />
“I already told you I don’t like hospitals.” He grimaced again. “Though I would’ve liked a<br />
warm bed and a bath. I need some whisky.”<br />
“Can I do anything <strong>for</strong> you?”<br />
Ed said, “You’ve already done enough, thank you very much.” He exhaled heavily. “Just<br />
watch my stuff, okay?”<br />
Ed got up, left his blanket roll in his seat, and disappeared within <strong>the</strong> store aisles.<br />
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CHAPTER 17<br />
After locking up Leopold’s in <strong>the</strong> wee hours of Thursday morning, still a half day be<strong>for</strong>e<br />
Leopold’s ass-chewing and a full day be<strong>for</strong>e John would quit <strong>for</strong> good, John drove exhausted<br />
back home to Billie’s and took a short nap. Then he and Billie had taken his pickup to<br />
McDonald’s <strong>for</strong> breakfast and from <strong>the</strong>re to shop <strong>for</strong> a new TV. Billie seemed to exaggerate<br />
shivering <strong>the</strong> entire way to <strong>the</strong> store. She rubbed her hands vigorously up and down her upper<br />
arms and made a motorboat sound with her lips while blowing out breaths through clenched teeth.<br />
The day had proved clear and bright, and it didn’t seem that cold in <strong>the</strong> pickup to John, though<br />
<strong>the</strong> wind occasionally shoved <strong>the</strong> pickup half a foot to <strong>the</strong> side, even with <strong>the</strong> quarter cord of<br />
firewood piled above <strong>the</strong> axle, and whipped in through <strong>the</strong> cracked driver’s window and slung<br />
John’s hair around.<br />
Billie tightened her hug on herself. “We should have taken my Lexus,” she said, “and just<br />
have <strong>the</strong>m deliver <strong>the</strong> damn thing.”<br />
He checked his side mirror and changed lanes. “It’s not much far<strong>the</strong>r.”<br />
The greasy Egg McMuffin in his gut nauseated him. Billie didn’t cook, and John hadn’t<br />
had time to cook <strong>for</strong> himself in over a year. Since Leopold had made him manager, all he had<br />
cooked at home had been fast stuff, spaghetti with Ragu, that sort of thing. He used to make his<br />
own pasta, stuff his own tortellini.<br />
He had no time to spend with Billie, ei<strong>the</strong>r, but he figured she of all people would<br />
sympathize with his schedule, and <strong>the</strong>y could see each o<strong>the</strong>r whenever she came into Leopold’s,<br />
and he really did like her, though in <strong>the</strong> pickup in <strong>the</strong> cold with his nausea and with her<br />
exaggerating like that, it was hard <strong>for</strong> him to remember why.<br />
They pulled into <strong>the</strong> lot and parked near <strong>the</strong> entrance. Billie reached over and brushed his<br />
hair with her hand, stroking and stroking it to try to get it to lie down flat like she liked. He<br />
checked it in his rearview. Sleep and <strong>the</strong> wind had tangled his hair so that it had peaks and valleys<br />
like pie meringue, and he was glad at that moment that it didn’t want to obey Billie’s brushing.<br />
A middle-aged couple got out of a maroon seventies conversion van next to <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
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“God,” Billie said. “Look at that man’s overalls, and that stubble. He even has a bandanna<br />
hanging out of his pocket.” She laughed and affected a newsreel tone. “Billy Joe Jim Bob gets<br />
electricity and moves into <strong>the</strong> twentieth century.” She changed back to her normal voice. “Too<br />
bad that century’s over.”<br />
John and Billie got out of his pickup and followed <strong>the</strong> couple into <strong>the</strong> store. John looked<br />
at his own reflection in <strong>the</strong> store’s plate-glass windows. He didn’t feel like he was much different<br />
from <strong>the</strong> man with <strong>the</strong> bandanna. John never felt like a Leopold’s customer, no matter how<br />
dressed up he got. In his suits and expensive ties, he always felt fake, like he were in costume<br />
instead of simply dressed well.<br />
Inside, Billie led John into an alcove made of three walls of TVs. A news brief came on<br />
one entire bank, a follow-up story about a woman who’d burned to death in a barn up in Laramie<br />
<strong>the</strong> day be<strong>for</strong>e.<br />
A split second after <strong>the</strong> driver’s license photo of <strong>the</strong> man <strong>the</strong>y were looking <strong>for</strong> came onto<br />
<strong>the</strong> TVs, a salesman flipped <strong>the</strong> entire bank to Elmer Fudd and Bugs Bunny. John hadn’t been<br />
able to see what <strong>the</strong> man looked like.<br />
Billie moved in close to a big screen. “I like this one.”<br />
“It’s too expensive,” John said.<br />
“Wouldn’t it look great, though? Look at <strong>the</strong> picture’s color. Imagine a playoff game on<br />
that.”<br />
“It’s a cartoon. Don’t judge color by that.”<br />
“A screen that big would be great <strong>for</strong> our Super Bowl party this year.”<br />
Our Super Bowl party, he thought. It won’t be our party. Even if I’m still at Leopold’s<br />
<strong>the</strong>n, I’ll still be working six days a week, thirteen hours a day. I sleep on Sundays, he thought—<br />
all day.<br />
He said, “We’ll get <strong>the</strong> big screen if you want.”<br />
Billie stepped back.<br />
“Is it too big?” she asked. “Would it fit under <strong>the</strong> Mardi Gras print?”<br />
He couldn’t believe she was deciding which television to buy based on where she’d hung<br />
her dollar-ninety-five poster and its <strong>for</strong>ty-dollar frame.<br />
“Move <strong>the</strong> print,” he said.<br />
“I like it <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
86
John said, “We could just move it up a little. It doesn’t have to go on ano<strong>the</strong>r wall.”<br />
She seemed to consider that.<br />
“Get <strong>the</strong> television you want.” He nudged her toward <strong>the</strong> bigger one. “We’ll adjust.”<br />
“I like <strong>the</strong> little one.” She pressed her lips tight and nodded twice.<br />
He knew she’d lied. She wasn’t <strong>the</strong> kind of person who took risks with a home, <strong>the</strong> kinds<br />
of risks that could make it fully <strong>the</strong>irs. The nail <strong>the</strong> Mardi Gras poster hung on had already been<br />
<strong>the</strong>re and painted over when she’d bought <strong>the</strong> house. He knew that because she had confessed to<br />
never having painted <strong>the</strong> place, and <strong>the</strong> nail was thick with <strong>the</strong> same paint as <strong>the</strong> wall. The nail’s<br />
head held a drop that had frozen in place maybe a decade be<strong>for</strong>e, a drop that had never been<br />
allowed to drip and had never been wiped. All she had done was hang something on <strong>the</strong> nail. He<br />
had been considering moving <strong>the</strong> cable outlet, and putting in a kitchen bay window so <strong>the</strong>y could<br />
grow <strong>the</strong>ir own herbs, but she was afraid to move one tiny nail.<br />
“Get <strong>the</strong> little one,” he said. “It doesn’t matter.”<br />
He looked through <strong>the</strong> wall of windows at <strong>the</strong> store’s entrance, at <strong>the</strong> sunlight on <strong>the</strong><br />
snow. It had been an unseasonably late first snow, one <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> record books. He’d been<br />
managing—what?—fourteen, fifteen months? He felt jittery and squirmed in his loafers.<br />
Even after he woke from his late-morning nap back at home, he couldn’t shake <strong>the</strong> jitters.<br />
He rubbed his neck and flexed his hands as he walked down <strong>the</strong> stairs to help Billie with what<br />
smelled like Steak-Ums. The movement helped some, and he was finally able to write off <strong>the</strong><br />
jitters to working too much and sleeping in short bits in <strong>the</strong> daytime and none at all at night.<br />
Billie was digging through <strong>the</strong> kitchen drawer when he walked in.<br />
She asked, “Where’s my spatula? You know, <strong>the</strong> big metal one.”<br />
“Dishwasher?”<br />
She stopped rummaging in <strong>the</strong> drawer and stared at him “I got <strong>the</strong> mixing bowl out of<br />
<strong>the</strong>re. Don’t you think if my spatula had been <strong>the</strong>re, too, I’d have grabbed it? Jesus.”<br />
“I’ll look <strong>for</strong> your spatula,” he said. “You get <strong>the</strong> plates and cups down, or make <strong>the</strong><br />
coffee.”<br />
She got two cups and went to <strong>the</strong> coffee machine. She pulled out <strong>the</strong> grinder.<br />
“My coffee grinder’s about had it.” She plugged it in. “I need a new one.”<br />
He slammed <strong>the</strong> cabinet door. “The coffee grinder.”<br />
“What?”<br />
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“It’s <strong>the</strong> coffee grinder.”<br />
“What are you talking about?”<br />
“Everything I’ve brought into this house is now ours, but all your stuff is still yours.”<br />
“Go program <strong>the</strong> TV. I’ll find <strong>the</strong> spatula.”<br />
“Fine. I’ll be in your living room, with your new TV.”<br />
He turned on <strong>the</strong> TV and tried to figure out <strong>the</strong> remote. The wea<strong>the</strong>r came on, showing<br />
snow skiers on manufactured snow under a bright sun. He plopped on <strong>the</strong> sofa and heard a crash<br />
in <strong>the</strong> kitchen. Billie said something in a <strong>for</strong>ced whisper. He heard a second crash. It sounded like<br />
dishware smashing on <strong>the</strong> tile floor.<br />
He muted <strong>the</strong> TV and listened to Billie’s second <strong>for</strong>ced whisper. “Loves me not,” she said.<br />
A third crash.<br />
“Loves me.”<br />
A car commercial came on. The disclaimer at <strong>the</strong> screen’s bottom read, “Professional<br />
driver on closed road.” The car’s disappearance off <strong>the</strong> right edge of <strong>the</strong> screen coincided exactly<br />
with <strong>the</strong> fourth crash.<br />
“Loves me not.”<br />
It was a sixteen-piece set.<br />
John knew that if he were a man who wanted to keep Billie, he would rush into <strong>the</strong><br />
kitchen, deny what would end up her sixteenth statement, maybe even help her smash <strong>the</strong><br />
dishware in some passionate scene right out of <strong>the</strong> movies. He also knew that his refusal to do any<br />
of that would be <strong>the</strong> same as if he’d walked coolly into <strong>the</strong> kitchen and said, “Yes, you’re right. I<br />
guess it’s over, <strong>the</strong>n.” He knew he wasn’t good enough an actor to pull off making up, so he set<br />
her remote on her couch, walked up her stairs to her bedroom, and picked out a tie <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> night,<br />
something in icy blue.<br />
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CHAPTER 18<br />
John had scooted to <strong>the</strong> aisle edge of <strong>the</strong> red-and-yellow booth because <strong>the</strong> air right next<br />
to <strong>the</strong> window felt twenty degrees colder than that at <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r end of <strong>the</strong> table. Ed plopped back<br />
on <strong>the</strong> bench on his side of <strong>the</strong> booth and sipped from a small paper cup he’d half filled from a<br />
fifth of Old Crow. The entire belly of his parka was wet from an apparent scrubbing, though his<br />
right hand was still wrapped in Cassandra’s clear plastic shopping bag and <strong>the</strong> bloodstained<br />
bandanna. The last of <strong>the</strong> twilight had died, and <strong>the</strong> windows to <strong>the</strong> lot had become mirrors, <strong>for</strong><br />
all practical purposes.<br />
With his good hand, Ed reached up and seized his top four front teeth and pulled <strong>the</strong>m<br />
out. The teeth stayed toge<strong>the</strong>r, attached by a silvery wire framework to a red plastic hard palate.<br />
He ran his tongue across his bare upper gum and around behind his upper lip and dropped <strong>the</strong><br />
pros<strong>the</strong>sis into his cup of Old Crow. He swirled <strong>the</strong> cup around, took a sip, and swished <strong>the</strong> sip<br />
behind bulging, tightly closed lips, as if <strong>the</strong> whiskey were mouthwash. He swallowed audibly and<br />
exhaled an “Ah” like air brakes releasing.<br />
He saw John staring and asked, “What?”<br />
Then Ed made an airy little laugh and grinned, exposing his top gum and his real teeth far<br />
left and right of <strong>the</strong> gap. He reared his head back and opened his mouth wide. The pink flesh in<br />
<strong>the</strong> roof of Ed’s mouth was pulled toge<strong>the</strong>r into a pinched sinkhole right in <strong>the</strong> center of what<br />
used to be his hard palate.<br />
Ed closed his mouth, smacking his lips, reached down into his paper cup, and pulled his<br />
pros<strong>the</strong>sis out, holding it so that it could drip its excess whiskey back into <strong>the</strong> cup.<br />
“What?” He asked John again. “Neber <strong>the</strong>en thomeone with no pront teeth bepore?”<br />
He snapped <strong>the</strong> pros<strong>the</strong>sis back into his mouth, licked <strong>the</strong> whiskey off, and smiled big<br />
again, showing off <strong>the</strong> straight, yellow front teeth.<br />
“Pretty, aren’t <strong>the</strong>y?” he asked. He lifted <strong>the</strong> front of his ball cap and bared his mangled<br />
<strong>for</strong>ehead. “You’ve seen this, right?” He snugged <strong>the</strong> cap back on and waved his hand around in<br />
front of his face. “My sinuses are all messed up, too.” He raised his plastic-bagged hand. “This<br />
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shit Cecil did to me is nothing.”<br />
John visualized Ed’s mouth without <strong>the</strong> teeth again, Ed’s bent nose, his churned-up skull,<br />
his ever-leng<strong>the</strong>ning whiskers, and his too-long <strong>for</strong>efingers, and John thought of just how ugly Ed<br />
was. He felt embarrassed to be in public with Ed, but he also felt sorry <strong>for</strong> him, and he really<br />
wanted to help Ed, to make those pancakes <strong>for</strong> him, if he could, though he didn’t see how<br />
something so insignificant could help someone as messed up as that.<br />
John asked, “What happened?”<br />
Ed said, “It’s a long story.”<br />
“We have time.”<br />
Ed partially unzipped his parka and shook out <strong>the</strong> still-damp, unzipped halves of his coat<br />
front like someone shaking out a tent be<strong>for</strong>e rolling it up <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> season.<br />
John saw, down at Ed’s waist inside <strong>the</strong> parka, what looked like a pistol butt.<br />
“What’s that?” John asked nodding toward it.<br />
“What?” Ed zipped his parka back up.<br />
“Was that a pistol?”<br />
“Cecil’s.” Ed turned and looked out <strong>the</strong> window, or at his own reflection in it.<br />
“You took Cecil’s pistol?”<br />
“Sure.” Ed looked back at John. “Oh, you didn’t know that. That’s why you were<br />
cowering in that ditch pissing all over yourself. You yellow bastard. Cecil didn’t have anything he<br />
could hurt you with <strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
One of <strong>the</strong> truck stop’s back doors opened, and a burst of icy air rushed in, startling John.<br />
The two moving-van truckers walked in, <strong>the</strong> gray-haired trucker in front, masking John’s view of<br />
<strong>the</strong> younger one. The door swung shut behind, and <strong>the</strong> two walked toward John and Ed’s part of<br />
<strong>the</strong> truck stop.<br />
“Later,” Ed said. “We have work to do.”<br />
The older trucker’s bright white-gray hair jutted up thickly from his scalp and fell in a<br />
crashing wave away from <strong>the</strong> beginnings of a part that ran crookedly back from above one eye but<br />
disappeared suddenly into a twist of locks. His face, wrinkled and dark, seemed cut from <strong>the</strong><br />
lea<strong>the</strong>r of a worn bomber jacket. His walk seemed not to match his face. He was thin but muscled,<br />
youthful somehow, and leaned <strong>for</strong>ward when he walked, his arms swinging in great sweeps<br />
beneath broad, rolling shoulders, like John imagined <strong>the</strong> figures in <strong>the</strong> middle of evolution<br />
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drawings to move, <strong>the</strong> ones halfway between ape and man, <strong>the</strong> ones that looked as if <strong>the</strong>y hid <strong>the</strong><br />
strength of five men in arms no larger than a baseball player’s.<br />
He went past John, and John thought <strong>the</strong> way this older trucker seemed frail at a distance<br />
was deceiving as hell.<br />
The younger trucker’s black hair flowed in loose curls <strong>for</strong> two and a half feet below a<br />
wool watch cap. The black cap seemed gray next to <strong>the</strong> hair. The hair shone like <strong>the</strong> surface of<br />
cooking fudge and undulated with each of <strong>the</strong> trucker’s steps, as if breathing. This trucker’s skin<br />
was as smooth as <strong>the</strong> first one’s was creased, and lighter, caramel-colored, except <strong>for</strong> a tiny white<br />
scar that started as a spot just beneath <strong>the</strong> right eye and <strong>the</strong>n ran in a thin line down about an inch.<br />
It looked like an upside-down teardrop.<br />
The eyes spellbound John. They were deep brown—chestnut—and innocent, inviting,<br />
receptive, as if everything <strong>the</strong>y saw were new and wonderful. Large and graced by long lashes, <strong>the</strong><br />
eyes seemed feminine. The face’s contours, too, were effeminate. The younger trucker walked<br />
with <strong>the</strong> air and balance of a gymnast, as if barely brushing soles to floor.<br />
As <strong>the</strong> younger trucker went by, John caught himself studying <strong>the</strong> trucker’s hips and<br />
realized he still couldn’t tell whe<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong> person was a man or a woman.<br />
The two truckers dug into <strong>the</strong> stand-up coolers in <strong>the</strong> bright florescent light, looking<br />
through clear-cellophaned hoagies and plastic half boxes of sliced-white-bread sandwiches, and<br />
John studied <strong>the</strong> younger trucker’s thick coat. He felt ashamed looking <strong>for</strong> breasts, like when<br />
commenting on <strong>the</strong> cuteness of a stranger’s newborn and feeling as if he should be able to tell its<br />
sex from first glance, fearing he might insult <strong>the</strong> parent if he guessed wrong. Blue or pink, John<br />
thought. If it were always that simple.<br />
The younger trucker caught John staring, and John dropped his gaze to <strong>the</strong> table. The<br />
trucker’s glance had not turned to one of malice or shame. It had simply taken John in. John<br />
found himself both ashamed and elated, and he wished he knew if this was a woman that had<br />
made his chest flutter.<br />
Each of <strong>the</strong> truckers chose a sandwich, and <strong>the</strong>y headed toward <strong>the</strong> cashier.<br />
John got up, almost ran to <strong>the</strong> sandwiches, and picked out a ninety-nine-cent hoagie. It<br />
showed edges of sliced beef with a faint greenish sheen, like <strong>the</strong> green in a pool of oil or <strong>the</strong> backs<br />
of <strong>the</strong> metallic-looking flies. He rushed to <strong>the</strong> cashier and stopped behind <strong>the</strong> two truckers. The<br />
older one was taller than John, <strong>the</strong> back of his neck even more creased and darker than any part of<br />
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his face. The younger one was almost John’s height, and John thought he smelled a fruitiness from<br />
<strong>the</strong> deep-black wavy hair. It had recently been shampooed.<br />
Ed stopped next to John with his roll slung from one shoulder and John’s gym bag slung<br />
from <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r. He winked at John.<br />
“I don’t know,” he said louder than John needed. “I don’t think we’ll ever reach your poor<br />
sister now, with Cecil dumping us in <strong>the</strong> middle of nowhere like that. I hope someone can give us<br />
a ride. This doesn’t look like too busy of a place. Even if we could just get to Joplin . . .”<br />
John cringed at Ed’s poor acting and <strong>the</strong> strong smell of whiskey in his breath, but <strong>the</strong><br />
older trucker turned and looked <strong>the</strong>m over, <strong>the</strong>n turned <strong>for</strong>ward again. The two truckers finished<br />
paying and turned toward <strong>the</strong> door, <strong>the</strong> younger one’s eyes meeting John’s again.<br />
Ed said, “If we can just get to Joplin, <strong>the</strong>re’ll be rides on south or east from <strong>the</strong>re. It’s<br />
going to be a long, cold walk, though, especially with it already dark and all.”<br />
John looked down.<br />
“Don’t, Ed,” he said in a faint breath. “Please.”<br />
John put <strong>the</strong> sandwich on <strong>the</strong> cashier’s counter top, and he heard a voice like a viola say,<br />
“What happened to your hand?” The cashier’s mouth hadn’t opened.<br />
John turned. The truckers stood facing Ed. Ed held up his plastic-bag-and-bandannawrapped<br />
hand.<br />
John said, “He saved a girl’s life.” He looked Ed in <strong>the</strong> eyes. “And probably mine, and he<br />
got shot in <strong>the</strong> process.”<br />
The younger trucker touched Ed’s wrist and tenderly turned it. John felt a pang of<br />
jealously.<br />
The younger trucker’s lips moved, and <strong>the</strong> viola hummed again, “So you can’t use this<br />
hand at all now?”<br />
Ed said, “I’ve had worse.”<br />
The older trucker squinted. “Did y’all call <strong>the</strong> police?” His voice was deep and gravelly<br />
but lilted like Scarlet O’Hara’s.<br />
Ed shrugged. “They never showed up.”<br />
“I’m sorry,” John said. “I’m John, and this is—”<br />
“Ed MacGuffin,” Ed said.<br />
“Excuse me?” <strong>the</strong> older trucker said. “Did you say Egg McMuffin?”<br />
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“One oh seven,” <strong>the</strong> cashier said.<br />
“What?” John asked her.<br />
“The sandwich. One dollar and seven pennies, please.”<br />
Ed swiped <strong>the</strong> sandwich off <strong>the</strong> counter and said to <strong>the</strong> cashier, “Never mind. We’re<br />
putting this back.”<br />
Ed handed John his gym bag and took <strong>the</strong> sandwich back to <strong>the</strong> stand-up cooler. The<br />
younger trucker said, “I’m Sam, and this is Gavin.”<br />
Gavin shook John’s hand with a palm that felt like oak tree bark.<br />
Then Sam shook John’s hand and said something, but John couldn’t hear it from <strong>the</strong><br />
tingling that rushed from Sam’s cool, slightly callused hand all <strong>the</strong> way up John’s arm and through<br />
his entire body and buzzed and thrummed in his ears.<br />
“What?” John asked.<br />
Ed was back.<br />
Sam said, “I asked if you two were going as far as Baton Rouge.”<br />
Ed said, “We’re going all <strong>the</strong> way to <strong>the</strong> sea.”<br />
“Which sea?” Sam asked.<br />
Ed shrugged and grinned.<br />
John said, “We’re going past Baton Rouge. Yes.”<br />
Sam asked John, “And you don’t have anything wrong with you?”<br />
John’s entire body cringed. It felt like every muscle had contracted and that he had shrunk<br />
and leaped back an entire yard, but no one seemed to notice that he had reacted at all. John’s<br />
neck, back, and butt muscles were still tensed up, and anxious tingles ran all up and down his<br />
spine.<br />
He asked, “What do you mean?”<br />
“Can you carry furniture?” Sam asked.<br />
“Yes. Oh, yes. No problem.”<br />
“And you’re willing to work <strong>for</strong> your ride?”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
Sam nodded toward Ed. “That one doesn’t look very able.” Then Sam looked back at<br />
John. “You’re willing to work hard enough <strong>for</strong> both of you?”<br />
“Sure. Yes.”<br />
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Sam said, “Come on,” and turned and walked outside, Gavin, John, and Ed following like<br />
ducklings.<br />
Once outside, Gavin gained Sam’s side, and <strong>the</strong>n John and Ed did, so that <strong>the</strong> foursome<br />
walked side by side like four horsemen riding toward a showdown in a Western movie.<br />
The cold was fierce, far colder than <strong>the</strong> booth’s window glass had hinted. Ed put his<br />
mitten on, pulled his parka’s hood up, zipped <strong>the</strong> parka up tight, and tucked his injured hand<br />
beneath <strong>the</strong> opposite arm, and John put on his gloves and tried to get his coat collar to hug his<br />
neck.<br />
The light of <strong>the</strong> truck stop, <strong>the</strong> Copious Cone, and <strong>the</strong> parking lot shined down on <strong>the</strong><br />
concrete, gravel, and trucks and straight up to <strong>the</strong> now low but still thick ceiling of clouds, so that<br />
<strong>the</strong> lot was a brilliant yellow white glow, <strong>the</strong> sky was gray black directly above, and everything<br />
beyond <strong>the</strong> truck stop’s lot was iron-skillet black, except <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> occasional car or truck lights<br />
slipping up or down <strong>the</strong> highway.<br />
The concrete squished under Gavin’s and Ed’s boots and clunked under John’s loafers.<br />
Sam’s tennis shoes seemed to make no sound. Then, close to <strong>the</strong> moving van, <strong>the</strong>y stepped from<br />
concrete onto <strong>the</strong> gravel part of <strong>the</strong> lot, and all four pairs of footsteps ground and crunched <strong>the</strong><br />
gravel in <strong>the</strong> icy air like inside-your-head sounds of chewing granola.<br />
The cars on <strong>the</strong> highway swooshed coarsely, and semis harmonized deep humming with<br />
high-pitched whines, all getting louder and higher as each car or semi neared and waning as it<br />
slipped away, each accompanied at <strong>the</strong> peak of its passing with <strong>the</strong> klick-klock, klick-klock of<br />
tires rushing over seams in <strong>the</strong> overpass.<br />
Ed nodded toward <strong>the</strong> ultramarine blue tractor and said, “That’s <strong>the</strong> problem with real<br />
wreaths. They die and turn brown on you.”<br />
The woven ring of thin branches on <strong>the</strong> truck had no ribbon, no bow, no little bells or<br />
lights or fake snow. It was nothing but brown.<br />
Sam said, “That’s not a wreath. That’s a crown of thorns.”<br />
“Wrong holiday,” Ed said.<br />
The thorns were obvious to John <strong>the</strong>n. They were fierce-looking, black-tipped things and<br />
jutted out in all directions from <strong>the</strong> plaited twists of narrow branches.<br />
As <strong>the</strong>y passed <strong>the</strong> nose of <strong>the</strong> truck and its crown and continued toward <strong>the</strong> trailer’s big<br />
side doors, Sam said, “Keeps <strong>the</strong> focus of <strong>the</strong> season on target though. We need harsh reminders<br />
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<strong>the</strong>se days.”<br />
Gavin opened one of <strong>the</strong> long, shallow compartments at <strong>the</strong> belly of <strong>the</strong> moving van,<br />
pulled out a beat-up wooden pallet, and, with <strong>the</strong> long, shiny claws of his hammer, tore it into a<br />
pile of boards. He stacked <strong>the</strong> wood in <strong>the</strong> center of a wide swath of grassless, hard-packed dirt<br />
just past <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> parking lot, pulled out a box of wooden strike-anywhere matches, and<br />
started a fire on his second try.<br />
Ed said, “We appreciate you taking us as far as Baton Rouge.”<br />
“Yes,” John said. “Thank you.”<br />
Sam swung open one of <strong>the</strong> trailer’s side doors and climbed into <strong>the</strong> darkness inside.<br />
“Don’t thank us. You’re going to work <strong>for</strong> your ride.” Sam dragged a pair of folded wooden<br />
chairs back to <strong>the</strong> open door, set <strong>the</strong>ir mass of legs on <strong>the</strong> ground and leaned <strong>the</strong> chairs against<br />
<strong>the</strong> side of <strong>the</strong> trailer, climbed out of <strong>the</strong> trailer, grabbed <strong>the</strong> chairs again, and set <strong>the</strong>m up facing<br />
<strong>the</strong> fire. Gavin dragged three more pallets out of <strong>the</strong> bin beneath <strong>the</strong> open door and stacked <strong>the</strong>m<br />
near <strong>the</strong> fire as a makeshift bench, next to <strong>the</strong> two chairs.<br />
Sam sat in <strong>the</strong> far<strong>the</strong>st chair and gestured toward <strong>the</strong> pallets. “Have a seat, Ed, John.”<br />
John sat on <strong>the</strong> pallets, and Ed stepped in front of <strong>the</strong> empty chair.<br />
“No,” Gavin told him. “That’s mine. You sit on <strong>the</strong> pallets with your friend <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Ed shrugged and moved back to <strong>the</strong> pallets and sat down.<br />
Gavin tore up a second pallet, piled that wood near <strong>the</strong> growing fire, and sat with <strong>the</strong><br />
o<strong>the</strong>r three. The light from <strong>the</strong> fire made <strong>the</strong> darkness past <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> lot grow palpable and<br />
menacing, like a massive cresting wave of thick tar just barely suspended next to and above <strong>the</strong>m,<br />
about to smash in and down and smo<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
But <strong>the</strong> fire was warm close in and cast a strong light on <strong>the</strong> foursome and <strong>the</strong> side of <strong>the</strong><br />
truck. At first, <strong>the</strong> truck looked empty, but <strong>the</strong> firelight revealed a braced wall of plywood<br />
blocking off <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> van just <strong>for</strong>ward of <strong>the</strong> open door and a bag of some sort and what<br />
looked like camping gear and a blanket in <strong>the</strong> corner where <strong>the</strong> plywood bulkhead met <strong>the</strong><br />
trailer’s side walls. Ed’s plastic-bagged hand sparkled in yellows, oranges, and reds in <strong>the</strong><br />
firelight, and Gavin’s hair glowed yellow-white.<br />
Sam said, “You never said which sea y’all are going to. Are you going as far as<br />
Jacksonville?”<br />
“No,” John said. “A small town on <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r side of Apalachicola. I think Ed here’s going<br />
95
to—Where again?” he asked Ed. “Miami?”<br />
Sam asked, “You two aren’t toge<strong>the</strong>r?”<br />
“No,” John said. “We’re just on <strong>the</strong> same path <strong>for</strong> a while.”<br />
Sam said, “We can drop you near Apalachicola, <strong>the</strong>n, after Baton Rouge.”<br />
“That would be a huge help. Thank you.”<br />
Sam said, “There’s a wonderful rest area a little this side of Tallahassee, on <strong>the</strong> hills above<br />
<strong>the</strong> Apalachicola River. You can’t see <strong>the</strong> river from <strong>the</strong>re, but you can sense it. It’d be a good<br />
spot to stop, cook a good meal, rest up. Be<strong>for</strong>e moving on.” Sam shrugged. “If you want. There<br />
are phones <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Ed asked, “What about me?”<br />
Sam said, “I meant you both, not just him.”<br />
“But I’m going far<strong>the</strong>r than him.”<br />
“Not in this truck, you don’t.” Sam gestured toward John. “Since he’s working to pay<br />
your way.”<br />
Ed’s jaw muscles clenched into knots, and <strong>the</strong>n he said, “We’ll get along just fine on our<br />
own after Baton Rouge, thank you. We’ll get out <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Sam’s brows rose. “You don’t want a ride to Apalachicola?”<br />
John said, “Yes. I’d like that.”<br />
He pulled off his gloves, tucked <strong>the</strong>m inside one of his coat pockets, and held his hands<br />
out in <strong>the</strong> warmth of <strong>the</strong> fire.<br />
“No,” Ed said, and he squinted at John. “Baton Rouge is fine. We’ll finally be warm <strong>the</strong>re.<br />
We’ll take our time to Apalachicola after that.”<br />
“John?” Sam asked.<br />
Ed’s eyes focused on John and glinted with anger and firelight, but <strong>the</strong>y somehow also<br />
seemed fearful, like Ed were a little boy about to be abandoned by one divorced parent at <strong>the</strong><br />
home of <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
John turned to Sam and said, “We’ll see after Baton Rouge.”<br />
Sam and Ed stared at each o<strong>the</strong>r over <strong>the</strong> flames, <strong>the</strong> wind sucking <strong>the</strong> flames and <strong>the</strong><br />
excessive part of <strong>the</strong> heat out between <strong>the</strong>m through <strong>the</strong> gap in <strong>the</strong> foursome’s circle around <strong>the</strong><br />
fire. The wood in <strong>the</strong> fire was dry and clean and smoked little, but it burned quickly. Gavin got up<br />
and added to it almost constantly, and during Gavin’s absences from <strong>the</strong> immediate half circle,<br />
96
John watched Sam across <strong>the</strong> empty chair.<br />
The crackling of <strong>the</strong> fire masked most of <strong>the</strong> sounds of <strong>the</strong> few vehicles on <strong>the</strong> highway,<br />
but every once in a while, a car would come up or go down <strong>the</strong> road Cassandra had driven John<br />
and Ed down, and each time it was a car leaving <strong>the</strong> highway, John would wonder if it was<br />
Cassandra returning home.<br />
“Why you even need us to unload <strong>for</strong> you?” Ed asked suddenly. “We can get along<br />
without you, and you can get along without us.”<br />
Sam said, “Doctor’s orders. Gavin had a little scare with his heart, and he’s not supposed<br />
to unload or load until his own doctor in Orlando gives him a clean bill of health.”<br />
John asked, “Orlando’s home to you?”<br />
Sam said, “As much as any place can be,” and stared at <strong>the</strong> fire. Sam’s face crinkled and<br />
seemed to age five years in an instant. Then Sam smiled again, and <strong>the</strong> lines were gone. “The<br />
road’s my home. Every place and no place.”<br />
Gavin shoved one end of ano<strong>the</strong>r board into <strong>the</strong> fire and sat down still holding <strong>the</strong><br />
opposite end.<br />
Sam watched <strong>the</strong> end of <strong>the</strong> board catch and asked, “Are you running to or running<br />
from?”<br />
No one answered, and Gavin leaned back in his chair, feeding <strong>the</strong> board into <strong>the</strong> fire<br />
ano<strong>the</strong>r two inches.<br />
“Who?” John asked.<br />
Sam said, “Both of you.”<br />
John said, “I’m not sure what you mean, Sam.”<br />
It thrilled him to use Sam’s name, but he felt like a thief and his voice broke on it.<br />
Sam said, “Everyone out here’s ei<strong>the</strong>r running toward something or running away from<br />
something. Which are you?”<br />
John thought about Billie, Leopold, and Pamela.<br />
“I guess both,” he said.<br />
Sam looked back at <strong>the</strong> fire. “What are you running from?”<br />
Gavin set his end of <strong>the</strong> board on <strong>the</strong> ground, pushed it with <strong>the</strong> toe of what looked like<br />
one of Frankenstein’s monster’s boots, and fed it ano<strong>the</strong>r inch into <strong>the</strong> fire.<br />
John thought, <strong>the</strong>n said, “Myself.”<br />
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“What are you running to?”<br />
“Myself.”<br />
Gavin snickered. “So you’re running in circles.”<br />
“Suppose you could say that. For <strong>the</strong> last year, anyway.”<br />
Sam asked, “How about you, Ed?”<br />
Ed said, “No comment.”<br />
“Oh, come on. Think about it.”<br />
“I already know <strong>the</strong> answer. I’m just not telling you.”<br />
Gavin’s brows rose. “That’s polite.”<br />
“As polite as asking,” Ed said. “What’s your name?” As with Cassandra, Ed’s tone had<br />
shifted more to one of interrogation than curiosity.<br />
“I’m Gavin,” Gavin said impatiently. “Look, we’re all going to have to travel toge<strong>the</strong>r a<br />
while. The least you can do is be polite.”<br />
Gavin said “polite” in three syllables, splitting <strong>the</strong> “i” in two and making <strong>the</strong> second half<br />
sound like an “e.” He seemed to add a syllable to <strong>the</strong> last word of everything he said.<br />
Ed shrugged, his eyelids half lowered in a damned-if-I-care look.<br />
John said quickly, “Ed’s running to. He’s looking <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> perfect blueberry pancake.”<br />
Sam’s brows crinkled.<br />
Ed shook his head. He licked his lips and looked into <strong>the</strong> blackness out past <strong>the</strong> fire, <strong>the</strong><br />
blackness that had swallowed up Cassandra’s house and Hawking and everywhere John and Ed<br />
had just been.<br />
“I don’t understand,” Sam said.<br />
Ed asked, “What’s Sam short <strong>for</strong>?”<br />
Sam’s lips pressed tight. “It’s not short <strong>for</strong> anything.”<br />
Gavin’s eyes darted back and <strong>for</strong>th between Sam and Ed. The fire popped and cracked and moved<br />
far<strong>the</strong>r up <strong>the</strong> board toward Gavin’s foot.<br />
Sam said. “It’s just Sam. What’s Ed short <strong>for</strong>?”<br />
“Edwin.”<br />
John blinked. He hadn’t known that.<br />
Ed reached inside his parka, and John sucked in a audible breath, but Ed pulled out only<br />
his fifth of Old Crow and took a swig.<br />
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“So,” Ed said and wiped his mouth with <strong>the</strong> parka sleeve above his injured hand, “your<br />
parents named you Sam? Not Samantha or Samuel?” He put <strong>the</strong> fifth away.<br />
“My mo<strong>the</strong>r did.”<br />
“And your fa<strong>the</strong>r didn’t object, huh?”<br />
“My fa<strong>the</strong>r didn’t have any say in it.”<br />
Ed tapped <strong>the</strong> mittened fingers of his good hand on his thigh. The mitten made his fingers<br />
seem like Siamese quadruplets.<br />
He asked, “is it Mister Sam or Miss Sam?”<br />
Gavin said to Ed, “You’re about to lose your ride, Edwin. Is that what you want?”<br />
Again, Gavin diphthongized his last vowel: “wa-uhnt.” Though this one was less<br />
pronounced, it was fast and harsh.<br />
The fire had crept to within inches of Gavin’s foot.<br />
Ed said, “You need us to unload.”<br />
Gavin jabbed his thumb toward John and said, “We need him.”<br />
Ed raised his palms, <strong>the</strong> plastic bag shining gold in <strong>the</strong> firelight. “It’s not a big deal.”<br />
Gavin said, “If it’s not a big deal, <strong>the</strong>n don’t worry about it.”<br />
“I’m not worried about anything.”<br />
Gavin leaned toward John. “Your friend <strong>the</strong>re is going to get hurt worse than he is, or hurt<br />
somebody else, or both.”<br />
John said, “He’s alright. He was a soldier.”<br />
“Timothy McVeigh was a soldier.”<br />
Gavin kicked <strong>the</strong> piece of wood hard, shoving it entirely into <strong>the</strong> fire and sending an<br />
explosion of hot, glowing embers into <strong>the</strong> night sky, making Ed and Sam have to lean back to<br />
avoid <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
“Well.” Ed stood up, smacking his lips. “Since you’re going to talk about me as if I’m not<br />
here, I might as well bug out <strong>for</strong> a while. You aren’t leaving here tonight, right?”<br />
Sam’s head shook “no.”<br />
“Alright,” Ed said. “Then keep dinner warm, will you, Hon?”<br />
John wasn’t sure who Ed had called Hon, or where Ed might go, o<strong>the</strong>r than to <strong>the</strong> truck<br />
stop to use <strong>the</strong> restroom, so he didn’t say anything, and Ed did walk toward <strong>the</strong> truck stop, but<br />
instead of going inside, Ed skirted <strong>the</strong> building and disappeared around its far edge.<br />
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Sam asked, “Where’d you two meet?”<br />
“Back in Colorado, or Kansas. Hard to tell.”<br />
“You know him well?”<br />
John said, “Not really, I guess.”<br />
Gavin asked, “What’s this about a blueberry pancake?”<br />
“It’s what Ed wants, and I’m supposed to make it <strong>for</strong> him.”<br />
“A blueberry pancake?”<br />
“A perfect blueberry pancake.”<br />
Gavin spit into <strong>the</strong> fire. “Nothing’s perfect.”<br />
The fire popped and hurled sparks into <strong>the</strong> night air again. An ember jumped from <strong>the</strong> fire<br />
and landed next to Gavin’s boot, and he stomped on it and ground it into <strong>the</strong> earth.<br />
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CHAPTER 19<br />
Kevin anchored <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> night within <strong>the</strong> shelter of St. Joseph Point. He had worked traps<br />
all afternoon and <strong>the</strong>n made his way back to <strong>the</strong> shallows after dark in a light mist.<br />
In <strong>the</strong> red and green glow of his bow, Kevin fastened his anchor rode around <strong>the</strong> heavy<br />
cleat in <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>edeck. Then he crouched at <strong>the</strong> very point of <strong>the</strong> bow and fastened<br />
<strong>the</strong> thick length of split rubber hose so that <strong>the</strong> rode ran smoothly through it in <strong>the</strong> roller and<br />
wouldn’t slip out or chafe. He stood and braced himself with one hand on <strong>the</strong> pulpit, though <strong>the</strong><br />
boat’s motion was slight.<br />
The waning quarter moon wouldn’t rise until just be<strong>for</strong>e first light. Few stars showed<br />
<strong>the</strong>mselves overhead, and <strong>the</strong> humid haziness blocked <strong>the</strong> light from <strong>the</strong> stars closer to <strong>the</strong><br />
horizon, just above <strong>the</strong> black shadow of <strong>the</strong> peninsula that ran left and right in front of him.<br />
Between <strong>the</strong> stars above and <strong>the</strong> glistening water below, <strong>the</strong> land seemed a rift in <strong>the</strong> night.<br />
Behind him and to <strong>the</strong> left and right, <strong>the</strong> mainland glowed with light. The land seemed a<br />
thick string of Christmas lights, shimmering above <strong>the</strong>ir distorted twins on <strong>the</strong> bay’s surface, <strong>the</strong><br />
St. Joseph power station lit up like a wad of lights left in a huge tangle and just plugged in that<br />
way. The station had so many lights that it looked as if it were showing off just how much power<br />
it was capable of.<br />
Buoys flashed red and green in <strong>the</strong> shoreline’s <strong>for</strong>eground. The lights of o<strong>the</strong>r boats<br />
coming and going in <strong>the</strong> channel flowed red, green, and white across <strong>the</strong> backdrop.<br />
Kevin scooted around his side deck sliding one hand along <strong>the</strong> lifeline and climbed down<br />
into <strong>the</strong> cockpit. He reached around into <strong>the</strong> cabin, flipped off <strong>the</strong> breaker to <strong>the</strong> side and stern<br />
lights, and flipped <strong>the</strong> one on <strong>for</strong> his anchor light. On top of its pole above his deck, <strong>the</strong> anchor<br />
light shined all around and indirectly down onto <strong>the</strong> closed lid of his massive live well in <strong>the</strong><br />
cockpit.<br />
It had been a good haul so far. The well was thick with lobster, big ones. They would<br />
fetch a nice price. He could trade a few <strong>for</strong> fresh shrimp or fish <strong>for</strong> Pamela’s gumbo and keep a<br />
couple big ones <strong>for</strong> him and her. Dipped into melted butter, <strong>the</strong> tender white flesh would collapse<br />
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into a soft meaty sweetness between tongue and palate with only <strong>the</strong> tiniest of <strong>for</strong>ce.<br />
Kevin and Pamela had had shrimp Creole on <strong>the</strong>ir wedding day, feeding each o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
spoonful after spoonful of rice and shrimp smo<strong>the</strong>red in hot, bell peppery tomato sauce and bites<br />
of soft, yeasty rolls torn off and sla<strong>the</strong>red with butter. They couldn’t af<strong>for</strong>d lobster <strong>the</strong>n, or <strong>for</strong><br />
years after, but now that <strong>the</strong>y had lobster, plucked it almost weekly from <strong>the</strong> Gulf <strong>the</strong>mselves,<br />
<strong>the</strong>y had little time to feed each o<strong>the</strong>r, and Kevin missed <strong>the</strong> shrimp, <strong>the</strong> Creole, <strong>the</strong> unbound<br />
energy that seemed to come with beginnings. He wished he were back home with Pamela, but he<br />
knew that once <strong>the</strong>re, he would only wish he were back out here again.<br />
He pressed his lips toge<strong>the</strong>r tight and stared at <strong>the</strong> pale white lid of <strong>the</strong> well. He was damp<br />
from <strong>the</strong> day’s work, and <strong>the</strong> evening’s cool humidity shined on <strong>the</strong> well’s lid and seeped into his<br />
clo<strong>the</strong>s. It sent a chill through him, and he wanted to get below and light <strong>the</strong> stove, to feel <strong>the</strong><br />
warmth emanating from <strong>the</strong> burner and watch <strong>the</strong> blue-and-yellow flames dance to <strong>the</strong> hiss of <strong>the</strong><br />
gas, to make a hot meal to warm his gut.<br />
“I’ve worked hard,” he said. “I deserve one now.”<br />
He reached around into <strong>the</strong> cabin and found his flashlight, opened <strong>the</strong> top of <strong>the</strong> well, and<br />
shined <strong>the</strong> light down into <strong>the</strong> water inside and <strong>the</strong> mass of spiny lobster crawling over one<br />
ano<strong>the</strong>r, shrinking from <strong>the</strong> light, each futilely trying to get back to its hole somewhere beneath<br />
<strong>the</strong> vast black Gulf.<br />
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CHAPTER 20<br />
To <strong>the</strong> west, beyond <strong>the</strong> ridge which hid Cassandra’s house, <strong>the</strong> bottom of <strong>the</strong> clouds<br />
suddenly lit up orange. The most intense part of <strong>the</strong> glow was focused on only one spot about <strong>the</strong><br />
size of a football field. At first John thought that a stadium’s lights had been turned on and that<br />
<strong>the</strong>y would soon warm up enough to shift from orange to bright white, but <strong>the</strong> field of light on <strong>the</strong><br />
clouds fluctuated, pulsing and dancing, <strong>the</strong> clouds rolling low and heavy through <strong>the</strong> light. Then<br />
<strong>the</strong> glow grew more steady but didn’t turn bright white. Instead, tips of flames licked up above<br />
<strong>the</strong> treetops.<br />
“That’s some fire,” Gavin said.<br />
He stood and craned his neck, as if he could peer across <strong>the</strong> mile or so of still-black-asnight<br />
field and <strong>for</strong>est and zoom in over <strong>the</strong> rise and see what was burning.<br />
The tips of <strong>the</strong> tongues of fire began to churn out a thick, black, billowing column of<br />
smoke. The smoke glowed from within down low, where <strong>the</strong> flames streamed into <strong>the</strong> guts of <strong>the</strong><br />
smoke, but that internal glow died higher up, where <strong>the</strong> column was lit only from <strong>the</strong> outside.<br />
Sam said, “Probably some poor soul who went to sleep with a space heater on.”<br />
John kept expecting <strong>the</strong> smoke and clouds to meet, but <strong>the</strong> smoke climbed and climbed<br />
and still did not touch <strong>the</strong> lowest rolls of clouds.<br />
Gavin said, “Now he’s out in <strong>the</strong> cold <strong>for</strong> good.”<br />
Sam said, “Let’s hope.”<br />
John asked Sam, “Why would you hope anyone would be out in <strong>the</strong> cold <strong>for</strong> good?”<br />
Sam turned toward John, eyebrows scrunched. “Because <strong>the</strong> alternative is that <strong>the</strong>y’re<br />
dead. Don’t you think cold’s better than dead?”<br />
The top of <strong>the</strong> column of smoke veered south, dissipating as it went. It flowed <strong>the</strong> same<br />
direction as <strong>the</strong> clouds, and <strong>the</strong> clouds and <strong>the</strong> highest part of <strong>the</strong> smoke were distorted, fuzzy<br />
from <strong>the</strong> distance. The place where <strong>the</strong> two seemed <strong>the</strong>y might merge was beyond <strong>the</strong> patch of<br />
light, and John couldn’t tell whe<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong>y ever became one or not.<br />
Their own fire had dwindled, and John felt <strong>the</strong> night’s cold touch him again. Gavin seemed<br />
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to notice at <strong>the</strong> same moment and picked up three more pieces of his busted-up pallets and laid<br />
<strong>the</strong>m across <strong>the</strong> burning blackened and shrunken boards already in <strong>the</strong> fire. John imagined <strong>the</strong><br />
stack of blackened boards as <strong>the</strong> remnants of someone’s house and thought of <strong>the</strong> belongings that<br />
would have burned within—<strong>the</strong> pictures, diplomas, and plastic trophies, <strong>the</strong> comic books and<br />
baseball mitt in a box in a closet, even birth certificates—who knows what. His own bag of<br />
belongings seemed abundant compared to that. At least, he thought, I had time to search, to pick<br />
and choose.<br />
Sam turned toward <strong>the</strong> Highway 71 overpass as if beckoned, and <strong>the</strong>n John heard <strong>the</strong> faint<br />
siren. That part of <strong>the</strong> night, already lit by occasional headlights, danced with red flickers beyond<br />
<strong>the</strong> overpass, and <strong>the</strong>n a fire truck with red and white flashing lights and siren blaring shot out<br />
from beneath <strong>the</strong> overpass and accelerated across <strong>the</strong> blackness of <strong>the</strong> field on Cassandra’s road,<br />
<strong>the</strong> flashing lights intermittently disappearing behind fingers of <strong>for</strong>est that reached all <strong>the</strong> way to<br />
<strong>the</strong> road. The fire truck climbed that last rise that hid what was actually burning, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> fire<br />
truck’s flashing lights were gone. A minute later, <strong>the</strong> siren cut off, and John guessed <strong>the</strong> truck had<br />
reached <strong>the</strong> fire.<br />
An<strong>the</strong>r siren wailed from beyond Highway 71, stuttering in quick successions, and an<br />
ambulance rushed out from beneath <strong>the</strong> overpass. The ambulance, with red and blue flickering<br />
lights and alternatingly pulsating headlights, shot off, too, down <strong>the</strong> road to <strong>the</strong> fire. Immediately<br />
afterward, a red sedan with siren and red flashing lights followed.<br />
Gavin sat in his chair at <strong>the</strong> fire again.<br />
“Nothing we can do,” he said.<br />
Sam sat in <strong>the</strong> chair on <strong>the</strong> far side of Gavin, and John sat back in his spot on <strong>the</strong> stack of<br />
pallets. Their own fire had grown again, and <strong>the</strong> heat felt good.<br />
Sam said, “We’ll have to put this out soon. Once <strong>the</strong>y’re done with whatever’s burning<br />
over that rise, <strong>the</strong>y might pay us a visit.”<br />
Gavin grunted in a way that seemed realization as well as agreement.<br />
They sat in silence <strong>for</strong> about fifteen minutes, with Gavin tending his fire and John<br />
alternating between watching Sam and watching <strong>the</strong> distant fire’s column of smoke. The smoke<br />
shifted from black to light gray and <strong>the</strong>n to almost white from what he surmised was steam from<br />
<strong>the</strong> fire truck’s streams of water.<br />
Then Ed stepped from <strong>the</strong> darkness and <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>est beneath <strong>the</strong> glow in <strong>the</strong> sky, dangling<br />
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something from his left hand.<br />
“Hey,” Ed said.<br />
Sam whipped around toward <strong>the</strong> darkness and stared at Ed. John thought Sam seemed<br />
disappointed at Ed’s return.<br />
Ed, grinning big, sat on his part of <strong>the</strong> stack of pallets next to John. The thing he held was<br />
a carcass. His o<strong>the</strong>r hand was back inside its mitten instead of Cassandra’s plastic bag, though <strong>the</strong><br />
mitten seemed extra puffy.<br />
“I caught us a rabbit,” Ed said.<br />
He held <strong>the</strong> skinned, gutted, beheaded thing high by <strong>the</strong> hind legs, <strong>the</strong> body and front legs<br />
swaying beneath.<br />
John thought something looked odd about <strong>the</strong> carcass. The front and rear legs looked <strong>the</strong><br />
same length. The feet were gone, though, and John figured maybe Ed had cut more off <strong>the</strong> rear<br />
legs than <strong>the</strong> front.<br />
“How’d you catch a rabbit?” Gavin asked.<br />
“I chased it down, and I caught it.”<br />
“With one hand?”<br />
“Yeah,” Ed said. “I’m that good.”<br />
The carcass’s muscles looked gray nearer <strong>the</strong> tendons, even in <strong>the</strong> yellow firelight.<br />
Ed held it out to John.<br />
“You’re <strong>the</strong> cook,” he said. “Make something with this. I’m starved.” He gave it a little<br />
thrust. “Take it.”<br />
Something seemed wrong with <strong>the</strong> length of <strong>the</strong> body to John.<br />
Sam shrugged. Gavin rolled his lips inside his mouth and nodded slightly.<br />
John pocketed his gloves and took <strong>the</strong> thing. There wasn’t much meat, and it was already<br />
chilled from <strong>the</strong> night. The skin seemed to have come off easily, and <strong>the</strong> cuts where <strong>the</strong> head, feet,<br />
and tail had been were straight and smooth, as if done with a cleaver. The chest cavity was clean.<br />
It would be easy to prepare <strong>for</strong> a meal. It looked firm and healthy.<br />
Ed plopped down in his spot on <strong>the</strong> pallets, pulled out his fifth, and took a long drink. He<br />
slid <strong>the</strong> bottle back into his inside parka pocket without so much as glancing at anyone else.<br />
John looked at <strong>the</strong> carcass’s back end again. He didn’t recall rabbits’ tails needing to be<br />
cut off, but he had been a teenager <strong>the</strong> last time he had prepared a rabbit, and he couldn’t be sure.<br />
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He said to Ed, “I would like to have seen <strong>the</strong> guts, especially <strong>the</strong> heart and liver.”<br />
“You eat those things?” Ed asked.<br />
“To look <strong>for</strong> parasites and signs of disease. You can’t be sure with wild animals.”<br />
Ed said, “I know what I’m doing with game. This thing’s healthy. Just cook it.”<br />
John said, “We’ll need to spread some of <strong>the</strong>se hot coals out.” He looked at Sam. “You<br />
have any butter? And a way to wash my hands, or do I need to go back into <strong>the</strong> truck stop?”<br />
Sam said, “Come on,” and led John to <strong>the</strong> passenger door of <strong>the</strong> truck’s cab.<br />
Sam pulled out a ring of keys and unlocked <strong>the</strong> door, <strong>the</strong>n swung it open and climbed<br />
inside. The opened door had made <strong>the</strong> dome light turn on and lit up a cream interior. The bucket<br />
seats were light-brown suede, and each had a complex contraption beneath that surrounded a<br />
huge, thick-black-rubber air bag. Sam disappeared into <strong>the</strong> sleeper and turned on a light inside.<br />
John wondered why Sam hadn’t simply gone in through <strong>the</strong> sleeper’s own door. John<br />
wanted to see <strong>the</strong> tiny space where Sam lived and slept. A living space that small would have to<br />
be rife with Sam’s essence. John wondered if he somehow exuded that desire so much that Sam<br />
had sensed it and had gone in through <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r door out of fear.<br />
John grabbed <strong>the</strong> icy railing next to <strong>the</strong> doorway with his free hand, and he climbed <strong>the</strong><br />
first two steps to follow Sam. A set of shelves were molded into <strong>the</strong> sleeper’s body immediately<br />
behind <strong>the</strong> driver’s seat, just inside <strong>the</strong> sleeper. One shelf held a dozen or so books, and John tried<br />
to read <strong>the</strong>ir spines as he climbed <strong>the</strong> next step. He could tell one was a bible, and he slid his one<br />
clean hand up <strong>the</strong> railing and took <strong>the</strong> last step. His next step would be inside <strong>the</strong> cab. The railing<br />
was so cold on his hand that he’d have to let go soon.<br />
The sleeper light went out and Sam reappeared, a gallon jug of clear water in one hand, a<br />
rose-colored plastic bar-soap case in <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
John froze, except <strong>for</strong> his heavy breathing.<br />
Sam asked, “You need <strong>the</strong> butter now?”<br />
“No,” John said. “Later.”<br />
Sam said, “You don’t have to come in here to wash up,” and, looking at <strong>the</strong> carcass, “You<br />
didn’t put that thing in here, did you?”<br />
“No,” John said, shaking his head.<br />
“Get on down, <strong>the</strong>n” Sam said, “carefully.”<br />
John climbed down, and Sam followed, locking and closing <strong>the</strong> door. The cab’s dome<br />
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light went out, and <strong>the</strong> night around John seemed darker than be<strong>for</strong>e. It took half a minute next to<br />
<strong>the</strong> truck to readjust to <strong>the</strong> night, bright over where Gavin and Ed still sat, and still bright far off<br />
where <strong>the</strong> fire truck and ambulance had gone, but dark next <strong>the</strong> truck.<br />
With his clean hand, John dug <strong>for</strong> his mo<strong>the</strong>r’s mixing bowl in his gym bag next to <strong>the</strong><br />
truck, struggling one-handed with <strong>the</strong> bag’s zipper and <strong>the</strong>n trying to avoid <strong>the</strong> apron full of<br />
knives. Finally successful, he carried <strong>the</strong> bowl and <strong>the</strong> carcass back to <strong>the</strong> stack of pallets next to<br />
<strong>the</strong> fire and set <strong>the</strong> bowl on <strong>the</strong> spot where he’d been sitting.<br />
“Let’s rinse this rabbit off,” he said to Sam.<br />
John took <strong>the</strong> carcass toward <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>est where Ed had emerged, but stopped just at <strong>the</strong><br />
edge of <strong>the</strong> reach of <strong>the</strong> firelight.<br />
Sam brought <strong>the</strong> water over and trickled <strong>the</strong> water over John’s hands and <strong>the</strong> carcass.<br />
John rubbed <strong>the</strong> carcass’s flesh. The water felt warm compared to <strong>the</strong> night air, but any time<br />
John’s hands left <strong>the</strong> tiny stream <strong>for</strong> more than a couple seconds, his hands turned icy cold, and he<br />
shoved <strong>the</strong>m back beneath it.<br />
He felt small patches of grit give way from <strong>the</strong> carcass’s flesh, where Ed must have had it<br />
on <strong>the</strong> ground while he cleaned it. It was grit John hadn’t seen, but it was obvious by feel. John<br />
caught <strong>the</strong> stream of water inside <strong>the</strong> chest cavity, too, and rubbed it out well, <strong>the</strong> water running<br />
out through <strong>the</strong> neck hole. John turned <strong>the</strong> carcass <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r way, holding it by its front legs<br />
instead, and rubbed it down outside and in again.<br />
Satisfied, John carried it back to <strong>the</strong> fire and laid it in his bowl. The carcass seemed large<br />
compared to <strong>the</strong> bowl, and John had to curl <strong>the</strong> stiffening body to make it fit.<br />
Ed asked, “You’re going to cook it in a bowl? Seems like a spit or that frying pan would<br />
work better.”<br />
“I’m not done yet,” John said. He asked Sam, “Could I wash my hands now?”<br />
Sam and John went to <strong>the</strong> firelight’s edge again, and Sam held <strong>the</strong> water jug while John<br />
scrubbed his hands with <strong>the</strong> soap beneath <strong>the</strong> trickling stream. John’s skin flushed, and he felt<br />
warm, despite <strong>the</strong> cold. He wished he’d led Sam even far<strong>the</strong>r into <strong>the</strong> darkness, less in Gavin’s<br />
and Ed’s sights. John worried about being silhouetted to Gavin and Ed by <strong>the</strong> distant fire-lit sky,<br />
though he didn’t think he would have done anything more than clean <strong>the</strong> carcass and wash his<br />
hands, but scrubbing his hands beneath <strong>the</strong> pour of Sam’s water seemed intensely intimate. He<br />
suddenly wanted to do that in complete privacy.<br />
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Sam asked, “Done yet?”<br />
Sam’s voice was almost silent, <strong>the</strong> viola again. John knew that Gavin and Ed couldn’t hear<br />
<strong>the</strong>m, and that made John’s skin flush even more. He tingled all over and tried to catch his breath.<br />
“Let me rinse,” John said in a near whisper.<br />
“You’re going to use <strong>the</strong> whole jug.”<br />
Then let me use <strong>the</strong> whole jug, John thought. Give me a million jugs.<br />
John watched <strong>the</strong> water level drop in <strong>the</strong> jug, and he glanced up at Sam’s face. Sam’s eyes<br />
sparkled from <strong>the</strong> firelight, and John saw Sam’s brows and lids rise as Sam glanced from <strong>the</strong><br />
stream of water into John’s face. The tiny scar glowed. John knew it was ludicrous to keep<br />
rinsing. He didn’t want to seem too much a fool.<br />
“Okay,” John said. “That’s enough.”<br />
Sam slung <strong>the</strong> long dark hair back, raised <strong>the</strong> jug, and took a swig of what water<br />
remained.<br />
“Ah,” Sam brea<strong>the</strong>d in satisfaction. Then Sam held <strong>the</strong> jug out to John. “Might as well<br />
finish what’s left.”<br />
John was more greedy <strong>for</strong> where Sam’s lips had touched than he was thirsty, and he cared<br />
less about Sam’s sex than ever. John took <strong>the</strong> jug and, with quivering lips, put it to his mouth and<br />
drank until <strong>the</strong> jug was empty.<br />
Sam took <strong>the</strong> jug back, crushed it between arm and belly, and snapped <strong>the</strong> cap back on.<br />
John wished <strong>the</strong> jug hadn’t emptied so quickly now. He wanted to trade swigs back and <strong>for</strong>th with<br />
Sam <strong>for</strong> hours.<br />
“I’ll need more,” John said, “after I prep <strong>the</strong> rabbit.”<br />
Sam said, “I have more.”<br />
Sam led John back into <strong>the</strong> firelight, and John caught himself rolling his lips inside his<br />
mouth.<br />
“What?” Ed asked John when he saw <strong>the</strong> grin.<br />
John shook his head. “I’m just . . . hungry. Starved.”<br />
“Well <strong>the</strong>n, get to cooking, man.”<br />
John brought his filet knife from his bag. One by one, he bent <strong>the</strong> carcass’s legs back, cut<br />
into <strong>the</strong> surrounding flesh, and popped <strong>the</strong> joints free of <strong>the</strong> body. Then he cut <strong>the</strong> meat from <strong>the</strong><br />
leg bones and laid each piece of flesh into <strong>the</strong> bottom of <strong>the</strong> bowl and <strong>the</strong> bared leg bones on top<br />
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of that. He cut <strong>the</strong> flesh from <strong>the</strong> chest, back, and hips of <strong>the</strong> body, always keeping <strong>the</strong> bones on<br />
top, and <strong>the</strong>n finally held <strong>the</strong> bony torso and leg bones out to Ed.<br />
“Get rid of <strong>the</strong>se, will you Ed?”<br />
Ed pulled <strong>the</strong> mitten from his good hand, took <strong>the</strong> pile from John, grasping <strong>the</strong> legs next<br />
to <strong>the</strong> torso with his one hand, and <strong>the</strong>n, taking two steps like a javelin thrower, hurled <strong>the</strong> bones<br />
out into <strong>the</strong> night toward <strong>the</strong> glow of <strong>the</strong> fire on <strong>the</strong> horizon.<br />
John said, “I could have done that. I meant <strong>for</strong> you to take it up to <strong>the</strong> trash at <strong>the</strong> truck<br />
stop or something.”<br />
“Hey, it’s gone.” Ed wiped his hand on his pants leg and put his mitten back on. “Some<br />
coyote or stray dog will enjoy that.”<br />
John cubed <strong>the</strong> meat in <strong>the</strong> bowl and <strong>the</strong>n wiped <strong>the</strong> sides of <strong>the</strong> knife on <strong>the</strong> bowl’s lip.<br />
“I’m ready to wash my hands again,” he said to Sam, “and this knife.”<br />
Sam got a fresh jug of water from <strong>the</strong> truck, led John to <strong>the</strong> same spot, and trickled <strong>the</strong><br />
water over John’s hands again.<br />
Sam asked as John scrubbed, “Why’d you wash your hands <strong>the</strong> first time, if you were just<br />
going to touch <strong>the</strong> rabbit again?”<br />
“I had to get my knife out of my bag, and I didn’t want to contaminate everything.”<br />
John finished scrubbing <strong>the</strong> knife, rinsed it, and tentatively slid it into one of his coat<br />
pockets next to his glove.<br />
Sam said, “I could have gotten your knife <strong>for</strong> you.”<br />
John scrubbed his hands with <strong>the</strong> soap and said, “I knew where it was, and which one I<br />
needed, and we were out here anyway.”<br />
Sam nodded, and John cleaned beneath <strong>the</strong> fingernails of one hand with <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>efinger- and<br />
thumbnail of <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r, <strong>the</strong>n switched hands. He scrubbed with soap again, and <strong>the</strong>n rinsed.<br />
When he finished, Sam held <strong>the</strong> jug out to him.<br />
John took a drink and handed <strong>the</strong> jug back to Sam. He could see only half of Sam’s face,<br />
<strong>the</strong> side nearest <strong>the</strong> fire, and he saw Sam’s cheek on that side rise and crinkle from a grin, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n Sam raised <strong>the</strong> jug and swigged from it. When Sam was done, John reached out <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> jug<br />
again.<br />
“One more,” he said, and he and Sam passed <strong>the</strong> jug back and <strong>for</strong>th until John was about<br />
to burst with water.<br />
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CHAPTER 21<br />
Sam climbed into <strong>the</strong> brightly lit truck’s cab with <strong>the</strong> jug and its sloshing remains of water<br />
that John had been too full to finish and disappeared into <strong>the</strong> sleeper.<br />
John called after Sam, “Get <strong>the</strong> butter now, would you?”<br />
He heard nothing from inside <strong>the</strong> cab.<br />
John asked, “It’s real butter, isn’t it? Not margarine?”<br />
“That’s right,” Sam’s voice came from inside <strong>the</strong> sleeper, and <strong>the</strong>n Sam reappeared in <strong>the</strong><br />
cab’s open doorway without <strong>the</strong> water but with a stick of butter in its wax-paper wrapping. “Real<br />
butter, with all its cholesterol and fat, all that dangerous stuff.”<br />
“Maybe dangerous,” John said, “but real.”<br />
Sam climbed out of <strong>the</strong> cab.<br />
“Leave that door open <strong>for</strong> a minute, will you, Sam?”<br />
In <strong>the</strong> light from <strong>the</strong> cab, John dug into his gym bag and pulled out his iron skillet, <strong>the</strong><br />
longer of his two wooden spoons, his jar of salt, and his pepper mill.<br />
“Okay,” he said.<br />
Sam closed <strong>the</strong> door, and Gavin’s fire became <strong>the</strong> primary source of light again. The light<br />
from <strong>the</strong> fire on <strong>the</strong> horizon had waned until it was far less discernable than <strong>the</strong> cold white glow of<br />
<strong>the</strong> truck stop, even less so against <strong>the</strong> warm yellow light of Gavin’s fire, and as John and Sam<br />
walked back toward Gavin’s fire, <strong>the</strong> glow on <strong>the</strong> horizon disappeared. John wasn’t certain<br />
whe<strong>the</strong>r that fire near Cassandra’s had been put out <strong>for</strong> good or if it just seemed like it had from<br />
within <strong>the</strong> glow of Gavin’s fire.<br />
John set <strong>the</strong> salt canister and <strong>the</strong> pepper mill onto <strong>the</strong> pallet next to <strong>the</strong> bowl of cubed<br />
meat, and he put <strong>the</strong> blade end of <strong>the</strong> spoon into <strong>the</strong> bowl, <strong>the</strong> handle sticking out well past <strong>the</strong><br />
bowl’s lip. John took a board from Gavin’s pile and spread hot coals into a bed at his and Ed’s<br />
edge of <strong>the</strong> fire. He laid <strong>the</strong> board across <strong>the</strong> fire and <strong>the</strong>n set <strong>the</strong> skillet on <strong>the</strong> bed of coals,<br />
wiggling it to level <strong>the</strong> coals beneath.<br />
Gavin said, “You know, we have a hibachi you can use.”<br />
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John considered that and <strong>the</strong>n said, “Don’t need it.”<br />
“I have a Dutch oven, too. Big one. In case you need it.”<br />
“Thanks.” John looked at <strong>the</strong> cubed meat and <strong>the</strong>n his skillet. “The skillet will be fine. If<br />
we had potatoes or something, too, we’d need it.” He said to Sam, “I’m ready <strong>for</strong> your butter<br />
now.”<br />
Sam handed John <strong>the</strong> stick of butter, standing next to him afterward. John hovered his<br />
o<strong>the</strong>r hand within <strong>the</strong> skillet to test <strong>the</strong> heat rising from its bottom. The bottom had turned shiny<br />
with <strong>the</strong> oils from its seasoned decades of use. John was suddenly hit with <strong>the</strong> aroma of Steak-<br />
Ums, and that last afternoon with Billie thrust itself onto him and around him as if he were<br />
actually back in her kitchen, his heart racing with <strong>the</strong> fear that none of <strong>the</strong> last two days had<br />
happened and that those moments with Sam in <strong>the</strong> woods with <strong>the</strong> water jugs had been only a<br />
dream. Then, just as suddenly, he was back by <strong>the</strong> fire, still hovering his hand over <strong>the</strong> empty<br />
skillet and holding <strong>the</strong> stick of butter.<br />
Sam asked, “Are you going to use <strong>the</strong> whole stick?”<br />
John panted. “What?”<br />
“Are you going to use all that butter?”<br />
“Oh. No.”<br />
John pulled his hand away from <strong>the</strong> skillet. He drew his knife from his coat pocket, peeled<br />
open <strong>the</strong> waxy, butter-slick paper, and cut off a third of <strong>the</strong> softening stick above <strong>the</strong> skillet. The<br />
butter plopped into <strong>the</strong> skillet and hissed and bubbled and spread its way out toward <strong>the</strong> edges.<br />
The smell of sizzling butter masked that of <strong>the</strong> Steak-Ums. John wanted <strong>the</strong> Steak-Ums<br />
gone <strong>for</strong> good, so he quickly rewrapped <strong>the</strong> remaining butter and handed it to Sam, grabbed <strong>the</strong><br />
bowl of cubed meat, and spooned it into <strong>the</strong> skillet. The meat crackled and hissed, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong><br />
sounds died as <strong>the</strong> meat tried to suck <strong>the</strong> heat from <strong>the</strong> skillet. The cubes and <strong>the</strong> butter slowly<br />
renewed <strong>the</strong>ir sizzling and streng<strong>the</strong>ned <strong>the</strong> rising waft of steamy oiliness, and John inhaled it<br />
greedily. There was no hint of Steak-Ums now, and he brea<strong>the</strong>d easier.<br />
He set <strong>the</strong> bowl back on <strong>the</strong> pallet, glancing at Sam heading back to <strong>the</strong> truck to put <strong>the</strong><br />
remaining butter away, and used <strong>the</strong> spoon to shove <strong>the</strong> cubes around in <strong>the</strong> skillet to keep <strong>the</strong>m<br />
from sticking and to let <strong>the</strong> butter coat <strong>the</strong>m evenly. The butter turned brown at <strong>the</strong> spots where<br />
<strong>the</strong> bubbling was most intense. John worried about burning <strong>the</strong> butter and ruining <strong>the</strong> flavor <strong>for</strong><br />
everyone.<br />
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He rushed back to his bag near <strong>the</strong> truck and grabbed his hand towel. Sam had just<br />
climbed back out of <strong>the</strong> cab and closed <strong>the</strong> door. John stared into Sam’s eyes in <strong>the</strong> half dark.<br />
Sam smiled, and John smiled back and <strong>the</strong>n rushed back to <strong>the</strong> fire.<br />
He folded his hand towel in half and half again, grabbed <strong>the</strong> skillet’s handle with it, and<br />
lifted <strong>the</strong> skillet from <strong>the</strong> coals.<br />
Ed shifted closer to <strong>the</strong> fire, <strong>the</strong> skillet, and John, and John felt Ed’s eyes on him. He<br />
sensed a darkening of Ed’s mood, something John figured he had picked up from <strong>the</strong> sound of<br />
Ed’s breathing slowing or <strong>the</strong> way Ed’s torso swelled and shrank in John’s peripheral vision. He<br />
wasn’t sure.<br />
Sam returned to <strong>the</strong> fire and paused by John’s side, but John didn’t look at Sam this time.<br />
John, through <strong>the</strong> corner of his eye, watched Sam slowly return to <strong>the</strong> seat past Gavin and around<br />
<strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r side of <strong>the</strong> fire, but still John didn’t look at Sam directly. He could feel Ed’s scrutiny too<br />
powerfully.<br />
Ed said, “That’s what I’m talking about.”<br />
John jiggled <strong>the</strong> skillet horizontally, and <strong>the</strong> cubes of meat, browned in some spots, still<br />
translucent pink in o<strong>the</strong>rs, scooted and rolled in <strong>the</strong> melted, brown butter. He set <strong>the</strong> skillet back<br />
onto <strong>the</strong> coals, sprinkled in pinch of salt, and dusted it all with pepper.<br />
Ed leaned closer, inhaled a huge whiff, and smiled broadly.<br />
“Oh, yeah,” Ed said. “That’s satisfying as hell.”<br />
On <strong>the</strong> surface, Ed seemed content, but John still sensed that dark mood, that feel that he<br />
had gotten from Ed back in <strong>the</strong> motel room while Ed leaned against <strong>the</strong> door frame with his arms<br />
crossed, just be<strong>for</strong>e he had begun goading John.<br />
John wanted to look at Sam, to share smiles again, to share sips from <strong>the</strong> water jug, to<br />
share a single plate of this caramelized meat, but he didn’t dare look with Ed so close.<br />
The smell of <strong>the</strong> butter and cooking cubes seemed a tactile thing to John, a shape of some<br />
sort that fit perfectly into a wanting void where <strong>the</strong> back of his sinuses met his soft palate, some<br />
spot that had been empty <strong>for</strong> a long time, and John could imagine a bite-sized piece melting in his<br />
mouth already. It seemed putting that first bite into his mouth would be like prying <strong>the</strong> cork from<br />
a bottle of pinot that he had coddled in a basement <strong>for</strong> years and inhaling that first whiff of tannin<br />
and sugars, or like drying that last knife or sauté pan in Leopold’s kitchen and giving <strong>the</strong> counter<br />
tops a final wipe down and switching off <strong>the</strong> lights and turning to watch <strong>the</strong> crowd.<br />
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John knew his body needed protein and that that had to be why he craved that meat so<br />
much, but <strong>the</strong> knowledge took second seat to his rumbling stomach and <strong>the</strong> saliva pooling inside<br />
his mouth.<br />
He pushed <strong>the</strong> meat around with <strong>the</strong> wooden spoon, and <strong>the</strong> meat sizzled anew. The cut<br />
edges were finally dark brown, and none of <strong>the</strong> pink remained. The butter had reduced into a<br />
wonderfully caramelized glaze, and <strong>the</strong> meat was shiny brown.<br />
John swallowed <strong>the</strong> saliva and rolled his lips inside his mouth and thought, No, not second<br />
seat. Knowledge takes about <strong>the</strong> hundredth, <strong>the</strong> ten thousandth seat to something so primal, so<br />
sensuous as satisfying real hunger.<br />
He finally <strong>for</strong>ced himself to glance up at Sam. Sam watched him and <strong>the</strong> skillet, those huge<br />
deerlike eyes glistening in <strong>the</strong> firelight, and John felt hungrier than he had in his entire life.<br />
Ed said, “That finished yet?” He leaned in close to skillet again, blocking John’s view of<br />
Sam. “It looks finished to me.”<br />
John lifted <strong>the</strong> skillet from <strong>the</strong> fire. He cringed at <strong>the</strong> thought of Ed digging into <strong>the</strong> skillet<br />
over and over with some utensil he’d wrapped his mouth all around.<br />
John said, keeping his gaze on <strong>the</strong> skillet, “We need plates or something.”<br />
He heard Sam say, “I’ve got some,” and <strong>the</strong>n, in his peripheral vision, caught Sam heading<br />
back to <strong>the</strong> truck.<br />
Ed said, “Stir that some, John. Don’t let it burn.”<br />
John did. The sizzling had waned and was almost inaudible.<br />
Ed said, “Too bad that frying pan holds heat so long.”<br />
“No,” John said. “That’s good.”<br />
Ed leaned back and away from John. “Just give me Teflon any old day, or my mom’s old<br />
aluminum pot. That’s fine, and cheap, and light.”<br />
John said, “Part of what you cook with gets into your food, Ed. Teflon can’t be good <strong>for</strong><br />
you, and aluminum’s horrid stuff to put into your body.”<br />
“Yeah, well, Teflon should just slide right through, right? Like shit through a goose. I’m<br />
fine with that.”<br />
Sam came back with four hard-plastic plates and four plastic <strong>for</strong>ks.<br />
“Will this work?” Sam asked.<br />
John said, “Sure,” elated with an excuse to look at Sam again.<br />
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Gavin reached over and took a plate and a <strong>for</strong>k. Then Ed did, and Sam held two plates.<br />
John held <strong>the</strong> skillet over <strong>the</strong> plates one by one and scraped roughly one quarter of <strong>the</strong> cubes onto<br />
each. He set <strong>the</strong> skillet and wooden spoon on <strong>the</strong> pallet’s edge far<strong>the</strong>st from <strong>the</strong> fire and took his<br />
plate from Sam.<br />
Ed shoved his plastic <strong>for</strong>k into one of his parka pockets, pulled a metal tablespoon from<br />
<strong>the</strong> same pocket, and shoveled <strong>the</strong> meat into his mouth two and three cubes at a time, barely<br />
chewing between each spoonful, swallowing <strong>the</strong> stuff almost whole. He finished his plate and<br />
laughed, wiped his mouth with <strong>the</strong> back of his hand, and laughed again.<br />
Gavin asked, “What’s so funny, Edwin?”<br />
“Oh, nothing.” Ed still grinned wide. “It’s just really good to eat that. Satisfying.”<br />
Then Ed leaned <strong>for</strong>ward with his elbows on his knees, his chin in his good palm, a silly<br />
smile on his face, and watched everyone else eat. He seemed giddy with <strong>the</strong> scene.<br />
John chewed each cube individually at first, while <strong>the</strong>y were still warm, but <strong>the</strong> night, even<br />
with his plate that close to <strong>the</strong> fire, sucked <strong>the</strong> warmth from <strong>the</strong> meat within minutes, and John<br />
finished his last four cubes in pairs. They were cool in his mouth, but still <strong>the</strong> butter, and <strong>the</strong> oils<br />
in <strong>the</strong> meat, did satisfy his hunger in a way that he figured not much else would.<br />
He stole ano<strong>the</strong>r glance at Sam. Sam was watching him.<br />
“Well,” Ed said—John turned away from Sam—“I’m ready <strong>for</strong> some shut-eye.” Ed glared<br />
at Sam. “What time you leaving in <strong>the</strong> morning?”<br />
“When we’re ready.”<br />
Ed asked, “What time will that be?”<br />
Gavin said, “When we’re ready.”<br />
John said, “We’ll be right here, right, Ed?”<br />
“We can’t sleep in <strong>the</strong> parking lot, John.”<br />
Sam said, looking at Ed, “I’d offer you a spot in <strong>the</strong> trailer with Gavin, but we don’t know<br />
you well enough yet. No offense or anything.”<br />
Then Sam looked in John’s eyes again, apologetically, John thought, and Sam’s gaze<br />
dropped to <strong>the</strong> fire.<br />
John dropped his gaze, too, and said, “No problem.” Then he turned to Ed. “We’ll camp<br />
just inside <strong>the</strong> woods.”<br />
Ed said, “You just follow me, John. I already got a spot picked out.”<br />
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John nodded at <strong>the</strong> skillet and <strong>the</strong> bowl on <strong>the</strong> pallet. “I have to clean all this up first. Sam,<br />
can I use your water and soap again?”<br />
Ed said, “Oh, <strong>for</strong> Christ’s sake, John, just take it inside <strong>the</strong> truck stop.”<br />
Sam stared at <strong>the</strong> fire and said nothing. Gavin gave a slight nod.<br />
The horizon toward <strong>the</strong> woods lit up bright from <strong>the</strong> fire near Cassandra’s again, and John<br />
imagined <strong>the</strong> firefighters struggling with hot ashes spreading through <strong>the</strong> woods or across grassy<br />
lots, maybe leaping from house to house all <strong>the</strong> way through a neighborhood.<br />
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CHAPTER 22<br />
On <strong>the</strong> previous Wednesday—a garbage day at Billie’s—one full day be<strong>for</strong>e John and<br />
Billie’s trip to buy a television and <strong>the</strong>ir subsequent fight, John dragged Billie’s two garbage bins<br />
out to <strong>the</strong> curb just after dawn. Then he sat on <strong>the</strong> front porch with a bowl of raisin bran and an<br />
afghan and watched <strong>the</strong> sun continue to rise, bleeding its bright orange white glow into more and<br />
more of <strong>the</strong> neighborhood’s recesses. Billie was still asleep, and John hadn’t wound down enough<br />
yet from work to go lie next to her in bed. The cold numbed <strong>the</strong> tip of his nose and made his<br />
fingers ache.<br />
The year’s first snow hadn’t come yet. It was aberrantly late, though <strong>the</strong> cold itself had<br />
come time and again over <strong>the</strong> previous months, each wave more bitter and longer-lasting than <strong>the</strong><br />
one be<strong>for</strong>e. The Gulf had failed this year to send enough moisture far enough or consistently<br />
enough to meet <strong>the</strong> arctic highs, as if <strong>the</strong> Gulf had lost track of where John had gone. John’s<br />
fingers had cracked and bled at <strong>the</strong> corners of his nails and across <strong>the</strong> backs of his knuckles. His<br />
lips had dried to <strong>the</strong> point that smiling split <strong>the</strong>m and frequently left him sucking on blood. The<br />
taste of blood soured <strong>the</strong> raisin bran in his mouth as if <strong>the</strong> factory had mixed <strong>the</strong> bran flakes with<br />
old pennies instead of raisins.<br />
John had tried lotions and lip balms, usually Billie’s, but he couldn’t seem to use enough<br />
of <strong>the</strong> stuff to heal <strong>the</strong> cuts, or even to ease <strong>the</strong> bleeding enough to allow him to smile or touch<br />
anything, at work or at home. He looked as if he’d been in a play fight that had turned a hint too<br />
real. Leopold’s customers never seemed to get tiny mars like John’s. He wondered whe<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong><br />
customers who did just stayed home, or if <strong>the</strong>re were some secret balm or simple precaution that<br />
no Denver native had revealed to John yet, or if perhaps arctic air was gentler with you <strong>the</strong> more<br />
it got to know you.<br />
John still felt jittery not having a screen between himself and <strong>the</strong> yard, as if a swarm of<br />
mosquitoes would converge on him any second. He knew no mosquito could survive this cold,<br />
but he hadn’t smo<strong>the</strong>red that instinct yet, just like he still surveyed <strong>the</strong> ground around his feet <strong>for</strong><br />
fire-ant beds every time he crossed a yard or, especially, stopped on grass anywhere.<br />
116
In Denver in winter, <strong>the</strong> sun seemed so far away. In Biloxi, <strong>the</strong> sun had felt as if it were<br />
just within <strong>the</strong> outer fringes of <strong>the</strong> atmosphere. Some people hated that heat, <strong>the</strong> humidity, but<br />
John’s year in Denver felt as if he had stepped out of a lifelong warm bath and onto a cold metal<br />
floor in a walk-in freezer full of hanging, long-dead slabs of meat, that <strong>the</strong> bath water had gone<br />
icy, too, and that it would do no good to get back into <strong>the</strong> bath, that it would in fact do more<br />
harm than good.<br />
A garbage truck backed its way out of <strong>the</strong> opposite side street, beep-, beep-, beeping as it<br />
did, and a man dressed in layers of coat, hooded sweatshirt, coveralls, and who knew what else<br />
grabbed both of Billie’s garbage bins and dragged <strong>the</strong>m to <strong>the</strong> waiting truck.<br />
John thought, Now that’s a job. That’s someone doing some good. Everyone makes<br />
garbage, and no one wants it around, so a garbage man—Is that what <strong>the</strong>y’re still called?—he<br />
does important work. Okay, so maybe <strong>the</strong>re are lots of folks who could do that. You need to be<br />
willing to work hard, of course, and you need a strong back, and a strong nose, but it’s important<br />
work.<br />
John set his empty cereal bowl on <strong>the</strong> painted porch floorboards next to his chair. The<br />
spoon settled deeper into <strong>the</strong> bowl with a grainy scrape and two light metallic clanks.<br />
John couldn’t remember <strong>the</strong> previous year with anything but work. He had moved in with<br />
Billie by June but hadn’t cut <strong>the</strong> grass over <strong>the</strong> summer, or carved a pumpkin <strong>for</strong> Halloween, or<br />
anything. To save time, he used <strong>the</strong> dry cleaners instead of her washer, dryer, and ironing board.<br />
It was like <strong>the</strong> year hadn’t really existed, o<strong>the</strong>r than working <strong>for</strong> Leopold, like one very long work<br />
day with exhausting, joint-aching coffee breaks with stale coffee, and quitting time seemed<br />
nowhere near.<br />
He said, “My job’s useless,” and thought, I brown-nose alcoholic big shots, politicians,<br />
Broncos players, big-time lawyers and doctors—anyone who wants his ass kissed. Grab any old<br />
car salesman from any lot in town and shove him in my place and teach him liquor inventories and<br />
scotch and cigar bullshit, and he’ll be just as good as me, probably better. It’s all fake. That’s <strong>the</strong><br />
irony. My suits and knowledge of liquor and tobacco create illusory significance, whereas that<br />
garbage man’s filth creates illusory insignificance, but our true values are <strong>the</strong> reverse. If that dirty,<br />
hardworking, possibly undereducated man shuffling black plastic bins around with those coarse<br />
gloves stained with all our thrown-out crap vanished, you’d notice. You bet your sweet ass you’d<br />
notice. If I vanished, <strong>the</strong> world wouldn’t miss a beat.<br />
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The garbage man rolled Billie’s empty bins back to her curb, and he strode toward <strong>the</strong><br />
next set of bins down Billie’s road, sunlight highlighting <strong>the</strong> back of his sweatshirt’s hood and <strong>the</strong><br />
thick, dark, utilitarian coat.<br />
John wondered if he could do work like that, if <strong>the</strong> garbage man’s gloves were filled with<br />
bloodstains from cracking fingers that he had to ignore to do his work, or if maybe <strong>the</strong> work itself<br />
made him sweat enough beneath those layers to push <strong>the</strong> moisture his skin needed up from <strong>the</strong><br />
inside, if he had a warm hearth at home, a family perhaps that he cared more about than silk ties<br />
and fifty-dollar cigars and seventy-five-year-old single-malt scotches. John felt a fool, and he<br />
shivered, and <strong>the</strong> tips of his fingers ached touching absolutely nothing.<br />
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CHAPTER 23<br />
In <strong>the</strong> lantern light, Gavin spread a heavy blanket across one back corner of <strong>the</strong> trailer’s<br />
wooden floor. A netted hammock hung empty above him. He untied <strong>the</strong> cords on a sleeping bag<br />
and unrolled that on top of <strong>the</strong> blanket, and a pillow poofed up from <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> roll.<br />
Ed asked Gavin, “Why don’t you sleep in that hammock?”<br />
Gavin said, “I lie in <strong>the</strong> hammock when we’re on <strong>the</strong> move.” He fluffed <strong>the</strong> pillow, opened<br />
<strong>the</strong> lip of <strong>the</strong> sleeping bag, and set <strong>the</strong> pillow at its head. “This is <strong>for</strong> solid sleeping, not napping.”<br />
John studied Sam’s face in <strong>the</strong> lantern light. Beyond Sam in <strong>the</strong> half light, <strong>the</strong> dark edge of<br />
<strong>the</strong> woods seemed menacing. The fire still burned, though low, and lit <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r half of Sam’s<br />
face.<br />
Ed picked up John’s gym bag from next to <strong>the</strong> trailer and shoved it into John’s chest and<br />
let go. John fumbled and almost dropped <strong>the</strong> bag.<br />
Ed grabbed his roll and slung it from his shoulder. “Come on, John.”<br />
John slung his bag’s strap across his shoulder, and Gavin sat at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> trailer.<br />
“Don’t go too far,” Gavin said. “Something’s liable to eat you.”<br />
Ed shook his head and led John away from <strong>the</strong> bright, warm fire, Sam and Gavin, and <strong>the</strong><br />
gravel lot and into <strong>the</strong> trees. They walked, without pausing, through <strong>the</strong> spot where John and Sam<br />
had washed <strong>the</strong> meat and John’s hands and had shared <strong>the</strong> jugs of water, and <strong>the</strong>n past <strong>the</strong> area<br />
where John figured <strong>the</strong> bones had landed. John expected any second to step on or accidentally<br />
kick <strong>the</strong> empty rib cage, but John and Ed soon walked far<strong>the</strong>r than <strong>the</strong> bones could have flown,<br />
and <strong>the</strong> darkness and <strong>the</strong> cold enveloped <strong>the</strong>m until it was almost complete.<br />
The glow ahead from <strong>the</strong> fire over <strong>the</strong> hill toward Cassandra’s and <strong>the</strong> direct light behind<br />
of Gavin and Sam’s fire going out at <strong>the</strong> truck stop silhouetted, all around, dead-looking twists of<br />
bare limbs intertangling toward <strong>the</strong> black sky. Eerily, both fires were quenched simultaneously,<br />
and after <strong>the</strong> cold white light of <strong>the</strong> truck stop itself had slipped far<strong>the</strong>r from view, <strong>the</strong> woods<br />
were simply dark. The cold crisped John’s lea<strong>the</strong>r coat into uselessness and seeped through <strong>the</strong><br />
weave of his sweater and T-shirt, and he looked <strong>for</strong>ward to wrapping <strong>the</strong> motel’s threadbare<br />
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lanket tightly around himself as many times as it would allow.<br />
Ed kept going and going.<br />
“Ed,” John said, but Ed seemed not to hear. “Ed!<br />
Ed plunged through <strong>the</strong> undergrowth. John had to leave at least five or six feet between<br />
him and Ed, because Ed just pushed his way past small branches and let <strong>the</strong>m sling back and<br />
smack and sting John all up and down his body. It was so dark that, if it hadn’t been <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong><br />
slinging brush, John wouldn’t have known where Ed was at all.<br />
John screamed, “Ed!” and stopped. “I’m going back.”<br />
Then John no longer heard Ed’s stomp and push through <strong>the</strong> undergrowth. There was<br />
only a palpable, aching silence. He couldn’t even hear <strong>the</strong> semis’ tires on <strong>the</strong> highway anymore,<br />
but his ears seemed to ache to hear something, anything, and soon he began to hear a hissing<br />
white noise that he knew didn’t exist at all.<br />
Ed reemerged from <strong>the</strong> darkness. He had made no sound, not even <strong>the</strong> slightest crunch in<br />
<strong>the</strong> snow or on <strong>the</strong> dampened and <strong>the</strong>n frozen dead leaves that should have ground like thin glass<br />
beneath Ed’s boot soles. His face had simply materialized right in front of John’s, like a gator<br />
rising from <strong>the</strong> depths of a murky pool.<br />
Ed said, “You don’t have to yell. I’m right here, and we’re just going right over <strong>the</strong>re.” He<br />
nodded slightly over his shoulder.<br />
John said, “Six more steps is all you get.”<br />
“Twelve,” Ed said. “Sixteen. Give me sixteen.”<br />
John swallowed. “But if we’re not in a good camping spot by <strong>the</strong>n, I go back.”<br />
Ed looked around in <strong>the</strong> dark, as if he could see sixteen steps in every direction. John<br />
doubted that, even if it were light, <strong>the</strong> undergrowth would have allowed that.<br />
But Ed gave a quick nod toward <strong>the</strong> darkness ahead of <strong>the</strong>m and to <strong>the</strong>ir right, and off he<br />
went, taking comically huge steps and sweeping up every inch that he could.<br />
John kept thinking about those few private moments with Sam and of Sam’s deep brown<br />
eyes during <strong>the</strong>ir stolen glances, and a spot inside John burned steadily warm and kept even <strong>the</strong><br />
cold of this night at bay just inside his flesh. The night did bite his skin and his limbs and made him<br />
shiver, but that warm spot inside made him believe that it was impossible to freeze completely,<br />
that <strong>the</strong> cold could seep only so far, and that any damage it could do to him now would be<br />
laughably superficial.<br />
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He worried that Sam might be a man. John didn’t want to fall too deeply <strong>for</strong> Sam until he<br />
knew, but he wanted, too, to be able to say, without hesitation, that it didn’t matter. The idea of<br />
having sex with a man wasn’t very erotic <strong>for</strong> him, but he didn’t know whe<strong>the</strong>r that was a natural<br />
reservation or if he had simply been programmed that way. He hoped it was natural, because it<br />
would be a shame, he thought, not to be able to accept love because of programming.<br />
Ed led John on down and crossed, after fourteen steps, what seemed to John in <strong>the</strong> dark to<br />
be an extension of <strong>the</strong> dry creek bed <strong>the</strong>y had driven over earlier in <strong>the</strong> evening. On <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r side<br />
of <strong>the</strong> creek bed, finally, and thankfully hidden from <strong>the</strong> wind, Ed stopped.<br />
John told himself, This world’s against my quitting my job and leaving <strong>the</strong> safety of a<br />
paycheck and a warm house. It’s against my not caring about how many things I own or how<br />
much those things cost or whe<strong>the</strong>r that cost impresses o<strong>the</strong>rs. No, he thought, it’s not <strong>the</strong> world<br />
that’s against this. The world is indifferent. It’s <strong>the</strong> people—or at least, too many of <strong>the</strong>m—who<br />
are against it.<br />
“We’ll camp here,” Ed said.<br />
He pulled off his roll and plopped it onto <strong>the</strong> snow and frozen grass beneath a large willow<br />
tree. The snow was thinner <strong>the</strong>re, only an inch or two, and <strong>the</strong> branches were numerous and lowhanging.<br />
The leaves had fallen, but <strong>the</strong> willow had so many fine branches that <strong>the</strong> mesh of limbs<br />
created an illusion of leafiness.<br />
John ducked into <strong>the</strong> space beneath <strong>the</strong> willow and dropped his gym bag next to <strong>the</strong> trunk.<br />
Cut it out, John, he thought. Cut out all that damned thinking. Thinking makes that warm<br />
spot in your chest go away, and you need that warm spot tonight.<br />
He was exhausted, physically and emotionally, and his head began to hurt again. He was<br />
still hungry, too. That little bit of meat hadn’t been enough <strong>for</strong> four.<br />
He plopped next to his gym bag and rested against <strong>the</strong> willow’s trunk, wanting to eat<br />
again, wanting to lie down, wanting to be near Sam.<br />
Ed unrolled his blanket and sat on that, next to his large green canteen, his Ziploc bag of<br />
gray socks, his can of Ravioli, and a rolled-up Wal-Mart bag.<br />
John asked, “What’s in <strong>the</strong> bag?”<br />
“Gauze, medical tape, peroxide, Scotch tape, Superglue.”<br />
“Superglue?”<br />
“To keep this bullet hole closed.”<br />
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John said, “I thought only cooks knew that trick.”<br />
Ed sniggered. “Do a lot of people shoot cooks?”<br />
“For cuts,” John said. “When you first learn to cook in restaurants, you cut yourself lots.”<br />
“That’s a com<strong>for</strong>ting thought: amateur cooks bleeding all over your food.”<br />
“I’m still hungry,” John said. “You?”<br />
Ed nodded and pulled a key chain out of his pocket that had nothing on it but one house<br />
key and a small, black rectangle of metal. The piece of metal had a tiny, hinged, fin-shaped piece<br />
attached just above a notch. Ed fitted <strong>the</strong> thing to his Ravioli can’s top and awkwardly, slowly<br />
opened <strong>the</strong> can with his left hand.<br />
John asked, “Can I help you with that?”<br />
Ed took a break from opening <strong>the</strong> can and asked, “You ever use a pee-thirty-eight<br />
be<strong>for</strong>e?”<br />
“No.”<br />
“Don’t worry about it, <strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
Ed stopped <strong>the</strong> P-38 with an inch left to go and simply bent <strong>the</strong> lid open.<br />
“Give me your can of beans,” he said.<br />
John did, and Ed opened that <strong>the</strong> same way and put <strong>the</strong> tiny can opener and its key ring<br />
back into his pocket.<br />
Ed handed John his opened can of beans, pulled <strong>the</strong> plastic <strong>for</strong>k from his parka pocket,<br />
and held it out to John.<br />
John took it and said, “Let’s build a fire.”<br />
“No. Those firemen and cops are still around. We don’t need that. Eat your beans.”<br />
John scooped a bite into his mouth, and he wondered at Ed’s mentioning cops. John<br />
hadn’t seen any police going toward <strong>the</strong> fire.<br />
He was too hungry to worry long, and though he wished <strong>the</strong> beans were warm, <strong>the</strong>y<br />
satisfied his grumbling stomach.<br />
When John finished <strong>the</strong> can, he sank back against <strong>the</strong> trunk of <strong>the</strong> willow and watched Ed<br />
finish his cold Ravioli. John wished he had ano<strong>the</strong>r bottle of water. Having eaten an entire can of<br />
beans with no water made <strong>the</strong> ache in his head worse.<br />
John thought about <strong>the</strong> way Ed had reemerged from <strong>the</strong> woods without a sound, and he<br />
asked, “Why aren’t you a soldier anymore, Ed?”<br />
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Ed shrugged. “Technically I still am, but Christ, who wants to be a tread head?”<br />
“A what?”<br />
“Tracks. APCs. IFVs. I was supposed to be a Ranger, or Special Forces.<br />
“There I was,” he said, “all camouflaged up, with every piece of equipment I owned tied<br />
to me with five-fifty cord, sitting in a patrol base, and this Ranger instructor says, ‘Some of you<br />
just weren’t meant to be here. It’s not your lot in life. It doesn’t mean you’re no good, just that<br />
you weren’t meant to be here.’ The whole time he was saying this, he was looking straight at me.<br />
Maybe if I had gotten pissed and worked harder, I would have proved him wrong. But I didn’t. I<br />
felt like he was right.” Ed scraped his tablespoon inside his Ravioli can, pulled out <strong>the</strong> last of <strong>the</strong><br />
sauce, and gulped it down. “Hell, he probably did it to everyone, just to see who’d quit. I proved<br />
him right, in one moment of weakness.”<br />
He shrugged. “I wasn’t supposed to be here, out in <strong>the</strong>se freezing-ass woods in <strong>the</strong> great<br />
state of Misery.”<br />
Ed’s head bent down, sweeping back and <strong>for</strong>th. Because John could see Ed only as mostly<br />
a silhouette, Ed’s head seemed to shrink to just a nub. Ed thrust his hands up on ei<strong>the</strong>r side and<br />
added to <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>rworldliness of <strong>the</strong> silhouette, <strong>the</strong> shadow’s strange mittened hands that looked<br />
like sharks’ fins circling a nub of an island. Then Ed’s normal silhouette was back, as if some<br />
fairy-tale princess had kissed him and morphed him back into a human being.<br />
John asked, “Just why are you out here?”<br />
Ed exhaled heavily. Then he came over unfolding a piece of paper. He handed it to John<br />
and snicked his lighter to life.<br />
The light was blinding. It danced bright yellow across <strong>the</strong> surrounding trunks and lit up <strong>the</strong><br />
willow’s limbs and, far above, <strong>the</strong> bottoms of a vault of branches thrust clasping overhead by <strong>the</strong><br />
surrounding trees. The lit-up part of <strong>the</strong> woods seemed to John like a miniature ca<strong>the</strong>dral.<br />
It was Ed’s fa<strong>the</strong>r’s drawing. The corner Hawking had pulled off and swallowed was back<br />
in place, a mesh of Scotch tape holding <strong>the</strong> masticated, tooth-hole-riddled section toge<strong>the</strong>r. The<br />
yellow light seemed to fit <strong>the</strong> subject, but <strong>the</strong> creases from <strong>the</strong> folds seemed anomalous, too<br />
straight <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> subject.<br />
John said, “It’s okay.”<br />
Ed snorted. “Just ‘okay’? It’s amazing.”<br />
“Ed, when did you get <strong>the</strong> corner of this drawing back? I thought Hawking ate it.”<br />
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Ed glanced at John, <strong>the</strong>n back at <strong>the</strong> paper.<br />
“I got it back,” he said.<br />
“I can see. But when?”<br />
“When . . .” Ed said. “Hawking hacked it up. Don’t you remember that?”<br />
“No.”<br />
The lighter snapped out, and John was swallowed up in even more of a complete<br />
blackness than be<strong>for</strong>e. He heard Ed plop back on his blanket, <strong>the</strong> soft crunch of snow and brittle<br />
frozen dead leaves muffled beneath <strong>the</strong> tightly woven wool.<br />
Ed said, “It was when you wouldn’t turn around in that car. You remember? You kept<br />
staring ahead and saying, ‘No way will we be cold out here, little girlie. Just drop us off and go on<br />
your way and don’t pay us no nevermind.’ You don’t remember that?”<br />
John began to see <strong>the</strong> twisted tree limbs overhead again, and <strong>the</strong> hints of Ed’s silhouette.<br />
“I never said that, Ed.”<br />
Ed said, “Sure you did, in spirit. You betrayed me, man—betrayed us, <strong>the</strong> team.<br />
John could see <strong>the</strong> top edges of Ed’s arms again, Ed tucking <strong>the</strong> drawing back inside his<br />
parka.<br />
John said, “There really is no ‘us,’ Ed, o<strong>the</strong>r than that pancake deal, and I will hold up my<br />
part of that bargain, am upholding it.”<br />
Ed sighed. “You know, you and me are out here in <strong>the</strong> frozen woods toge<strong>the</strong>r, alone.<br />
Anything can happen. We have to depend on each o<strong>the</strong>r. Don’t you get that? If you stop watching<br />
my back, someone could sneak up and slit my throat. Something could come up while I’m<br />
sleeping and take a big bite out of me. Same thing could happen to you. You deny <strong>the</strong> team, and<br />
who knows what might happen while you sleep.”<br />
A chill ran up John’s back and made <strong>the</strong> skin on his scalp prickle.<br />
“You’ve gotten off <strong>the</strong> subject, Ed. When did you get <strong>the</strong> corner of that drawing back?<br />
Hawking swallowed it, and he never hacked it up. I’m not deaf, and that car was deadly quiet.”<br />
Ed hackled at <strong>the</strong> now mostly charcoal-black ca<strong>the</strong>dral dome.<br />
“Yeah,” he said. “Deadly. You’re funny, John.”<br />
John said nothing.<br />
Ed said, “That corner of my fa<strong>the</strong>r’s drawing—<strong>the</strong> only thing left of him in this world,<br />
mind you—was in that little doggie’s stomach, and <strong>the</strong>n it just popped out into my hand.” He<br />
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snapped his fingers. “Like that. Except, it was quieter than that. You couldn’t hear it.”<br />
Then John saw it. He saw Ed cutting into Hawking’s stomach in his mind, and he saw <strong>the</strong><br />
carcass in his mo<strong>the</strong>r’s bowl at <strong>the</strong> campfire at <strong>the</strong> same time.<br />
John knew Ed’s absence from <strong>the</strong> truck stop and <strong>the</strong> appearance of that fire over <strong>the</strong> hill<br />
had happened at <strong>the</strong> same time <strong>for</strong> a reason. He hated to think of what Ed did to poor little<br />
Hawking. The idea of Cassandra coming home and finding Hawking dead and cut-up churned his<br />
stomach.<br />
“Ed,” he said. “Ed . . .”<br />
“What?”<br />
“We ate Hawking?”<br />
Ed laughed long and loud. “Oh, boy, John.” The elbows of his silhouette poked out, as if<br />
Ed were wiping his eyes. “That’s funny, John.”<br />
“Ed . . .”<br />
“This drawing is all I have left of my fa<strong>the</strong>r.”<br />
John said, “If I were you, Ed, I’d worry more about your own integrity than some halfassed<br />
drawing.”<br />
Ed said, “Well, you’re not me. Don’t worry about me. And you’re in no position to<br />
criticize this drawing unless you can do better, you son of a bitch. Go to sleep, John. Lie down<br />
and go to beddie-bye.”<br />
John swallowed. “I’ll pull first watch.”<br />
“Fine,” Ed said and wrapped himself in his army blanket. “But no wandering off to that<br />
weirdo thing’s truck, okay?” He lied down and curled halfway into a fetal position, his eyes<br />
closed. “You have an obligation to me.”<br />
“Don’t worry about that,” John said.<br />
Ed lied still and quiet.<br />
John didn’t like having enjoyed eating Hawking at <strong>the</strong> time, but he was glad <strong>the</strong> body<br />
hadn’t been <strong>the</strong>re <strong>for</strong> Cassandra to find once she had gotten home. John hoped Ed hadn’t cleaned<br />
and dressed Hawking and cut open his stomach in her back yard.<br />
Ed’s leg kicked out once, twice, <strong>the</strong>n two more times. His leg drew back into its <strong>for</strong>mer<br />
position. Soon, Ed sighed in long, heavy breaths, like small waves swishing ashore, and John<br />
decided he would stay awake as long as he could, and never wake Ed.<br />
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John draped <strong>the</strong> ratty motel blanket around his shoulders, and, within half an hour, <strong>the</strong><br />
beans in his belly and <strong>the</strong> fatigue from <strong>the</strong> long day dragged his eyelids down, and his head, and<br />
eventually every part of his body, as if he had turned into a discarded marionette, and he was soon<br />
lying beneath <strong>the</strong> willow fast asleep.<br />
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CHAPTER 24<br />
She swam nude in <strong>the</strong> night in a crystal-clear pond <strong>the</strong> temperature of an Indian summer<br />
day. John swam far beneath her, and though he wore no goggles or mask, he could clearly see her<br />
silhouette against <strong>the</strong> shimmering, shifting facets of tiny, intermingling ripples. Beneath and to all<br />
sides of John was complete blackness, though he knew this pond bore nothing to fear—not even<br />
nibbling minnows. John’s lungs and ears didn’t ache, though his swim from one side of his love to<br />
<strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r seemed to take three, five, ten minutes and seemed at a depth of a couple dozen feet (it<br />
was, incidentally, <strong>the</strong> same depth as <strong>the</strong> camera’s lens beneath <strong>the</strong> swimmer in <strong>the</strong> opening scene<br />
of Jaws), and though he continually looked up, he couldn’t feel <strong>the</strong> burn of water rushing into his<br />
sinuses. He couldn’t even feel <strong>the</strong> water’s dampness.<br />
Then he and his love were out of <strong>the</strong> water and lying on <strong>the</strong> shore, but whe<strong>the</strong>r on soft,<br />
short grass or a blanket, he couldn’t tell. The air was that same Indian summer neutral, nei<strong>the</strong>r<br />
cool nor warm. She gazed smiling up at him, <strong>the</strong> ends of her wet blonde hair having settled to <strong>the</strong><br />
ground on <strong>the</strong> blanket (of grass?) all around, <strong>the</strong> light of <strong>the</strong> night (from wherever it came—<strong>the</strong><br />
moon, <strong>the</strong> stars, who knows?) glistening in her eyes (though <strong>the</strong> entire scene seemed black and<br />
white, John somehow knew her eyes were green). The faint band of freckles showed across her<br />
nose and on both cheeks, not freckly enough to be Tomboyish, but enough to prove she wore no<br />
makeup. He was soaked, too, but not one drop of pond water fell from <strong>the</strong> ends of his hair or <strong>the</strong><br />
tip of his nose into her face. Nothing made her blink.<br />
He had no idea how <strong>the</strong> two of <strong>the</strong>m had gotten to <strong>the</strong> pond, where <strong>the</strong>ir clo<strong>the</strong>s were,<br />
which pond it was, where o<strong>the</strong>r people might be, or where <strong>the</strong> light came from. Dreams never<br />
cover those things.<br />
In dreams, dried-up dead grass never clings itching to wet skin, no one ever burps or farts<br />
or has to blow water stinging out of his sinuses, or accidentally drools into his lover’s armpit, and<br />
armpits have never not been shaved <strong>for</strong> five days because she hadn’t expected this night ei<strong>the</strong>r. No<br />
one tracks algae or even one granule of sand anywhere, though we live on a huge ball of rock and<br />
sand and seed. No one second-guesses <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r’s intent or worries about STDs, and when an<br />
127
opportunity <strong>for</strong> skinny-dipping arrives, it’s never—no, never—her period.<br />
But her hair was always blonde, her eyes always green, <strong>the</strong> freckles always just visible<br />
enough to look sexy, her silhouette always <strong>the</strong> way TV and movie screens love <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
And that’s <strong>the</strong> way Billie had seemed when John had first seen her in that casino in Biloxi<br />
(well, she was clo<strong>the</strong>d, but <strong>the</strong> green eyes, <strong>the</strong> blonde hair, <strong>the</strong> freckles—all that), and he had<br />
known since he had first had those dreams that <strong>the</strong> girl in <strong>the</strong>m was his one and only, that all he<br />
had to do was wait long enough <strong>for</strong> her to enter his life. He had known that as surely as he had<br />
known that he would grow to be at least six feet (though he never did). It had crossed his mind<br />
that maybe <strong>the</strong> dreams had been <strong>the</strong> product of puberty and pop culture, but he had thrust that<br />
idea away like cold lima bean baby food and had chosen instead to believe in <strong>the</strong> dream. Indian<br />
summers are just so wonderful.<br />
She swam nude in <strong>the</strong> night in a crystal-clear pond <strong>the</strong> temperature of an Indian summer<br />
day . . .<br />
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CHAPTER 25<br />
John woke shivering in complete blackness. The frigid cold, seeping through <strong>the</strong> weave of<br />
<strong>the</strong> motel blanket, felt like a living thing again, digging <strong>for</strong> him, sinking long hard claws into him<br />
and squeezing <strong>the</strong> life from him, his body’s warmth oozing out between its fingers and dissipating<br />
into nothingness in <strong>the</strong> night.<br />
John sat up breathing heavily and pulled <strong>the</strong> blanket from his head. The fog of his breath<br />
burst from him in huge puffs and vanished in <strong>the</strong> night. His head throbbed less but was still achy,<br />
and snow still covered <strong>the</strong> ground. A bright, nearly quarter moon, fractured by <strong>the</strong> mesh of bare<br />
limbs, hung in a star-speckled sky back toward <strong>the</strong> truck stop and Sam and Gavin.<br />
Ed was gone, though his canteen and Ziploc baggie of socks and <strong>the</strong> Wal-Mart bag were<br />
still on his blanket. The trail of footprints in <strong>the</strong> snow John and Ed had made <strong>the</strong> night be<strong>for</strong>e had<br />
become darker with Ed’s second set of prints, leading away.<br />
John heard a train’s horn back toward Cassandra’s, and he figured an earlier blast must<br />
have been what had woken him.<br />
He pulled <strong>the</strong> blanket snug up against his neck and glanced at <strong>the</strong> moon. He debated going<br />
to find Ed. Then he debated just going as far as Sam’s truck and begging Sam to leave now,<br />
without Ed, and <strong>for</strong>getting <strong>the</strong> stupid deal with Ed and his pancake. The more John thought about<br />
his and Ed’s trek toge<strong>the</strong>r, <strong>the</strong> more ridiculous it seemed. John wasn’t sure what to do.<br />
The moon was amazingly bright <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> sliver that it was. The snow seemed glowing white<br />
beneath, almost like in daylight. John could clearly see not only <strong>the</strong> lit-up part of <strong>the</strong> moon, but<br />
also <strong>the</strong> shadowy remainder. Despite <strong>the</strong> tree-limb-obscured view, <strong>the</strong> moon was clearer than<br />
John had ever seen it. On <strong>the</strong> moon’s darker part, black seas stretched across vast gray shadows,<br />
and on <strong>the</strong> lit crescent, a single point glowed brighter than any o<strong>the</strong>r part of <strong>the</strong> night, brighter<br />
even than <strong>the</strong> snow.<br />
John could see <strong>the</strong> moon’s entirety so well that it felt wrong calling it a quarter moon. He<br />
couldn’t take his eyes off it, fascinated by how undark <strong>the</strong> dark side really was. He felt he were<br />
seeing <strong>the</strong> moon <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> first time. It wasn’t a crescent moon at all. It was a full moon, but simply<br />
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mostly in shadow.<br />
But even that was misleading, he realized. It was really a sphere, not a disc, so even<br />
claiming that it was mostly in shadow was a lie. Barring <strong>the</strong> rare eerily red lunar eclipse, <strong>the</strong> moon<br />
was always half shadow and half light. There were only shifts in how much of each half he was<br />
permitted to see. But on this night, <strong>the</strong> moon was half shadow and half light and showed three<br />
quarters of that shadow and only a sliver of its light to <strong>the</strong> earth, but John was grateful <strong>for</strong> that<br />
one sliver, because it was clear and bright and lit up his night like day.<br />
John pulled <strong>the</strong> motel blanket back over his head, lied down, and slipped into a chilled but<br />
peaceful sleep.<br />
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CHAPTER 26<br />
When Leopold had called John to his table at <strong>the</strong> casino in Biloxi where John worked—<br />
actually, Leopold had said, “Send me <strong>the</strong> person responsible <strong>for</strong> this gumbo”—John had worked<br />
his way around Leopold’s table from behind, listening to <strong>the</strong> adjacent room’s cacophony of slot<br />
machine dings and slowly taking Billie in.<br />
He couldn’t believe that Billie seemed so familiar, and so gorgeous. Every step he took<br />
brought one more fraction of her face into view, and every fraction seemed more familiar and<br />
more downright gorgeous than <strong>the</strong> one be<strong>for</strong>e, until John stood in front of <strong>the</strong>ir table, his cook’s<br />
apron splattered with spots of olive oil from sautéing, tiny sprinklets of tomato sauce from<br />
pouring, damp smears from wiping, and so on, waiting to be berated by that pale, bald, cigarpuffing<br />
man with every Vandyke whisker, every thread exactly in place, as if someone had<br />
airbrushed him into Cigar Aficionado or People.<br />
Leopold’s cerulean and teal striped silk tie shone in <strong>the</strong> dim light. His watch winked in<br />
glints from beneath his cuff—a cuff with subtle gold-edged ebony cufflinks, cuffs and links that<br />
didn’t look corny or seem like <strong>the</strong>y felt out of place like <strong>the</strong> ones on John’s senior-prom tux had.<br />
The woman with Leopold was so much younger than Leopold and so good looking that John<br />
figured she could be nothing o<strong>the</strong>r than a gold-digging whore.<br />
“Did you make this gumbo?” Leopold asked John.<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“It’s <strong>the</strong> best gumbo I’ve ever had.”<br />
John hadn’t expected that. He swallowed.<br />
“Thank you,” he said.<br />
“How’d you do this?” Leopold asked. No emotion. Simple inquiry.<br />
John shrugged. “Pretty complex.”<br />
“Is it a house recipe?”<br />
John laughed, “No.”<br />
“It’s your recipe?”<br />
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“Not really a recipe. Good gumbo doesn’t follow a strict recipe.”<br />
“Tell me how you made this.” Leopold puffed at his cigar, his lips making damp little<br />
vacuous pops.<br />
“That might take a while.”<br />
Leopold shrugged. “I’ve got time today.”<br />
“Okay,” John said. “You need bacon drippings <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> roux.”<br />
“I knew you started with a roux.”<br />
Billie asked, “A roo? As in kangaroo?”<br />
Leopold snapped his head her direction while keeping his eyes on John and said, “Shut<br />
up.”<br />
John considered defending her, but that didn’t seem worth his job at that point.<br />
He nodded his head toward <strong>the</strong> kitchen. “They didn’t even use a roux here be<strong>for</strong>e. They<br />
made soup and called it gumbo.”<br />
Leopold said, “Go on.”<br />
“Use half bacon drippings and half olive oil <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> roux, and cook <strong>the</strong> roux slowly.” He<br />
said to Billie, “a roux is cooked oil and flour. That’s all,” and <strong>the</strong>n to Leopold, “Use an iron<br />
skillet, and cook it until it’s <strong>the</strong> color of chocolate. That takes hours, unless you want to risk<br />
burning it, and you can’t burn your roux. Nothing will cover up burned roux. To even try is a<br />
waste of time and good ingredients.”<br />
Leopold blinked slowly. “What kind of chocolate? They vary in color.”<br />
John smiled. “That’s a great question. Dark chocolate, sixty percent cocao or so, like an<br />
old penny.”<br />
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” Leopold said.<br />
Billie said, “I like milk chocolate best. And white chocolate. So creamy.”<br />
Leopold made his slow blink again.<br />
“And?” he asked John.<br />
“Get good smoked andouille sausage. You have to taste it to see if it’s good. Don’t take<br />
anyone’s word <strong>for</strong> it. That’s important.”<br />
“Define good <strong>for</strong> me.”<br />
“First you have to understand that heat does not equal flavor. You can add all <strong>the</strong> pepper<br />
seed you want later <strong>for</strong> fire. Focus on <strong>the</strong> sausage’s flavor first. Andouille is pork, so think about<br />
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eally good pork when you taste it. The hint of smokiness is important, too. Cheap andouille<br />
looks and tastes like hot dogs. Don’t go anywhere near that.”<br />
“Okay.”<br />
Leopold smiled and blew a dragonlike puff through his nose.<br />
“Got it.”<br />
“Fresh seafood’s key, too, and fresh veggies, <strong>the</strong> whole spice rack. How you flavor a<br />
gumbo depends on how each ingredient tastes <strong>for</strong> that particular pot. You can’t have a recipe,<br />
only a list of ingredients to adjust from.”<br />
“I own a restaurant,” Leopold said. “My customers expect consistency. How do you<br />
ensure consistency with vague guidelines like that?”<br />
“Have <strong>the</strong> same cook make it each time. Work toward <strong>the</strong> same general realm of flavor<br />
each time, but adjust based on <strong>the</strong> ingredients. You have to make your own chicken stock.<br />
Canned stock is too stale. You’ve got to have a cook who cares more about a good stock than<br />
whe<strong>the</strong>r every hour he works is on <strong>the</strong> clock. You know what I mean?”<br />
“And okra? Some people don’t like okra.”<br />
“How can you have gumbo without okra? If people like a dish, <strong>the</strong>y should shut up about<br />
how it’s made.”<br />
“That’s a hell of an attitude.”<br />
Billie said, “Daddy, don’t.”<br />
And that’s all John heard. His mind played that over and over: “Daddy,” “Daddy,” . . . So<br />
she’s not a whore, he thought. He looked at her hands on <strong>the</strong> table. No ring. Great God, he<br />
thought.<br />
And somehow, over <strong>the</strong> next few minutes, while he rambled on about his gumbo, Leopold<br />
handed John a business card, and Billie smiled, and her eyes glistened, and John knew <strong>for</strong> fact that<br />
he had seen her somewhere be<strong>for</strong>e. He felt he knew every tiny, subtle freckle across her nose and<br />
cheeks.<br />
Leopold said, “If you’re ever in Denver,” and something about a job, and something about<br />
gumbo, and <strong>the</strong>n “Billie.” Leopold smiled and said something ending in “my daughter Billie.” John<br />
shook her hand, a hand as soft and smooth and com<strong>for</strong>table as water <strong>the</strong> temperature of an Indian<br />
summer day.<br />
Two weeks later, two weeks of not being able to get Billie out of his mind or <strong>the</strong> feel of<br />
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her hand out of his, of telling himself that an owner who appreciated a good cook could bring<br />
satisfaction like no o<strong>the</strong>r job, John walked out on his job in Biloxi, packed his piece-of-shit<br />
pickup, and drove two days to Denver.<br />
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CHAPTER 27<br />
John woke again, this time to <strong>the</strong> crunch of footsteps in <strong>the</strong> snow. He pulled <strong>the</strong> motel<br />
blanket from his head and sat up. His aching muscles shook and made him pant with fatigue, and<br />
his head throbbed again. In <strong>the</strong> painfully bright light of a clear dawn, Ed walked toward him<br />
holding two bulging plastic Wal-Mart bags from his one good hand. The uneven distribution of<br />
weight made Ed wobble as he walked, like Igor.<br />
The air was bitter cold. The snow was shallow and trampled on beneath <strong>the</strong> willow; <strong>the</strong><br />
dried-up creek bed, lined with hard sienna clay with limestone jutting through at turns; and <strong>the</strong><br />
trees, more dense and tangled with twisting limbs than <strong>the</strong>y had seemed during <strong>the</strong> night. The sun,<br />
searing orange just above <strong>the</strong> horizon, pierced in slivers through <strong>the</strong> trees. The moon’s crescent<br />
sat high above <strong>the</strong> trees’ tops, its dark part now nearly <strong>the</strong> exact blue of <strong>the</strong> sky and almost<br />
impossible to distinguish. The bright crescent had slipped to pale and faint.<br />
John tried to guess how long it had been since he had last been awake. It had to have been<br />
hours.<br />
Tiny, black husks appeared in spatters of ones, twos, and threes along some of <strong>the</strong> trees’<br />
limbs and stood out starkly silhouetted against <strong>the</strong> sky. They were pecans, <strong>the</strong> husks peeled back<br />
and dried, <strong>the</strong> pecans exposed and ready <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> taking.<br />
Ed stopped at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> willow and set <strong>the</strong> bags in <strong>the</strong> snow. He flexed and shook<br />
out his now-empty good hand, <strong>the</strong> opening and closing mitten seeming like a shark’s fin again.<br />
John asked, “Where have you been?”<br />
“Wal-Mart.”<br />
“Again?”<br />
Ed pointed his elbow toward <strong>the</strong> rising sun. “I got pancake ingredients.”<br />
John thought about Ed walking Wal-Mart’s aisles <strong>for</strong> hours, enjoying <strong>the</strong> heat. For such<br />
an adamant outdoorsman, Ed seemed to spend an inordinate amount of time in Wal-Mart, and<br />
John wondered why Ed had not woken him or asked him to go. John decided not to push it. What<br />
he wanted most was pain killer and heat—however he could get it—and food.<br />
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John pulled <strong>the</strong> feeble motel blanket tighter around his shoulders and said, “My head’s<br />
killing me. You didn’t by any chance get any Motrin or anything, did you?”<br />
Ed suddenly had his knife out and stomped toward John.<br />
John ducked back and sideways and fell weakly in <strong>the</strong> snow, tangled in <strong>the</strong> blanket. He<br />
jerked one arm free and thrust it up between him and Ed and gasped, “No.”<br />
But Ed stopped at <strong>the</strong> tree and not John. He looked at John curiously, <strong>the</strong>n grabbed and<br />
chopped at <strong>the</strong> willow’s switch-like limbs. He hacked off four, picked at <strong>the</strong>ir cut edges with his<br />
knife, and peeled long strips of bark away, accumulating <strong>the</strong> bark strips loosely in <strong>the</strong> bulkier of<br />
his mittened hands, <strong>the</strong> bandaged one, and dropping <strong>the</strong> bared switches one by one onto <strong>the</strong> snow.<br />
John pushed himself back up with his free hand and cinched <strong>the</strong> blanket tight again.<br />
Ed put his knife away, grabbed <strong>the</strong> bundle of thin bark strips with his good hand, and held<br />
<strong>the</strong> bundle out to John.<br />
“Here,” he said. “Chew <strong>the</strong>se.”<br />
“What’s that supposed to do?” John asked.<br />
“It’s aspirin.” Ed’s voice had taken on his scolding tone again. “You didn’t know that? I<br />
thought you were Mister ‘Eat Everything in Its Natural <strong>State</strong>.’” Ed thrust <strong>the</strong> fistful of bark strips<br />
toward John again. “Take it.”<br />
“I’m not putting that in my mouth. God knows what’s on it: pesticides, bird crap . . .”<br />
Ed picked up John’s discarded bean can from <strong>the</strong> previous night and scrubbed it out with<br />
snow. Then he rubbed <strong>the</strong> bark with snow, wadded it up, shoved it in <strong>the</strong> can, and packed fresh<br />
snow on top of it.<br />
He said, “Boiling this will kill anything you’re afraid of. We’ll make a tea out of it.”<br />
“Why don’t we just go back to Wal-Mart?”<br />
Ed set <strong>the</strong> can on <strong>the</strong> snow beneath <strong>the</strong> willow and stripped one bag down from around a<br />
bag of charcoal.<br />
“We’re done with Wal-Mart,” he said, “and that truck stop and that weirdo no-man, nowoman<br />
thing. We don’t need <strong>the</strong>m to get to <strong>Florida</strong>, and I’m not buying pancake ingredients <strong>for</strong><br />
four.”<br />
“But we made a deal with <strong>the</strong>m. Sam’s counting on us to—”<br />
“You made a deal with me. Try keeping that one first.”<br />
“The two aren’t incompatible.”<br />
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“What two?”<br />
“The two deals.”<br />
Ed pursed his lips, opened <strong>the</strong> bag of charcoal, cleared a spot of snow, and poured <strong>the</strong><br />
briquettes into a pile in <strong>the</strong> cleared spot.<br />
John said, “Aspirin upsets my stomach. I need Motrin or Tylenol or something like that.”<br />
Ed pulled <strong>the</strong> mitten off his good hand, reached in his pants pocket, and pulled out his<br />
Zippo.<br />
“Bottled aspirin upsets your stomach,” he said. “Willow bark won’t.”<br />
“We should go back to <strong>the</strong> truck stop.”<br />
“They’ll wait. It’s early.”<br />
Ed flicked open <strong>the</strong> Zippo with a metallic snick.<br />
John said, “I thought you said we couldn’t have a fire.”<br />
“That was last night, in <strong>the</strong> dark. The enemy can see a fire <strong>for</strong> miles at night,” he said,<br />
“and night is prime time <strong>for</strong> an attack.”<br />
“Enemy? We’re hitchhikers, Ed. We’re not at war with anyone.”<br />
Ed said, “Yes, we are hitchhikers. But make no mistake; we are at war, too. Everybody’s<br />
always at war with someone or something. O<strong>the</strong>rwise, you’re dead.”<br />
He clicked his lighter’s flint wheel, and <strong>the</strong> flame licked <strong>the</strong> air. The flame was larger than<br />
John had expected.<br />
John said, “I don’t believe that. A person can be at peace and still be alive.”<br />
Ed’s Zippo hand and <strong>the</strong> tongue of fire stalled, poised over <strong>the</strong> briquettes.<br />
“Name one,” he said.<br />
“The Dalai Lama, Jesus, Gandhi.”<br />
“Why did <strong>the</strong>y travel? Why did people kill <strong>the</strong>m?” Ed’s hands waved in half shrugs with<br />
each question, his bandaged hand thickly padded with <strong>the</strong> mitten, <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r holding <strong>the</strong> flame.<br />
John said, “No one killed <strong>the</strong> Dalai Lama.”<br />
“Well, <strong>the</strong>re was more than one, right? Going way back? Someone must have killed at<br />
least a couple of <strong>the</strong>m. The point is that you need aspirin, and we both need breakfast, and if we’d<br />
had a fire last night, <strong>the</strong> fire department or cops would’ve shown up, and we really didn’t need a<br />
fire last night, but we do now.”<br />
He touched <strong>the</strong> pile of briquettes here and <strong>the</strong>re with <strong>the</strong> flame.<br />
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John said, “I needed a fire last night.”<br />
“No, you didn’t. None of your fingers or toes are frostbit, and you didn’t die. You knew<br />
you wouldn’t freeze back when we were in that car with that girl.”<br />
“Cassandra.”<br />
“Yeah. Her.”<br />
The fire grew quickly, and <strong>the</strong> surrounding snow sizzled and turned glossy wet on top. Ed<br />
snapped his lighter closed, shoved it back into his pocket, and plopped Indian-style in front of <strong>the</strong><br />
fire. He pulled off his o<strong>the</strong>r mitten and stuck his hands toward <strong>the</strong> fire palm-out, like he were one<br />
of Gladys Knight’s pips, except with abnormal <strong>for</strong>efingers and a huge white bandage.<br />
John smelled burning lighter fluid and was suddenly back at a childhood barbeque. His<br />
fa<strong>the</strong>r smiled, <strong>the</strong> sun shined, Pamela sat at <strong>the</strong> redwood-stained picnic table swinging her legs<br />
beneath one of <strong>the</strong> benches in great arcs to some song on <strong>the</strong> radio. John’s mo<strong>the</strong>r opened <strong>the</strong><br />
patio door with a swoosh and stepped outside with a tray of pastel-colored Tupperware glasses<br />
filled to <strong>the</strong> rims with iced Coke. She kept one foot in front of <strong>the</strong> cracked-open patio door to<br />
keep Bandit inside, and <strong>the</strong>n closed off Bandit and <strong>the</strong> air-conditioning with <strong>the</strong> coarse sounding<br />
sliding door and <strong>the</strong> muffled, clunky kiss of metal against <strong>the</strong> felty insulating strip. Bandit stood<br />
on his tiny hind legs and scratched and dug at <strong>the</strong> patio door’s glass and yipped his little black<br />
head off, <strong>the</strong> yips faint through <strong>the</strong> double panes of glass and beneath <strong>the</strong> blare of <strong>the</strong> radio.<br />
John’s fa<strong>the</strong>r flipped huge slabs of rib-eye on <strong>the</strong> grill with a massive, two-pronged <strong>for</strong>k. The<br />
steaks sizzled. Their drippings hissed and sent up billows of smoke. John greedily inhaled <strong>the</strong><br />
lighter-fluid smell and tried to hear what song was on <strong>the</strong> radio.<br />
“You gonna make pancakes or sleep again?” Ed asked.<br />
Pamela’s song faded into <strong>the</strong> ruffle of <strong>the</strong> innumerable willow limbs, and John opened his<br />
eyes. The fire was still high, <strong>the</strong> briquettes’ edges just beginning to turn gray white. Ed had placed<br />
<strong>the</strong> bean can full of willow bark and snow right up next to <strong>the</strong> fire, and <strong>the</strong> can’s paper had caught<br />
and was burning all <strong>the</strong> way around. The snow inside <strong>the</strong> can melted and sank from view. Once<br />
<strong>the</strong> paper had burned away, Ed added more snow.<br />
John asked, “Don’t you want a ride south? We’ve got a ride all <strong>the</strong> way to <strong>Florida</strong>. I<br />
thought you said to never turn down a ride.”<br />
“I said we shouldn’t turn down that one girl’s ride.”<br />
“Cassandra. Why can’t you remember her name?”<br />
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“Maybe I don’t want to.”<br />
“What’s wrong with riding with Sam and Gavin?”<br />
“Let’s eat first. I didn’t buy enough ingredients <strong>for</strong> four.” Ed’s nose crinkled. “I brought<br />
<strong>the</strong>m rabbit last night. I’m not going to provide every meal <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong>m. Besides, <strong>the</strong>y’re probably<br />
still sleeping.” Ed wiped his nose with <strong>the</strong> back of his good hand. “If you want to get back to that<br />
truck stop, make pancakes.” He pushed <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r Wal-Mart bag toward John. “Hell, if you do it<br />
right, you won’t need that truck stop or those truckers.”<br />
John said, “It’s too soon to make pancakes. You want to cook on <strong>the</strong> even heat of coals,<br />
not <strong>the</strong> first flash of flames.”<br />
“Fine. Wait.”<br />
Ed seemed to consider <strong>the</strong> empty Ravioli can <strong>for</strong> a second, <strong>the</strong>n picked it up, scrubbed it<br />
out, and set it, empty, next to <strong>the</strong> bean can. The Ravioli can’s paper caught and burned, and <strong>the</strong><br />
can sizzled and hissed with evaporating snow and burning tomato sauce.<br />
John squeezed his hands into fists inside his gloves, trying to warm <strong>the</strong>m. The cuts at <strong>the</strong><br />
tips of his fingers didn’t hurt as much. He didn’t know whe<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong>y were healing or if he’d simply<br />
become numb to <strong>the</strong> pain.<br />
He scooted closer to <strong>the</strong> fire and held his hands out like Ed’s, though he left his gloves on.<br />
The heat surged through him like he had crawled hands-first into a hot bath. His back was still icy<br />
cold, but his hands, and <strong>the</strong>n his face, and <strong>the</strong>n his chest and knees, all warmed up.<br />
Ed added more snow to <strong>the</strong> bean can, and as that snow melted, <strong>the</strong> water level inside <strong>the</strong><br />
can rose to where John could see it.<br />
Ed pushed <strong>the</strong> second Wal-Mart bag with his foot this time, getting it closer to John.<br />
“Here’s where carrying that damn frying pan pays off,” he said.<br />
John dragged <strong>the</strong> bag close and pulled out a box of Bisquick, an entire carton of eggs, a<br />
small bottle of liquid vegetable oil, a can of blueberry pie filling, a half gallon of two-percent milk,<br />
three more cans of Ravioli and two of soup, and a small bottle of real maple syrup.<br />
“There’s plenty stuff here <strong>for</strong> four,” John said.<br />
Ed said, “Not if it’s going to last more than one meal.”<br />
“We can get more ingredients later.”<br />
“What’s this ‘we’ crap? You got money?”<br />
John didn’t want to start that argument again. Instead, he focused on getting <strong>the</strong> pancakes<br />
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out of <strong>the</strong> way as quickly as possible so he could get back to <strong>the</strong> truck stop.<br />
“You bought real maple syrup?”<br />
Ed said, “You told me to.”<br />
“Well, <strong>for</strong> eventually, yes, but . . . your pancake fund is big enough <strong>for</strong> that kind of<br />
spending?”<br />
“The syrup’s important, isn’t it?”<br />
John said, “I wish you would have told me you were going to Wal-Mart. I could use a few<br />
things.”<br />
“What do you think I am, your sugar daddy?”<br />
“I’m going to need more water. I’m already dehydrated, and those two bottles you bought<br />
me yesterday are bone dry.”<br />
“We’ll refill those be<strong>for</strong>e we move out.”<br />
Ed pulled his folded red paisley bandanna from his hip pocket and used it as a potholder to<br />
pull each can from <strong>the</strong> fire and set it in <strong>the</strong> snow in front of himself.<br />
“I thought that bandanna was covered with blood.”<br />
Ed smiled like he were on a TV ad. “Spot remover.” His upper teeth seemed even more<br />
yellow against <strong>the</strong> snowy backdrop.<br />
Ed unfolded <strong>the</strong> bandanna, draped it over <strong>the</strong> empty Ravioli can, and pushed a well into its<br />
center in <strong>the</strong> open end of <strong>the</strong> can. He put his mittens on, picked up both cans, and poured <strong>the</strong><br />
willow tea from <strong>the</strong> bean can, through <strong>the</strong> bandana like a filter, into <strong>the</strong> Ravioli can. Bits of bark<br />
and burnt paper collected in <strong>the</strong> bandana, <strong>the</strong> wadded-up strips of willow bark sticking wedged in<br />
<strong>the</strong> bean can.<br />
John asked, “Did you rinse that bandanna well?”<br />
“Whaddaya want me to do, suck on it to prove it to you?<br />
“No.” John swallowed and looked at <strong>the</strong> can of blueberries with heavy syrup, <strong>the</strong> twopercent<br />
milk. “I’ll do <strong>the</strong> best I can with this. They’re not fresh blueberries.”<br />
Ed said, “Then you buy <strong>the</strong> ingredients <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> next ones.”<br />
“I don’t have any money, as you always seem so happy to point out.”<br />
“Use my money, but you shop.” He handed John <strong>the</strong> steaming Ravioli can. “Here.”<br />
John took <strong>the</strong> can from Ed. Its heat surged through his gloves and into his palms. It felt<br />
fantastic.<br />
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John said, “The next pancakes? You’ve written <strong>the</strong>se off as not good enough be<strong>for</strong>e I’ve<br />
even mixed <strong>the</strong> batter?”<br />
The tea smelled bitter and chalky. John was amazed at how much it smelled like aspirin.<br />
Ed said, “Don’t expect to get anything perfect <strong>the</strong> first time.”<br />
“Then why don’t we go back to <strong>the</strong> truck stop and make pancakes <strong>for</strong> four? I mean, if<br />
we’re going to trash <strong>the</strong>se ingredients afterward, anyway, we might as well—”<br />
“No. My money, my ingredients, my decisions.” Ed shook his head. “Drink your aspirin<br />
and make my pancakes.”<br />
Ed poured canteen water onto his wadded up bandanna, scrubbed it against itself, and<br />
wrung it out. Then he opened it and shook it like a flag in <strong>the</strong> wind and carefully folded it.<br />
The bandanna looked clean to John.<br />
He sipped <strong>the</strong> tea and immediately spit <strong>the</strong> caustic stuff out. Droplets hissed in <strong>the</strong> fire.<br />
“God, this is bitter,” he said.<br />
For an instant, he thought <strong>the</strong> bitterness had come from Ed’s blood, and he had half<br />
expected <strong>the</strong> fire to flare from <strong>the</strong> droplets ra<strong>the</strong>r than shrink from <strong>the</strong>m as if Ed’s blood were<br />
gasoline or nitroglycerin.<br />
John’s mouth felt cottony, especially beneath his tongue and at its very back. The insides<br />
of his cheeks seemed to seize <strong>the</strong> sides of his tongue.<br />
“Drink it,” Ed said.<br />
“It’s worse than that restaurant’s coffee yesterday.”<br />
“Well, I’m not a cook. You are.”<br />
“That’s right, a cook, not a chef.”<br />
John sipped <strong>the</strong> tea. It wasn’t so bad on <strong>the</strong> second sip, once he knew what to expect. He<br />
sipped more, and it seemed to help his head instantly. His stomach handled it fine.<br />
John said, “What we ought to do is make pecan pancakes instead.” He nodded toward <strong>the</strong><br />
nearest pecan-riddled tree. “There’ve got to be pecans all over <strong>the</strong> place just beneath this snow.<br />
We could even go back to that truck stop <strong>for</strong> a banana. It had a shelf of fruit, I think. How do<br />
fresh banana-pecan pancakes sound?”<br />
Ed said, “I don’t want banana-pecan pancakes. I want blueberry pancakes.”<br />
Ed’s tone sounded like Leopold’s.<br />
John said, more quietly, “I’m just saying that, since <strong>the</strong>se blueberries are canned, and since<br />
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we have fresh pecans right here next to us, and that—”<br />
“<strong>Blueberry</strong>!” Ed screamed. “Not pecan! Not banana, not Goddamned strawberry or apple<br />
or whatever <strong>the</strong> fuck you want. I don’t care how fresh anything is. I want blueberry, and you’re<br />
going to make blueberry, because it’s my money, and it’s my choice.” He rolled his eyes. “Jesus<br />
H. fucking Christ.”<br />
“Okay. <strong>Blueberry</strong>,” John said. He glanced up at <strong>the</strong> tree limbs almost bursting with fresh<br />
nuts. “We’ll give this can of blueberries a shot, <strong>the</strong>n, with its old soggy berries, thick with<br />
artificially flavored, blue-dyed high-fructose corn syrup, factory-sealed tin can, and all. That ought<br />
to be good.”<br />
Ed glared at him. “Don’t give me no more shit.”<br />
“Fine. But <strong>the</strong>n we get to that truck stop and our ride. We can look <strong>for</strong> fresh blueberries<br />
<strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> next try at pancakes, <strong>for</strong> lunch, maybe, even though we probably won’t have much luck,<br />
because blueberries are out of season.”<br />
“No,” Ed said. “Breakfast only. One day, one try.”<br />
John sucked down huge swigs of <strong>the</strong> tea. The warmth surged through him in pulsating<br />
waves.<br />
“That seems kind of silly,” he said. “I mean, if you’re trying to come up with a recipe <strong>for</strong><br />
<strong>the</strong> perfect blueberry pancake, you should try as often as you can.”<br />
“One try per day. That’s it.” Ed tugged his parka’s hood closer around <strong>the</strong> edges of his<br />
face. “It has to be in <strong>the</strong> morning.”<br />
John said, “Okay. But we go back to that truck stop.”<br />
Ed stiffened and squinted at John. Ed’s lips pressed tight and thin.<br />
John gulped <strong>the</strong> tea and set <strong>the</strong> can down.<br />
Then he pulled his gym bag close and dug through it <strong>for</strong> his skillet, <strong>the</strong> spatula, and his<br />
mixing bowl. He scooted closer to <strong>the</strong> dying flames and <strong>the</strong> glow of <strong>the</strong> coals. He had Ed open<br />
<strong>the</strong> can of blueberry pie filling, and John cracked two eggs into <strong>the</strong> bowl, broke <strong>the</strong> yolks and beat<br />
<strong>the</strong>m, and mixed Bisquick into <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
The syrup was thick and wanted to cling to <strong>the</strong> blueberries and go wherever <strong>the</strong>y went.<br />
John dragged <strong>the</strong> bottom of <strong>the</strong> spoon across <strong>the</strong> can’s lip to scrape off as much syrup as he<br />
could, spooned <strong>the</strong> blueberries into <strong>the</strong> mix, and stirred <strong>the</strong> batter loosely. The blue and white<br />
streaked toge<strong>the</strong>r liked swirled rye bread. He mixed until <strong>the</strong> colors had blended almost<br />
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homogeneously, but not quite.<br />
John set his skillet on top of <strong>the</strong> hot coals and wiggled it.<br />
Ed asked, “What about <strong>the</strong> milk?”<br />
“Let’s wait and see how liquidy <strong>the</strong> blueberries’ syrup makes <strong>the</strong> mix.”<br />
“Your batter is too thick.”<br />
“Who’s <strong>the</strong> cook here, Ed, you or me?”<br />
Ed exhaled audibly. “It’s too thick.”<br />
“It’s not in <strong>the</strong> skillet yet. Sugar is a liquid ingredient.” John picked up a handful of snow<br />
and let it fall in clumps between his gloved fingers. “Even water’s thick out here.”<br />
Ed frowned, <strong>the</strong>n asked, “You’re not going to mix that better? There are still clumps of<br />
white in <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
“You don’t overmix pancake batter. It’s like cornbread. It’s better if you don’t stir it to<br />
death.”<br />
John thought about corn muffins with tiny clumps of unmixed batter, a lump of corn meal<br />
here, an extra boost of sugar <strong>the</strong>re. He thought about <strong>the</strong> blemishes and stains of real food and<br />
how much he liked that and how much Ed seemed to think that everything was better beaten and<br />
beaten until it was all exactly <strong>the</strong> same. Homogeneously smooth cornbread or perfectly white,<br />
perfectly fluffy rice had always seemed an aberration to John, artificial. He liked to use leftover<br />
stock to make rice, to cook vegetables in <strong>the</strong> same pan that he had browned sausage in, to let<br />
flavors mix spontaneously. The food at Leopold’s had always been “perfect,” every bite <strong>the</strong> same.<br />
John had hated that, and he had hated <strong>the</strong>ir clientele’s expectation <strong>for</strong> it.<br />
John told Ed, “If you want really tough pancakes, <strong>the</strong>n yes, beat <strong>the</strong>m silly.”<br />
“Hah! Like a kid.”<br />
John stared at Ed. All he could think to say was, “I’m <strong>the</strong> cook. Let me do my job.”<br />
John could smell <strong>the</strong> heated-up oily seasoned coating of <strong>the</strong> skillet. He pulled off one<br />
glove and waved his bare palm just above <strong>the</strong> skillet’s cooking surface. The hot iron radiated<br />
warmth into his palm and fingers. The seasoning’s odor held a faint hint of butter and <strong>the</strong> previous<br />
night’s meat, and John thought of Hawking and wished he’d scrubbed <strong>the</strong> skillet better.<br />
John knew <strong>the</strong> first pancake would pick up that flavor, but he hoped it would disappear<br />
from <strong>the</strong> skillet by <strong>the</strong> second batch. John didn’t want any of <strong>the</strong>se pancakes. The first pancake of<br />
a batch was always a little off, anyway.<br />
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John poured a cookie-sized pool of oil into <strong>the</strong> skillet. It thinned and spread in a selfadhering<br />
mesh, like water on a car’s waxed hood.<br />
Ano<strong>the</strong>r train horn blew in two short, distant blasts toward Cassandra’s, and Ed looked<br />
through <strong>the</strong> trees toward <strong>the</strong> sound.<br />
John spooned one pancake’s worth of batter into <strong>the</strong> center of <strong>the</strong> skillet. The batter<br />
sizzled and bubbled in <strong>the</strong> oil and sank from a lump into a thick disk as it heated. The deeper<br />
blueberries emerged as tiny domes as <strong>the</strong> blue batter fell into place around <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
John tried to pick up <strong>the</strong> skillet, but <strong>the</strong> handle was too hot, even <strong>for</strong> his gloved hand, so<br />
he pulled his hand towel from his bag and used it as a pot holder again. He tilted <strong>the</strong> skillet and<br />
ran <strong>the</strong> oil all around <strong>the</strong> edges of <strong>the</strong> pancake. Then he set <strong>the</strong> skillet back on <strong>the</strong> bed of hot<br />
coals. The pancake’s edges turned from glossy blue to dull, and John could smell <strong>the</strong> sugar and<br />
<strong>the</strong> oil cooking. Saliva pooled around his front teeth, and he swallowed and sucked his lips dry.<br />
His stomach grumbled.<br />
“When I was a kid,” Ed said, still staring off to where <strong>the</strong> train horn had sounded, “I used<br />
to run from trains.”<br />
Bubbles grew first at one edge of <strong>the</strong> pancake, and <strong>the</strong>n closer toward <strong>the</strong> middle, but not<br />
as quickly at <strong>the</strong> opposite edge. John slid <strong>the</strong> skillet to try to center it more over <strong>the</strong> apparent hot<br />
spot. He set his towel in his lap and studied Ed.<br />
“What do you mean?” John asked.<br />
Ed shook his head and pursed his bottom lip. He leaned close over <strong>the</strong> skillet and peered<br />
sideways at <strong>the</strong> pancake, as if he could see beneath it, <strong>the</strong>n sat up again.<br />
“Long be<strong>for</strong>e my mo<strong>the</strong>r died and my fa<strong>the</strong>r bought his ranch,” he said, “we lived in this<br />
trailer court way out in <strong>the</strong> boonies in Wyoming, next to this set of tracks, and every time I heard<br />
or saw a train coming, I had to get up from <strong>the</strong> sandbox and run inside. I had to get inside <strong>the</strong><br />
trailer and close <strong>the</strong> door be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> train passed <strong>the</strong> first fence post of <strong>the</strong> trailer court. I can’t tell<br />
you how hard my heart would beat, or how hard I’d be breathing.”<br />
John flipped <strong>the</strong> pancake, its cooked side full of brown undulating lines <strong>for</strong>ming a mesh<br />
relief over light blue patches and almost black blueberries.<br />
Ed leaned back. “Ah.”<br />
“Why trains?” John asked.<br />
“I don’t know.” Ed shrugged. “It wasn’t that I was afraid of getting hit or anything. I<br />
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mean, <strong>the</strong>re was a fence, and even if <strong>the</strong>re hadn’t been, I knew better than to get on train tracks,<br />
and I knew that trains stayed on <strong>the</strong>ir tracks—usually.” He snickered. “But I thought that horrible<br />
things would happen to me and my family if I didn’t make it inside in time. That rumbling,<br />
vibrating thing would just . . . I don’t know. My whole body would tremble. My skin got to<br />
tingling all over. I got panicky, you know?”<br />
John pulled <strong>the</strong> pancake from <strong>the</strong> skillet, and Ed snatched it from <strong>the</strong> spatula.<br />
“First one’s mine,” he said and took a bite.<br />
“It’s got a bit of <strong>the</strong> meat from . . . The first one’s—”<br />
“Dis idn’ it,” Ed said through his mouthful. Tase like bread.” He stared at <strong>the</strong> bitten edge<br />
and swallowed. “It’s not perfect, not anywhere near perfect.” He bit off ano<strong>the</strong>r huge piece.<br />
John smelled <strong>the</strong> air above <strong>the</strong> skillet. He waved <strong>the</strong> air toward himself with his hand. The<br />
hint of Hawking’s flesh was gone.<br />
Ed shoved <strong>the</strong> last of <strong>the</strong> first pancake into his mouth, chewed only four times, and gulped<br />
it down.<br />
John poured ano<strong>the</strong>r dab of oil in <strong>the</strong> skillet, rolled <strong>the</strong> oil around in tiny sizzling waves,<br />
and set <strong>the</strong> skillet back onto <strong>the</strong> coals. He scooped three more clumps of blue batter in. The batter<br />
seemed too heavy, too slow to bubble. It was liquid enough; it just didn’t behave like it should. It<br />
needed fat from milk, ideally from buttermilk, and that meant that even what little of <strong>the</strong><br />
blueberries’ syrup had gotten in was too much.<br />
“Look,” John said, “I don’t think your expectations are realistic. You were apparently<br />
raised on soda pop and candy bars. If sugar’s all you want, <strong>the</strong>n just buy a five-pound bag and<br />
have at it.” He huffed. “The first thing you need to do is relearn taste.”<br />
Ed said, “I don’t need anyone to tell to me what taste is.”<br />
“I don’t mean social taste,” John said. “I mean taste as in taste buds, your sense of smell,<br />
those things. Your tongue picks up sweet, sour, bitter, salty, and meaty, but all you seem to want<br />
is <strong>the</strong> sweet part—and <strong>the</strong> meaty part, with that so-called rabbit.” John shook his head. “You’re<br />
letting <strong>the</strong> biggest parts of your sense of taste go to waste. You should try to enjoy variety.”<br />
Ed said, “I know what pancakes I want, and <strong>the</strong>se aren’t <strong>the</strong>m.”<br />
The edges of <strong>the</strong> pancakes closer to <strong>the</strong> center of <strong>the</strong> skillet dried and bubbled faster than<br />
<strong>the</strong> outer edges, and John flipped each so that its rawer side ended up closer to <strong>the</strong> center of <strong>the</strong><br />
skillet <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> second half of <strong>the</strong>ir cooking. Their tops were brown near <strong>the</strong> outer edges of <strong>the</strong><br />
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skillet and pale, pasty blue in <strong>the</strong> center.<br />
John glared at Ed. “Okay,” he said. “Here’s what I need: all-purpose flour, baking soda,<br />
baking powder, sugar, salt, whole-wheat flour—stone ground, if possible—rolled oats, good<br />
eggs, fresh buttermilk, and real blueberries—not from a can, not frozen, not anything but picked<br />
off a bush and set in a store. They’ll probably have to be from New Zealand or Australia or<br />
somewhere, so <strong>the</strong>y’ll be expensive, but <strong>the</strong>y absolutely must be fresh. And keep this veggie oil<br />
handy. Got that?”<br />
Ed worked <strong>the</strong> pancake bits from around his gums with his tongue, <strong>the</strong>n swallowed.<br />
He said, “What was all that Bisquick shit you told me at that restaurant, <strong>the</strong>n?”<br />
“We hadn’t made our deal <strong>the</strong>n. I told you how you could make pancakes easiest and best.<br />
Then you just went off and bought <strong>the</strong> stuff without consulting me. And you expect gourmet<br />
pancakes from that?”<br />
“You should have given me a frago as soon as <strong>the</strong> situation changed.”<br />
“A what?”<br />
“Frag order. A fucking update, man. The situation changes, you change <strong>the</strong> op order.” He<br />
squinted at <strong>the</strong> skillet. “You’ll have to flip those back over a little. They’re raw on top.”<br />
“You never flip a pancake more than once. They’ll cook through okay now that those<br />
parts are in <strong>the</strong> center. It’s hot <strong>the</strong>re.” John took a long, slow breath. “Did anything bad ever<br />
happen from <strong>the</strong> trains?”<br />
“Oh. Yeah. My big bro<strong>the</strong>r Marcus got killed—not by a train. He got hit by a car on <strong>the</strong><br />
highway on <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r side of <strong>the</strong> trailer court. He was on his paper route. Rolled-up newspapers<br />
were everywhere. But I blamed it on <strong>the</strong> trains, of course.”<br />
“How old was he?”<br />
“ten.”<br />
“How old were you?”<br />
“Seven.”<br />
“You have any o<strong>the</strong>r siblings?”<br />
“No. Are those things done or what?”<br />
John wiggled <strong>the</strong> skillet back and <strong>for</strong>th in tiny jerks. The pancakes slid freely inside. He<br />
lifted <strong>the</strong> edge of one with <strong>the</strong> spatula.<br />
“Yeah. They’re done,” John said. “How’d your parents die?”<br />
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Ed tensed up. He sat straighter, his shoulders squared. He focused solely on <strong>the</strong> pancakes,<br />
never meeting John’s eyes, even after John watched Ed’s face <strong>for</strong> what seemed an eternity.<br />
Without looking at John, Ed shook his head.<br />
“Time to eat,” he said.<br />
Ed grabbed <strong>the</strong> jar of syrup and exaggerated twisting <strong>the</strong> top off, his eyes aglow like a<br />
B-movie actor’s.<br />
“You joining in?” he asked.<br />
Ed snatched ano<strong>the</strong>r pancake from John’s spatula, poured syrup over <strong>the</strong> half of its top he<br />
wasn’t holding, and bit a huge chunk off.<br />
John asked, “How’d your parents die, Ed?”<br />
Ed took ano<strong>the</strong>r bite and said, “These are a little wet inside.” He kept his eyes on his<br />
pancake.<br />
“That’s <strong>the</strong> blueberries’ syrup. It’ll be better when we use fresh blueberries. Then I can use<br />
buttermilk, too.” He wished he didn’t feel sorry <strong>for</strong> Ed. “We’ll find ano<strong>the</strong>r store, a real grocery<br />
store, and I’ll make some better ones tomorrow.”<br />
John scooped out more batter and watched <strong>the</strong> blobs sink and turn into disks and bubble.<br />
He just <strong>the</strong>n realized that <strong>the</strong>re was not one cloud in <strong>the</strong> sky. He had not connected seeing<br />
<strong>the</strong> moon and <strong>the</strong> sun earlier with <strong>the</strong> disappearance of <strong>the</strong> clouds. The air was still bitter cold, but<br />
<strong>the</strong>y were in <strong>the</strong> wake of <strong>the</strong> storm now. The worst was over.<br />
He leaned over and flipped <strong>the</strong> pancakes, listening to <strong>the</strong> hiss and sizzle. He could smell<br />
<strong>the</strong> hot oil, <strong>the</strong> blueberries, and <strong>the</strong> pastiness of <strong>the</strong> still-raw batter.<br />
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CHAPTER 28<br />
After alternating piling snow over <strong>the</strong> coals and stirring <strong>the</strong> mess around until <strong>the</strong> snow<br />
had stopped melting and let itself be packed tight and hard like earth over a grave, Ed led John<br />
from <strong>the</strong>ir campsite beneath <strong>the</strong> willow and back toward <strong>the</strong> truck stop. They crossed <strong>the</strong> dry<br />
creek bed and followed <strong>the</strong>ir previous trail, now four sets of overlapping footprints in <strong>the</strong> snow—<br />
three of which were Ed’s.<br />
They came to a Y in <strong>the</strong> trail, each <strong>for</strong>k with two sets of prints, and Ed took <strong>the</strong> right <strong>for</strong>k.<br />
John felt as if <strong>the</strong>y were veering too far right, but he hadn’t been <strong>the</strong> one leading in <strong>the</strong> dark <strong>the</strong><br />
previous night, and Ed had traversed this patch of woods three times compared to John’s one, so<br />
John followed Ed.<br />
Then John noticed that <strong>the</strong> two sets of prints <strong>the</strong>y were following pointed in opposite<br />
directions, <strong>the</strong> toes of one set pointing ahead and <strong>the</strong> toes of <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r set pointing back toward<br />
<strong>the</strong>ir campsite. John saw first one print where he could clearly see <strong>the</strong> imprint of <strong>the</strong> knobs of Ed’s<br />
soles, and <strong>the</strong>n ano<strong>the</strong>r. Nei<strong>the</strong>r set of prints were <strong>the</strong> smooth, pointed imprints of John’s loafers.<br />
“Where are we going?” John asked.<br />
Ed looked back, <strong>the</strong>n <strong>for</strong>ward again.<br />
“Back to seventy-one,” he said.<br />
“To <strong>the</strong> truck stop?”<br />
Ed sped up. “To Wal-Mart.”<br />
“You said we were done with Wal-Mart.”<br />
“I changed my mind. We need pancake ingredients <strong>for</strong> tomorrow. I can’t seem to get it<br />
right, even after you tell me what to get.” Ed squinted at John. “Though you never mentioned<br />
buttermilk be<strong>for</strong>e this morning.”<br />
John figured Wal-Mart would have an ATM. He thought that maybe he would just pay Ed<br />
<strong>the</strong> money he owed and be done with it. Then he could do whatever he wanted: get a bus ticket,<br />
call Pamela, or go back to Sam.<br />
John said, “Maybe we should stop by <strong>the</strong> truck stop first, let Gavin and Sam know what<br />
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we’re doing, so <strong>the</strong>y don’t leave without us.”<br />
“They can wait,” Ed said. “This is important.”<br />
“So is our ride.”<br />
The woods ahead seemed better lit, larger patches of sunlight in <strong>the</strong> snow. A road ran left<br />
and right ahead, but no cars traveled down it. John thought at first that it was Highway 71, but as<br />
<strong>the</strong>y drew nearer, he saw that <strong>the</strong> road was a smaller one, that it was <strong>the</strong> road running between<br />
Highway 71 and Cassandra’s house.<br />
Ed’s two sets of tracks veered left and led to <strong>the</strong> road at an angle. Ed and John followed<br />
<strong>the</strong> tracks out of <strong>the</strong> woods and <strong>the</strong>n married and ran next to <strong>the</strong> road. O<strong>the</strong>r tracks that looked<br />
like Ed’s ran up and down <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> road, as far as John could see in both directions. He<br />
knew <strong>for</strong> fact <strong>the</strong>n that <strong>the</strong>y had eaten Hawking, and he hated Ed.<br />
The Highway 71 overpass stood out ahead in a stark, dark silhouette beneath <strong>the</strong> morning<br />
sun.<br />
John said, “Buttermilk will go bad by tomorrow morning. We should just get fresh<br />
ingredients <strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
Ed stopped and turned toward John. “Go bad? It’s fifteen degrees.”<br />
The last finger of <strong>the</strong> woods still stretched between <strong>the</strong>m and <strong>the</strong> truck stop. The next<br />
twenty paces would bring <strong>the</strong> truck stop into view, and <strong>the</strong> next hundred would take <strong>the</strong>m past it<br />
and beneath <strong>the</strong> overpass. Wal-Mart was visible through <strong>the</strong> overpass’s tunnel ahead.<br />
John said, “But we’ll be in a truck.”<br />
“Truck, car, foot, whatever. We’ll keep <strong>the</strong> buttermilk in <strong>the</strong> trunk or something.”<br />
“What if it freezes?”<br />
Ed turned and marched on toward Wal-Mart.<br />
“Come on,” he said, and he glanced back to make sure John followed. “If it goes bad,<br />
we’ll get more tomorrow, but we’re getting everything we need now, while it’s available, and<br />
you’re coming with me to make sure I get <strong>the</strong> right stuff this time.”<br />
The truck stop went slowly by on <strong>the</strong>ir left, Sam and Gavin’s moving van in plain sight.<br />
The remnants of <strong>the</strong> fire from <strong>the</strong> previous night were dead. The truck’s stacks were still. John<br />
had always thought semis idled when truckers were in <strong>the</strong>m overnight.<br />
Ed never looked at <strong>the</strong> truck stop, even when he turned his head to make sure John was<br />
still following him, and soon <strong>the</strong> truck stop was masked by <strong>the</strong> concrete and snow of <strong>the</strong> hill of<br />
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<strong>the</strong> overpass, and Wal-Mart loomed ahead.<br />
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CHAPTER 29<br />
Sam looked up from <strong>the</strong> open bible and out through <strong>the</strong> passenger window. Two people<br />
walked down <strong>the</strong> side road toward Highway 71. One had a roll; <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r, a large bag hanging<br />
from a shoulder strap. It was John and Ed.<br />
Sam milked <strong>the</strong> maroon silk ribbon out from <strong>the</strong> bible’s headband, draped it flush through<br />
<strong>the</strong> open pages’ gutter, and closed <strong>the</strong> bible, watching John and Ed walk past <strong>the</strong> highway’s on<br />
ramp and toward <strong>the</strong> gap beneath <strong>the</strong> overpass.<br />
Sam wondered why <strong>the</strong>y hadn’t come back to <strong>the</strong> truck instead. They had a ride, if <strong>the</strong>y<br />
really wanted it. John seemed to want to accept Sam’s offer. Sam hoped he did, more than just<br />
because <strong>the</strong>y needed help unloading. They could always hire a lumper or two—<strong>the</strong>ir original plan.<br />
But Sam didn’t like <strong>the</strong> idea of Ed in <strong>the</strong> truck.<br />
If <strong>the</strong>y come back, Sam thought, Ed can ride in <strong>the</strong> trailer. There’s room left in <strong>the</strong> trailer<br />
on this run, and Gavin likes to ride back <strong>the</strong>re most times anyway. Gavin can keep an eye on Ed<br />
alright. I feel okay about John being up here, in <strong>the</strong> passenger seat. Not in <strong>the</strong> sleeper, though.<br />
John and Ed disappeared beneath <strong>the</strong> overpass, and Sam thought, Why can’t Ed go on<br />
down his own road sooner instead of later? That would solve a lot.<br />
After watching <strong>the</strong> empty spot beneath <strong>the</strong> overpass <strong>for</strong> ano<strong>the</strong>r minute, Sam opened <strong>the</strong><br />
bible at <strong>the</strong> ribbon again, but not one verse seemed familiar. It were as if it’d been weeks ra<strong>the</strong>r<br />
than only seconds since Sam had last read those passages.<br />
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CHAPTER 30<br />
It annoyed John that <strong>the</strong> Super Wal-Mart people looked at him and Ed as if <strong>the</strong>y were<br />
derelicts. Yes, John and Ed carried <strong>the</strong>ir homes with <strong>the</strong>m, like snails or hermit crabs, and yes,<br />
even with <strong>the</strong> freezing cold John and Ed had walked through, <strong>the</strong>y had sweated and raised odors<br />
that most people wash off and cover up at least daily, a kind of sweat that many people try never<br />
to raise. John suspected he smelled like campfire and Cecil’s cigarettes, too. But nei<strong>the</strong>r John nor<br />
Ed carried a cardboard sign that said anything, and John had a home, sort of. He was between<br />
homes. It wasn’t as if he were permanently outdoors, or begging <strong>for</strong> help. Just three days be<strong>for</strong>e,<br />
he had been manager of one of Denver’s most prestigious bars. The jumped-to conclusions that<br />
John saw in people’s eyes turned his annoyance to anger.<br />
But John wasn’t at Wal-Mart to convince people of anything. He was <strong>the</strong>re to check his<br />
bank account, to pick out pancake ingredients <strong>for</strong> Ed, and maybe—hopefully—to hurry back to<br />
Sam and Gavin and his ride south.<br />
John had seen two pay phones hanging on one wall within Wal-Mart’s conference room–<br />
sized vestibule, and John kept thinking that he really should call Pamela, collect or not, at least to<br />
let her know he was coming. He kept thinking, too, about finding out if this town had a<br />
Greyhound station. But calling collect still bo<strong>the</strong>red him, and he’d have to leave Sam behind if he<br />
were going to catch a bus.<br />
Ed kept glancing at John, as if he expected John to attempt to escape, and John thought,<br />
Yeah, right, I’m going to shove Ed into a display of Harry Potter books and run <strong>for</strong> my life past<br />
<strong>the</strong> blue-vested, white-haired greeter, maybe hide behind <strong>the</strong> row of newspaper stands and<br />
Apartment Finder racks out front.<br />
In <strong>the</strong> warm air, John noticed Ed’s smell again, though <strong>the</strong> onioniness seemed to have<br />
weakened. That worried John, because he knew <strong>the</strong> most likely reason he didn’t smell much of<br />
that part of Ed’s foulness anymore was because he himself had begun to smell oniony, too.<br />
The heat felt great, but John’s legs ached and grew weak as <strong>the</strong>y warmed, as if <strong>the</strong>y had<br />
<strong>for</strong>gotten yesterday’s fatigue and pain during <strong>the</strong> numbness of <strong>the</strong> night. He felt <strong>the</strong> push of a<br />
152
lister between his little toe and <strong>the</strong> next one, and hot spots on <strong>the</strong> balls of his feet where more<br />
blisters were about to <strong>for</strong>m. The backs of his heels were raw where <strong>the</strong> tops of <strong>the</strong> backs of his<br />
loafers had rubbed him even through his three layers of socks. His socks felt filthy, looser and<br />
thinner, and his loafers seemed to have stretched out.<br />
He thought, I should rotate my socks when I get a chance, put <strong>the</strong> innermost pair outside<br />
<strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r two now. I should wash <strong>the</strong>m all soon.<br />
The ATM was near <strong>the</strong> entrance, by <strong>the</strong> optician’s cul-de-sac, three walls of eyeglasses<br />
staring at everyone who came near. Ed hadn’t gone near <strong>the</strong> ATM, or even noticed it, as far as<br />
John could tell. John didn’t know whe<strong>the</strong>r Ed would object to John’s checking his account.<br />
Probably he would, but who was Ed to stop John? It wasn’t as if Ed was John’s fa<strong>the</strong>r, or a police<br />
officer escorting a prisoner or anything. The only obligation John had to Ed was his word on that<br />
silly pancake, and <strong>the</strong> more John hung around in Wal-Mart, around normal people going about<br />
normal everyday business, <strong>the</strong> more that pancake deal seemed inane.<br />
Ed seemed to revel in <strong>the</strong> strange reprimanding sort of civil inattention people gave <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
As soon as Ed and John reached <strong>the</strong> produce section, Ed walked right up to a gray-haired woman,<br />
nearly brushing her coat sleeve, he was so close, and asked her too loudly, “You seen any fresh<br />
blueberries?”<br />
The woman swallowed audibly, said, “No,” and immediately pushed her cart over <strong>the</strong><br />
floor mats and shiny rubber tiles, over a tiny piece of wilted lettuce and past a flake of onion skin<br />
that seemed to animate itself and flee from her cart’s wheel just in time to avoid being crushed.<br />
She disappeared around an end cap stuffed with fruitcakes.<br />
Ed shrugged and grinned at John. “No blueberries,” he said.<br />
John swallowed, too, but he didn’t have a cart, and he didn’t go scooting away.<br />
John did not stare at anyone. He did not approach anyone. He never even once put a fist<br />
on his hip or crossed his arms or did anything that might hint at anything o<strong>the</strong>r than deference.<br />
But some people still frowned, giving <strong>the</strong>ir noses <strong>the</strong> slightest scrunch and <strong>the</strong>ir eyes a hint of a<br />
squint, and <strong>the</strong> produce Super Wal-Mart associate began to hover nearby, maybe thinking that<br />
John planned to fill his gym bag full of hothouse tomatoes or carrots with <strong>the</strong> stalks still on.<br />
John looked at <strong>the</strong> ATM again and decided to give it a try. Ed didn’t follow him until John<br />
rounded <strong>the</strong> magazines and books, and even <strong>the</strong>n, Ed didn’t follow very determinedly. He simply<br />
wandered over, much like he had done to <strong>the</strong> gray-haired woman in <strong>the</strong> produce section.<br />
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John pulled out his wallet and <strong>the</strong>n his debit card and slid it into <strong>the</strong> machine’s slot. He<br />
waited <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> machine to “retrieve” his “personal settings,” selected “English,” and entered his<br />
PIN. John wondered what his “personal settings” could possibly be if <strong>the</strong>y didn’t include<br />
something as basic as <strong>the</strong> only language he’d ever known.<br />
John sensed Ed’s stopping immediately behind him, and he wondered how he had known<br />
that without turning around. He didn’t want to believe in magic of any sort anymore, even sixth<br />
sense. He wanted to analyze what had just happened, to see what magic was really made of.<br />
He recalled <strong>the</strong> lighting coming over his shoulder darkening ever so slightly when Ed had<br />
approached, recalled that sounds had become just barely muffled from that quarter, that his<br />
nostrils had picked up <strong>the</strong> faintest hint of Ed’s oniony smell, that bit of onioniness that was still<br />
stronger than John’s own. All <strong>the</strong> clues were so subtle that John knew he would not have noticed<br />
<strong>the</strong>m had he not made a conscious ef<strong>for</strong>t at it.<br />
He felt justified in his hunch that sixth sense was really nothing more than subtler aspects<br />
of <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r five senses, that <strong>the</strong>re really was no human instinct at all, or magic of any kind.<br />
The ATM’s screen darkened as it changed graphics. John saw Ed’s reflection just above<br />
and behind his own, and John smiled at how right he’d been. He’d even known which shoulder Ed<br />
was looking over.<br />
“Well?” Ed said, right next to John’s ear, his breath brushing <strong>the</strong> side of John’s neck.<br />
John read <strong>the</strong> screen. “I have two-sixty in my account.”<br />
“Two hundred and sixty dollars isn’t bad.” Though Ed had said more, his breath touched<br />
John less. His volume had dropped, <strong>the</strong> tone darker somehow, less hopeful. “Why didn’t your<br />
card work at that restaurant, <strong>the</strong>n?”<br />
“Not two hundred and sixty dollars,” John said, “two dollars and sixty cents.”<br />
“Really?” Ed said, and John felt Ed’s breath more that time, like <strong>the</strong> final exhalation of a<br />
power lifter who’d just finished a difficult press.<br />
Then John remembered <strong>the</strong> tiny version of his debit card in <strong>the</strong> desk drawer, next to<br />
Billie’s spare keys to God-knows-what and her paper clips and thumb tacks—though Billie never<br />
used paper and didn’t have a bulletin board that John knew of. The image of <strong>the</strong> card just popped<br />
into John’s head out of nowhere.<br />
“The little key chain debit card,” John said to himself. “Billie must have withdrawn<br />
everything.”<br />
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John could see <strong>the</strong> circular little hole in <strong>the</strong> miniature card’s bottom left corner, still<br />
laminated over and reflecting <strong>the</strong> desk lamp’s light. He had never had a reason to puncture <strong>the</strong><br />
hole’s lamination or to put <strong>the</strong> thing on his key chain.<br />
“Who’s Billie?” Ed asked. “Why would he do that?”<br />
John hadn’t realized that he had never mentioned Billie to Ed. He wondered why had he<br />
never told Ed about <strong>the</strong> person his instincts had told him was going to be his one great love, <strong>the</strong><br />
person his instincts couldn’t have been more wrong about.<br />
“Billie’s a she, my ex-girlfriend.”<br />
“Ohhhh,” Ed said with that rising, <strong>the</strong>n falling, drawn-out now-I-understand pitch. “You<br />
left her a debit card,” he said. “That was stupid.”<br />
John wished he had studied her presence at that casino like he had Ed’s presence just now.<br />
Maybe he would have seen <strong>the</strong> trickery his senses were up to <strong>the</strong>n, too, could have dissected what<br />
he had so quickly attributed to something beyond physical perception. He felt deceived. He had<br />
<strong>for</strong>gotten that pond dream <strong>for</strong> years, and <strong>the</strong>n it had tricked him. He had tricked himself.<br />
Ed asked, “Doesn’t she need a PIN <strong>for</strong> that?”<br />
“I told it to her once, so she could make a deposit <strong>for</strong> me.”<br />
John hit <strong>the</strong> Cancel button, and <strong>the</strong> ATM stuck his card out like a tongue.<br />
Ed said over <strong>the</strong> ATM’s constant beeping, “This Billie’s got one hell of a memory. She<br />
should be a scientist or a spy or something.”<br />
“My PIN spells ‘cash.’”<br />
John yanked his card from <strong>the</strong> ATM, muting its annoying beeping.<br />
“Ah. Well, now I know it, too,” Ed said. “That’s not very bright.”<br />
“You’re welcome to it, and <strong>the</strong> whole two dollars and sixty cents.”<br />
John bent his debit card in half and dropped it in <strong>the</strong> trash.<br />
“Look, man,” Ed said, “two dollars and sixty cents is two dollars and sixty cents. Don’t<br />
waste anything.”<br />
John glared at Ed. “You’re a fine one to say that, with pecans all over <strong>the</strong> place, more than<br />
we could ever eat or carry, and you’re fixated on sugar-soaked blueberries in a can.”<br />
Ed said, “If you bring up those pecans one more time, I’m going to . . .”<br />
Ed looked around, at all <strong>the</strong> people or <strong>the</strong> lighting, <strong>the</strong> produce section—John couldn’t<br />
tell.<br />
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John asked, “You’re going to what? You’re going to pull out Cecil’s pistol and shoot<br />
me?”<br />
“Calm down,” Ed said. “Be quiet.”<br />
“Suppose I tell <strong>the</strong> security guard that you’re packing.”<br />
Ed scoffed a phlegmatic growl and looked around. “Security guards are a joke. He’d<br />
probably piss those way-too-big pants.” Ed stared at John. “We had a deal.”<br />
“I’m calling my sister.”<br />
Ed leaned close and said again, “We had a deal.”<br />
“The deal’s over. I’m done.”<br />
Ed’s lips pursed. His breaths came and went in tiny huffs through his nostrils, <strong>the</strong> sides of<br />
his nostrils flaring and <strong>the</strong>n almost closing in quick successions. His left hand searched his parka in<br />
front of his hip and, with <strong>the</strong> parka still zipped, latched onto <strong>the</strong> cloth over <strong>the</strong> knife’s hilt or <strong>the</strong><br />
pistol’s grip, John couldn’t tell which. Ed’s grip squeezed and relaxed, squeezed and relaxed.<br />
John didn’t think Ed would do anything in <strong>the</strong> middle of Wal-Mart, but still, Ed was<br />
almost hyperventilating, and John took one full step back, right into <strong>the</strong> ATM.<br />
John said, “Sorry, Ed, but this whole situation stinks, and I don’t want to be a part of it<br />
anymore.”<br />
“Call her,” Ed said.<br />
John walked toward <strong>the</strong> entrance and <strong>the</strong> pay phone, keeping an eye on Ed as he went. Ed<br />
followed him. The Super Wal-Mart associate that tailed <strong>the</strong>m now was one in a red vest instead of<br />
blue. The produce associate had gone back to his department.<br />
John stopped at <strong>the</strong> pay phone, picked up <strong>the</strong> receiver, briskly wiped <strong>the</strong> two little discs<br />
full of holes on his pants leg until he felt com<strong>for</strong>table putting <strong>the</strong>m to his ear and mouth, and<br />
dialed 0.<br />
Ed watched him, and <strong>the</strong> red-vested Super Wal-Mart associate watched <strong>the</strong>m both. The<br />
white-haired greeter kept rolling carts to incoming customers but watched <strong>the</strong> entire entourage as<br />
he did so. The gray-haired woman Ed had semiassaulted in <strong>the</strong> produce department walked<br />
toward <strong>the</strong> whole group on her way from <strong>the</strong> registers to <strong>the</strong> doors and stopped in her tracks<br />
when she saw Ed. The muscles in her face worked like she were grinding wheat between her<br />
molars.<br />
A voice on <strong>the</strong> phone said, “Operator.”<br />
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“Hi,” John said into <strong>the</strong> receiver. “I need to make a collect call.”<br />
The phone switched to a recording, and John dialed Pamela’s number and <strong>the</strong>n told <strong>the</strong><br />
recording, “John.”<br />
He couldn’t believe he was doing this. He couldn’t believe Ed wouldn’t leave. No one<br />
would leave. No one but <strong>the</strong> greeter moved, and that was only to continue shuffling new shoppers<br />
and <strong>the</strong>ir convoy of carts around <strong>the</strong> gray-haired woman.<br />
After four rings, a recording said, “Your party is not answering. Please try again later,”<br />
and John heard a dial tone again.<br />
John thought, Four rings? That’s all I get, after all this? Four lousy rings?<br />
He hung up, and Ed smiled, but no one but John could see <strong>the</strong> smile.<br />
John thought, I could just sit down and dial again in five minutes, or an hour, or half a day,<br />
but I can’t call too late. Pamela and Kevin will be busy with prep work, and <strong>the</strong>n lunch, and <strong>the</strong>n<br />
dinner, and <strong>the</strong>n cleaning everything up, and sleeping <strong>the</strong> few hours restaurant work allows, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n prepping all over again.<br />
But <strong>the</strong>n John wondered, What if <strong>the</strong>y’re not in at all? What if <strong>the</strong>y’re on vacation or<br />
something, or have sold <strong>the</strong> café and moved, if <strong>the</strong> number is now someone else’s?<br />
John wondered if Ed would stand <strong>the</strong>re <strong>the</strong> entire time, if <strong>the</strong> Wal-Mart associate would, if<br />
<strong>the</strong> greeter would. John didn’t want to be alone with Ed again. Ed would drag John off into <strong>the</strong><br />
woods and kill him, and no one would find his body <strong>for</strong> years. He knew it. He imagined a badly<br />
distorted clay mockup of his face on television, with his chin and cheekbones too prominent, with<br />
no lines around his mouth, and <strong>the</strong> only name <strong>the</strong>y would have to change would be his last one,<br />
from Smith to Doe. And <strong>the</strong>n add a number.<br />
Finally, <strong>the</strong> gray-haired woman turned and walked through <strong>the</strong> doors as if something had<br />
changed and she were satisfied, as if she had won some huge battle, though nothing had changed.<br />
The greeter watched his customers more and Ed and John less, and <strong>the</strong> red-vested<br />
associate crossed his arms and let his shoulders relax. For some reason, everyone seemed to think<br />
that everything was suddenly all better.<br />
John wanted to scream, Nothing’s changed. If anything, it’s gotten worse. Doesn’t anyone<br />
see that?<br />
“Look,” Ed said finally, “do what you need to, but I’m going back into Wal-Mart and<br />
finding blueberries that aren’t in a can, and I’m refilling my canteen, and maybe taking a shit in<br />
157
that nice clean bathroom of <strong>the</strong>irs. You decide if you want to be someone who breaks his word,<br />
or if maybe you want to be someone with some sort of worth. I don’t care if you’re here or not<br />
when I get back. I’m heading on down that road. Follow me if you want. Make pancakes if you<br />
want. At least you’ll be useful to someone. O<strong>the</strong>rwise, you might as well stand here and rot next<br />
to that phone.”<br />
Ed turned and strutted back inside. The red-vested associate glanced back and <strong>for</strong>th<br />
between Ed and John, as if unsure of which one to keep in sight, and <strong>the</strong>n trotted after Ed.<br />
His instincts are right, John thought. I think. I hope.<br />
Pamela didn’t answer on <strong>the</strong> second try. John took a break from <strong>the</strong> phone and filled his<br />
bottles at <strong>the</strong> water fountain near <strong>the</strong> bathrooms, <strong>the</strong>n tried <strong>the</strong> phone a third time. Still, no<br />
answer.<br />
Maybe <strong>the</strong>re is magic, John thought. Maybe Pamela isn’t supposed to answer.<br />
John turned and walked away from <strong>the</strong> Wal-Mart and Ed and straight <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> overpass and<br />
<strong>the</strong> truck stop on its o<strong>the</strong>r side. He had almost made it out from beneath <strong>the</strong> overpass’s o<strong>the</strong>r side<br />
by <strong>the</strong> time Ed, panting and wheezing, came trotting up next to him. Ed’s blanket roll bulged<br />
more than ever, like a python that had swallowed a wild pig.<br />
“I . . .” Ed panted. “. . . guess I can . . . put up with you <strong>for</strong> a while yet.” He pointed his<br />
shark-fin-shaped mitten at John. “But you make pancakes . . . That’s <strong>the</strong> deal, whe<strong>the</strong>r you want<br />
that bus ticket anymore . . . or not.”<br />
John turned and walked toward <strong>the</strong> truck stop, sensing Ed’s presence behind him. He was<br />
annoyed with <strong>the</strong> whole pancake thing. All he cared about now was getting to Pamela’s, and<br />
making sure that <strong>the</strong> moving van didn’t leave without him, and maybe trying to figure out what<br />
exactly had happened between him and Sam <strong>the</strong> night be<strong>for</strong>e.<br />
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CHAPTER 31<br />
Gavin climbed into <strong>the</strong> hammock and got com<strong>for</strong>table on his back, his feet crossed, his<br />
hands clasped behind his head and his elbows out to <strong>the</strong> sides, but with his head canted to <strong>the</strong> side<br />
so that he could watch Ed. The hammock’s netting reached up past Gavin’s body on both sides so<br />
that he looked through its mesh at Ed. It looked like Gavin were wrapped up <strong>for</strong> shipping himself.<br />
Ed crawled into <strong>the</strong> trailer, too, but John stayed outside next to Sam.<br />
Sam had put Ed’s pancake ingredients up in <strong>the</strong> cab, in <strong>the</strong> tiny curtained cupboard and<br />
<strong>the</strong> tiny fridge, but Ed had kept his roll with him. He laid it on <strong>the</strong> floor next to <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>ward twoby-four-and-plywood<br />
bulkhead catty-cornered from Gavin’s hammock and sat on <strong>the</strong> floor<br />
leaning against <strong>the</strong> bulkhead.<br />
Sam closed and latched <strong>the</strong> doors, and Ed, Gavin, and <strong>the</strong> few piles of <strong>the</strong>ir belongings<br />
were engulfed in complete darkness. Inside, not a crack of light showed anywhere, not even from<br />
around <strong>the</strong> doors.<br />
Then light pierced <strong>the</strong> darkness. Gavin drew his hand back from <strong>the</strong> electric lantern<br />
hanging from a shiny hook in one of <strong>the</strong> two-by-fours and returned his arm to its earlier position.<br />
After <strong>the</strong> complete darkness, <strong>the</strong> little light cast by <strong>the</strong> lantern seemed bright. The shadows it left<br />
were stark. A huge section of <strong>the</strong> trailer behind Gavin was lost in his shadow, except <strong>for</strong> dim<br />
highlights on <strong>the</strong> mass in that corner that was <strong>the</strong> folded wooden chairs and Gavin’s rolled-up<br />
bedding and pillow. Gavin’s clo<strong>the</strong>s held a diamond-shaped crosshatch of hammock-string<br />
shadows on <strong>the</strong>ir brighter stretches, and deep, dark shadows ran behind his clo<strong>the</strong>s’ long wrinkles.<br />
Gavin’s hammer hung behind him on <strong>the</strong> plywood wall, within his reach, on a pair of nails bent<br />
upward like hooks. Its silvery head gleamed brighter than even <strong>the</strong> highlights of his gray white<br />
hair. Gavin’s eyes glistened, unblinking, watching Ed, who sat starkly lit with a tiny pool of that<br />
oily blackness of earlier surviving right behind him.<br />
The truck started and vibrated <strong>the</strong> trailer floor.<br />
Ed said, “Isn’t it illegal to carry people inside a moving trailer?”<br />
“Not if <strong>the</strong>y have a way out.”<br />
159
Ed looked at <strong>the</strong> closed doors, nothing now but large, dull-metal panels edged with a<br />
rubber seal. “I don’t see any handle.”<br />
“I can always get out.”<br />
The truck jerked <strong>for</strong>ward and swung Gavin in <strong>the</strong> hammock.<br />
Ed said, “Is <strong>the</strong>re ano<strong>the</strong>r door?”<br />
“We can’t get to it, but believe me, if it came to it, I could get out.”<br />
“As long as all that stuff back <strong>the</strong>re doesn’t come barreling down on our asses in an<br />
accident.”<br />
Gavin laughed faint and guttural. “I packed it. You trying to insult me?”<br />
“No. I just figured it might be tough to pack a car or a piano well enough <strong>for</strong> it not to<br />
come crashing through a little plywood in <strong>the</strong> event we go from seventy to zero in two seconds.”<br />
“Sam’s been driving eight years. Nine hundred thousand miles. Never even close to an<br />
accident. And I been packing and moving stuff <strong>for</strong> thirty. Never had a load shift yet.”<br />
“Years or miles?”<br />
“What?”<br />
“You’ve been packing <strong>for</strong> thirty years or thirty miles?”<br />
Gavin turned his face toward <strong>the</strong> ceiling and laughed long and loud.<br />
He finally stopped laughing and said, “Thirty miles? You crack me up.”<br />
“You didn’t specify, is all.”<br />
Gavin stared back at Ed through <strong>the</strong> hammock’s mesh of lines. “What you think, we<br />
loaded this stuff up in Nevada?” He said it like “Nuh-vay-da.”<br />
“Las Vegas?”<br />
“No. Nevada, Missouri.” Nuh-vay-da Mah-zur-uh. “Thirty miles back. Isn’t that <strong>the</strong><br />
direction you just come from?”<br />
“We came from Great Scott, or something like that.” Ed snickered. “You don’t know as<br />
much as you pretend to.”<br />
“You’re <strong>the</strong> one who wanted a ride. Quit complaining. If we smash into something or roll<br />
off a bridge, just stick behind me. I’ll lead you outa this trailer, okay? You’re like a scared little<br />
boy, aren’t you?”<br />
Ed glared at Gavin. He chewed <strong>the</strong> inside of his lip and exhaled hard once. Then he<br />
brea<strong>the</strong>d hard three more times.<br />
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Gavin said, “You seem to take jests pretty personal. Taking everything that serious can<br />
lead to trouble, you know?”<br />
“Maybe you shouldn’t joke about things like that. That can lead to trouble, too.”<br />
Gavin blew out a deep breath, annoyed.<br />
Ed adjusted his roll so that it padded <strong>the</strong> small of his back and allowed him to lean back as<br />
if in an easy chair. He pulled out his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s drawing, unfolded it, and studied it.<br />
Gavin asked, “What’s that, a treasure map?”<br />
Ed kept his eyes on <strong>the</strong> drawing. “I never thought of it that way be<strong>for</strong>e, but I guess it<br />
could be.”<br />
“Let me see.”<br />
Ed glanced at Gavin. Gavin seemed serious.<br />
“Okay,” Ed said.<br />
He crossed <strong>the</strong> short distance and held <strong>the</strong> drawing out.<br />
“What do you think?”<br />
Gavin rolled fully onto his back in <strong>the</strong> hammock and held <strong>the</strong> drawing up so that it caught<br />
<strong>the</strong> lantern light.<br />
“A skull is a treasure map?” he asked.<br />
“We’ll all get <strong>the</strong>re eventually.”<br />
“Sure, but ‘treasure’?”<br />
Gavin studied <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> drawing. He thumbed <strong>the</strong> web of Scotch tape that held <strong>the</strong><br />
corner toge<strong>the</strong>r and onto <strong>the</strong> main part of <strong>the</strong> drawing.<br />
“What happened here?” he asked. “Looks like your dog tried to eat your homework.”<br />
Ed swallowed. “Tried. Got it back, though. What do you think of <strong>the</strong> drawing?”<br />
“Looks skillful enough, but I wouldn’t buy it.”<br />
Ed’s lips rolled inside his mouth. He squinted at Gavin.<br />
Gavin looked back at Ed. “But I’m no artist, right? I don’t know about those things.”<br />
“That’s right. You don’t,” Ed said and took <strong>the</strong> drawing. “This is a masterpiece.”<br />
“Well, I’d keep it away from dogs, <strong>the</strong>n.” Gavin clasped his hands behind his head again.<br />
“Don’t go messing with any of <strong>the</strong>se braces or anything.” He pointed randomly at <strong>the</strong> wood and<br />
shadows. “I’m going to get some shut eye. You mess with anything, and I’ll have to kick your<br />
ass.”<br />
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“Sure. You do that, old man, weak heart and all.”<br />
Ed folded <strong>the</strong> drawing up again, pressing <strong>the</strong> taped part flat between <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r parts of <strong>the</strong><br />
fold. He tucked <strong>the</strong> drawing back into his parka and lay down with his head and upper shoulders<br />
on his blanket roll. He snugged down his ball cap and folded his arms across his chest.<br />
Gavin reached out and turned off <strong>the</strong> lantern, and Ed lay and waited.<br />
* * *<br />
The semi crawled along a little two-lane highway that climbed a long hill in northwest<br />
Arkansas, <strong>the</strong> semi slowing due to <strong>the</strong> incline, <strong>the</strong> growling engine winding down from <strong>the</strong> strain.<br />
Sam released <strong>the</strong> accelerator, popped <strong>the</strong> shift lever out of gear, revved <strong>the</strong> engine in one quick<br />
burp, and shifted into a lower gear, all in less than a second. Just inside <strong>the</strong> sleeper, a small mesh<br />
net hung from <strong>the</strong> ceiling, stuffed full of apples, oranges, a head of garlic, and a half loaf of wholewheat<br />
bread, <strong>the</strong> net and all its contents swaying from <strong>the</strong> shifts in <strong>the</strong> truck’s momentum.<br />
They drove through a sparse town of seemingly haphazardly placed buildings, most of<br />
which looked like small houses but with business signs out front. Stretches of thick woods stood<br />
anywhere <strong>the</strong> buildings didn’t. A drop-off hung on one side of <strong>the</strong> road, <strong>the</strong>n swapped to <strong>the</strong><br />
o<strong>the</strong>r, <strong>the</strong> buildings and woods cropping up on whichever side <strong>the</strong> drop-off wasn’t, <strong>the</strong> almost<br />
junglelike land continuing to rise behind <strong>the</strong> buildings. And still <strong>the</strong> road rose.<br />
John asked, “You don’t use your clutch?”<br />
Sam said, “Don’t have to. You get <strong>the</strong> RPMs of <strong>the</strong> engine to match <strong>the</strong> RPMs of <strong>the</strong> gear<br />
you want, and <strong>the</strong> two fit toge<strong>the</strong>r perfectly.”<br />
The incline grew steeper; <strong>the</strong> road’s turns, sharper. Whenever <strong>the</strong> road twisted right, Sam<br />
kept <strong>the</strong> driver’s side of <strong>the</strong> tractor close to <strong>the</strong> yellow center line, and <strong>the</strong> trailer followed almost<br />
off <strong>the</strong> right edge of <strong>the</strong> road. Whenever <strong>the</strong> road twisted left, Sam kept John’s side of <strong>the</strong> tractor<br />
one inch from <strong>the</strong> line at <strong>the</strong> road’s edge and <strong>the</strong> drop-off, and John imagined <strong>the</strong> trailer’s o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
side tracking on <strong>the</strong> yellow center line. Cars going <strong>the</strong> opposite direction whipped past.<br />
The engine whined low again, and again in less than a second, Sam released <strong>the</strong><br />
accelerator, popped <strong>the</strong> shift lever out of gear, burped <strong>the</strong> engine, and slid <strong>the</strong> lever into <strong>the</strong> nextlower<br />
gear. They kept climbing <strong>the</strong> hill, left, right, left, right, Sam dropping gears, steering<br />
smoothly with only fingertips on <strong>the</strong> wheel.<br />
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“Ra<strong>the</strong>r than pitting <strong>the</strong> engine against <strong>the</strong> road,” Sam said, “you put <strong>the</strong>m in sync. Then<br />
you don’t need a clutch. Each gear turns differently based on your road speed.”<br />
“You have it all memorized?”<br />
“You do it enough, it becomes instinct. You don’t have to look at <strong>the</strong> speedometer or<br />
tach. I can tell by ear, and by timing.”<br />
Sam dropped ano<strong>the</strong>r gear, this time also flipping down <strong>the</strong> little lever on front of <strong>the</strong> gear<br />
knob, which made <strong>the</strong> light thock and tiny, high-pitched kiss of air John had gotten to know in<br />
Cecil’s truck.<br />
John asked, “Why not just use <strong>the</strong> clutch?”<br />
“They wear out too fast, as many times as trucks shift gears. Besides, floating gears is<br />
faster and gets better mileage. Better <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> clutch, better <strong>for</strong> my fuel costs, better <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong><br />
environment. And it’s a nice feeling knowing that your timing’s so good that you don’t need a<br />
clutch.” Sam turned one hand in <strong>the</strong> air like a Buddhist demonstrating breathing techniques. “It’s<br />
proactive, yet passive. A nice balance.”<br />
John liked <strong>the</strong> grace of Sam’s arm and hand twirling in <strong>the</strong> air. He imagined Sam dancing,<br />
and <strong>the</strong> thought was almost more than he could bear. He wondered what kinds of music Sam<br />
liked. The truck had a CD player, but John couldn’t see any CDs anywhere. A black band of mesh<br />
lined <strong>the</strong> underside of Sam’s raised windshield visor, and John imagined <strong>the</strong> band’s hidden top<br />
side stuffed with CDs. Perhaps Sam had o<strong>the</strong>r CDs stored elsewhere.<br />
Sam dropped ano<strong>the</strong>r gear.<br />
John said, “Cooking’s like that, knowing just how much olive oil to pour into a sauté pan,<br />
when it’s warm enough to sweat garlic, if that’s what you want, and knowing when it’s hot<br />
enough to sauté instead, if that’s what you want. I always knew when roasting red peppers or<br />
Roma tomatoes were done in <strong>the</strong> oven, too, never needed a timer. It was like a buzzer went off in<br />
my head.”<br />
Talking about food made John’s stomach growl. He hadn’t eaten any pancakes, hadn’t<br />
eaten anything since <strong>the</strong> can of beans <strong>the</strong> night be<strong>for</strong>e. He wanted ano<strong>the</strong>r hot meal, something<br />
satisfying.<br />
They topped <strong>the</strong> hill, and <strong>the</strong> semi sped up. Sam’s fingertips touched <strong>the</strong> front face of <strong>the</strong><br />
shift lever, thumb sticking out like a tea-sipping old lady’s pinky. Sam let off <strong>the</strong> accelerator,<br />
pulled <strong>the</strong> shifter into neutral, let <strong>the</strong> engine’s RPMs fall <strong>for</strong> half a second, and slid <strong>the</strong> shifter into<br />
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<strong>the</strong> next higher gear with a gentle rearward push, no revving, no popping of gears. The downhill<br />
gear shifts were quiet and gentle, and <strong>the</strong> truck accelerated smoothly.<br />
Soon <strong>the</strong>y were at <strong>the</strong> bottom of <strong>the</strong> last hill in that stretch, and Sam, John, and <strong>the</strong> truck<br />
left <strong>the</strong> woods and <strong>the</strong> drop-offs behind. The road straightened out across a flatter section of land<br />
thick with beaten-down brown stalks, remnants of some harvested crop. Snow lined only <strong>the</strong><br />
shadowy recesses on <strong>the</strong> nor<strong>the</strong>rn faces of <strong>the</strong> plowed furrows in <strong>the</strong> fields; in <strong>the</strong> nooks and<br />
crannies at <strong>the</strong> bases of fence posts and <strong>the</strong> occasional bare tree; and on <strong>the</strong> nor<strong>the</strong>rn slopes of<br />
sporadic fills in <strong>the</strong> ditches, around <strong>the</strong> gaping ditch-pipe ends beneath <strong>the</strong> mouths of farm roads<br />
that connected with <strong>the</strong> highway. A more significant town showed itself on <strong>the</strong> horizon, at <strong>the</strong><br />
next wood line.<br />
Sam said, “I think more people would consider cooking an art than would truck driving.”<br />
“Not me, not after my last truck ride.”<br />
Sam slipped <strong>the</strong> shift lever into <strong>the</strong> next gear and leveled off <strong>the</strong>ir speed on <strong>the</strong><br />
straightaway. “Bad, huh?”<br />
John looked beneath <strong>the</strong> gently swinging tiny hammock of fruit and into <strong>the</strong> sleeper.<br />
Everything seemed orderly, clean. The bunk was tightly made. Sam had a microwave, a tiny<br />
television, a small open closet full of clo<strong>the</strong>s on hangers. John looked at <strong>the</strong> shelf of books again.<br />
One of <strong>the</strong> spines read, “Louis L’Amour,” something about Sackett; ano<strong>the</strong>r, The Great Gatsby; a<br />
third, Romeo and Juliet. The bible stood out tall and thick with gold-embossed lettering. John<br />
didn’t have to angle his head to read that one.<br />
John wanted one of Sam’s oranges, or just a slice of bread. He could see himself peeling<br />
<strong>the</strong> orange and folding it back in half and <strong>the</strong> mist of sticky juice scattering in <strong>the</strong> morning<br />
sunlight.<br />
John asked, “You mind me asking you a personal question, Sam?”<br />
“Depends on <strong>the</strong> question.”<br />
“Are you and Gavin . . .”<br />
Sam looked at John with feigned innocence. “Are we what?”<br />
John clenched his jaws and looked at <strong>the</strong> approaching town. Then he turned back. Sam<br />
was watching <strong>the</strong> road again.<br />
John said, “Do you . . .”<br />
“Gavin and I are not lovers, if that’s what you’re getting at.”<br />
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Sam seemed disappointed.<br />
John chewed his lip. “You’re not wearing a ring, so . . .”<br />
Sam turned, eyes peering from beneath lowered, thin brows in mocked sultriness. “Are<br />
you making a pass at me, John?”<br />
“No.” John stared straight ahead.<br />
Sam began down-shifting <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> reduced speed limit of <strong>the</strong> town’s outer limits.<br />
John wondered why he hadn’t answered “Yes.” He wondered what he might have just<br />
turned away from. He felt a huge tightness in his chest, like a balloon had inflated deep inside and<br />
was about to burst. The balloon’s top edge pressed against <strong>the</strong> bottom of John’s throat and made<br />
him swallow and swallow. It made breathing hard.<br />
John couldn’t keep his eyes off Sam. The thought of holding Sam tight excited John so<br />
that his ears buzzed like cicadas and <strong>the</strong> muscles up <strong>the</strong> back of his neck and head tightened until<br />
<strong>the</strong>y pulled his ears up and back in one half of a wiggle. The skin back <strong>the</strong>re tingled, and he felt<br />
<strong>the</strong> hairs on <strong>the</strong> back of his neck standing on end. It felt like <strong>the</strong>y were waving, crawling<br />
animatedly, as if brought to life by some medieval enchanter.<br />
John felt drawn to Sam and held back at <strong>the</strong> same time, and he didn’t know which was <strong>the</strong><br />
honest pull, <strong>the</strong> one from his heart, and which was fake, from his head, but each pull seemed<br />
infinitely strong and imprisoned him between <strong>the</strong>m so absolutely in check, so paralyzed and at <strong>the</strong><br />
same time achingly jittery, that he felt he were being rent to shreds, and he almost cried.<br />
All he could seem to find <strong>the</strong> strength to do was ask, “What kind of music do you like?”<br />
Sam swallowed and said, “Any that touches my soul.”<br />
John wondered how he could back up and start over, how he could get Sam to ask again<br />
whe<strong>the</strong>r John were making a pass, how he could <strong>for</strong>get <strong>the</strong> resistance he felt and just let loose<br />
with his feelings.<br />
John asked, “You don’t like one type over ano<strong>the</strong>r?”<br />
“There are no real boundaries between types. So much falls between.” Sam stared at John.<br />
“All that matters is <strong>the</strong> soul of <strong>the</strong> music.” Sam turned back to <strong>the</strong> road. “People who categorize<br />
anything push it toward falsehood. Don’t you think?”<br />
John swallowed again. The balloon in his chest filled more. His tingling scalp pulled his<br />
ears up again.<br />
“Of course,” John said, but he wasn’t sure what that meant. He wanted to say something<br />
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as true as Sam had, but he had that damned overinflated balloon to work around, and all his lungs<br />
and lips seemed able to squeeze out around it was “Do you dance?”<br />
“We should listen to music,” Sam said.<br />
And John thought, What a fix I’m in now. He nodded vigorously, and he found himself<br />
dry-mou<strong>the</strong>d with anticipation. He couldn’t keep his mouth closed, he was breathing so hard.<br />
Sam reached up, pulled <strong>the</strong> visor down just shy of where John would have been able to see<br />
its top, slid a CD out of one of <strong>the</strong> pockets, and stuck its edge into <strong>the</strong> player. The player turned<br />
itself on, plucked <strong>the</strong> CD from Sam’s hand, and slowly drew it all <strong>the</strong> way in.<br />
* * *<br />
Ed’s eyes never adjusted to <strong>the</strong> darkness in <strong>the</strong> trailer to where he could see anything. He<br />
had never seen such complete blackness, not at night in his and Marcus’s room in <strong>the</strong> trailer court<br />
listening to trains while Marcus slept; not in Ranger School, on moonless night patrols deep down<br />
at <strong>the</strong> bottoms of draws at <strong>the</strong> bottoms of overgrown tangled, leafy thickets beneath thickly<br />
overgrown canopies of eighty-foot-thick upper terraces; not even after he had rocked, rocked,<br />
rocked, and pulled that trigger.<br />
Ed heard occasional creaks, what he figured was Gavin’s hammock swaying from its two<br />
big metal hooks in <strong>the</strong> thicker parts of <strong>the</strong> wood. The creaks coincided with <strong>the</strong> truck’s shifts in<br />
gears, with <strong>the</strong> shifts in <strong>the</strong> momentum baffled by <strong>the</strong> weight and size of <strong>the</strong> truck itself.<br />
Ed kept waiting to see something, anything, but he never did, so he imagined <strong>the</strong> truck’s<br />
interior instead. In his mind, he saw Gavin hanging in <strong>the</strong> hammock exactly where and how Ed<br />
had last seen him. Ed imagined <strong>the</strong> exact distance, that distance he had already crossed twice and<br />
could imagine himself crossing easily again.<br />
He stood and almost lost his balance. The floor was sloped, <strong>the</strong> truck climbing a hill. Ed<br />
tested his footing in <strong>the</strong> dark, a black so complete that, two minutes after he had stabilized his<br />
stance, he began to doubt that his feet even rested on <strong>the</strong> floor.<br />
Then <strong>the</strong> truck dropped ano<strong>the</strong>r gear, <strong>the</strong> blackness ahead of him creaked again, and he<br />
felt <strong>the</strong> floor try to shift beneath him.<br />
Once <strong>the</strong> truck’s rhythm settled again, Ed took one baby step, quickly but carefully setting<br />
his boot sole to <strong>the</strong> wooden floor to keep his balance while trying not to press too much weight<br />
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down too suddenly. If his weight made <strong>the</strong> floor creak, Gavin would know. Ed could sense <strong>the</strong><br />
floor when he stepped. It was standing still that disoriented him.<br />
What if Gavin’s faking it? Ed thought. What if he’s really awake?<br />
Ed leaned his weight on his <strong>for</strong>ward foot. The floor didn’t creak. He waited to hear <strong>the</strong><br />
hammock’s strain on its hooks again.<br />
The truck shifted gears, Ed spread his arms to keep his balance, and <strong>the</strong> hammock creaked<br />
again. Was it <strong>the</strong> wood creaking at <strong>the</strong> pull of <strong>the</strong> hooks’ toothy threads, or was it <strong>the</strong> hammock<br />
itself pulling cords into tighter twists? Both? No. It was one creak, not several.<br />
Doesn’t matter, Ed thought. He took ano<strong>the</strong>r step and felt <strong>the</strong> floor solidly beneath his<br />
sole.<br />
He imagined <strong>the</strong> hammock as it had looked just be<strong>for</strong>e Gavin had turned out <strong>the</strong> light, <strong>the</strong><br />
mesh netting reaching up around Gavin on both sides. Ed could grab <strong>the</strong> netting above Gavin,<br />
close <strong>the</strong> mesh in over him. Gavin wouldn’t be able to get his arms out <strong>the</strong>n, couldn’t reach his<br />
hammer or Ed. One hand to clasp <strong>the</strong> hammock shut, and one to find his throat.<br />
No, Ed thought. Too iffy. Too time-consuming. Should just grab his throat with both<br />
hands and strangle <strong>the</strong> fuck out of him fast.<br />
He nodded to himself and took ano<strong>the</strong>r step. Ed visualized himself standing at <strong>the</strong> head of<br />
<strong>the</strong> hammock, of Gavin struggling and falling mostly from <strong>the</strong> hammock while his head tangled up<br />
in it, locked inside by Ed’s hands. It had to look like a heart attack—or aneurysm, stroke,<br />
whatever, but no bleeding holes. If Gavin didn’t tangle himself in <strong>the</strong> hammock struggling, Ed<br />
would tangle his head in it afterward and let him hang <strong>the</strong>re, to excuse any neck bruises. By <strong>the</strong><br />
time anyone did an autopsy, Ed figured, he would have John far away.<br />
Ed kept took a step closer.<br />
The truck shifted gears again, and Ed heard <strong>the</strong> next creak. An empty hammock wouldn’t<br />
creak like that. Did Gavin have his hammer already with him? Were his arms folded beneath his<br />
head? Was Gavin’s night vision better than Ed’s? No, Ed thought. No human could possibly see<br />
in blackness that complete.<br />
Ed stepped again. He was almost within arm’s reach. He knew it.<br />
He raised his hands toward <strong>the</strong> hammock. He would have to move quickly, violently.<br />
He tried to spread his bandaged hand’s fingers and thumb wide, but <strong>the</strong>y didn’t move.<br />
Every muscle in his hand quaked. He could feel how weak his fingers were, how <strong>the</strong> strength of<br />
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each muscle betrayed him and fled from <strong>the</strong> pain. Damn it. He had to will <strong>the</strong>m into being strong.<br />
Why wouldn’t <strong>the</strong>y obey? Rebellious damned muscles and bones.<br />
His fingers and thumb barely moved be<strong>for</strong>e shuddering again. It was no use. He wouldn’t<br />
be able to use both hands, and one wouldn’t be enough. Gavin wasn’t that art dealer, or<br />
Cassandra, or Hawking. Gavin would stare you right in <strong>the</strong> eyes. That art dealer had turned away.<br />
Cassandra had looked at her feet and her kitchen’s linoleum floor. Even Hawking had dropped his<br />
gaze. But when Gavin turned his eyes, it was like Hannibal pulling back to draw <strong>the</strong> Romans in<br />
and envelop <strong>the</strong>m at Cannae, or like <strong>the</strong> Greeks crawling into that platoon-sized belly of <strong>the</strong>ir<br />
wooden horse. This one would turn and fight instead of panicking and trying to get away.<br />
The truck leveled off <strong>the</strong>n, and <strong>the</strong> hammock creaked right in front of Ed. Ed could hear<br />
Gavin breathing deeply. He could feel <strong>the</strong> heat from Gavin’s body. He could smell <strong>the</strong> sweat, <strong>the</strong><br />
old-man smell—denture adhesive; that was <strong>the</strong> smell. The breaths sounded like those of sleep, but<br />
Ed couldn’t be sure enough <strong>for</strong> only one hand. What if he missed Gavin’s throat on <strong>the</strong> first<br />
lunge?<br />
No, he thought. Wait. There will be ano<strong>the</strong>r chance, more of a sure thing, after enough<br />
whiskey to deaden this hand into obedience. Watch Gavin long enough to figure out his decoys<br />
and feints, and get more whiskey.<br />
The truck sloped nose-down <strong>the</strong>n, and Ed crept back to his side of <strong>the</strong> compartment. The<br />
downhill gear shifts were so gentle that nothing upset Ed’s balance on his way back to his spot,<br />
and Gavin’s hammock no longer creaked.<br />
Ed stopped shy of where he visualized his roll next to <strong>the</strong> wall. He reached his right boot’s<br />
toe out to where he thought his roll lay, and viola, his boot touched <strong>the</strong> roll almost at <strong>the</strong> exact<br />
spot where he’d expected. He could have done Gavin, ruse or no ruse. He knew he had <strong>the</strong><br />
distance figured out. He could smell Gavin’s denture adhesive, <strong>for</strong> crying out loud. Why had he<br />
stopped?<br />
Ed thought <strong>the</strong>n maybe he was a scared little boy, and he caught himself tapping his boot<br />
against his roll a fourth time, a fifth, a sixth. He counted to sixteen, stopped his foot, swallowed,<br />
turned, and sat down against <strong>the</strong> roll in a plop.<br />
He had wanted a seventeenth tap. His boot toe had ached <strong>for</strong> that, had almost gone on and<br />
tapped a seventeenth time on its own. Saliva pooled in Ed’s mouth, and his right leg felt jittery.<br />
He let it kick out into <strong>the</strong> dark, felt and heard <strong>the</strong> heel thump on <strong>the</strong> floor, and he kicked again,<br />
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and thumped, and thumped, and thumped, and <strong>the</strong>n he heard a single violin’s melody from up in<br />
<strong>the</strong> cab, a tune more tumultuous that any violin string seemed capable of bearing.<br />
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CHAPTER 32<br />
Ed saw red orange and realized that his lids were closed, that he had fallen asleep. He<br />
opened his eyes. Gavin had turned <strong>the</strong> lantern on and was lying on his side in <strong>the</strong> hammock<br />
watching Ed. The truck had stopped, and <strong>the</strong> engine was no longer running.<br />
That was stupid, Ed thought. Weak.<br />
He heard and felt one of <strong>the</strong> cab doors slam shut, <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
“What’s going on?” Ed asked.<br />
“We’ve stopped.”<br />
“No shit.”<br />
Gavin said flatly, “Truck stop. We’re fueling up.” He looked at his watch. “Lunch, too, I’d<br />
guess.”<br />
Ed heard <strong>the</strong> latch to <strong>the</strong> big side doors rattle and clunk, and one of <strong>the</strong> doors swung open<br />
wide. Blinding light blasted in, and Ed felt like a vampire that had been thrust into searing,<br />
consuming daylight. He peered between squinting lids, in <strong>the</strong> shadow of his outstretched hand.<br />
John stood with Sam outside <strong>the</strong> truck. Sam’s watch cap was gone now.<br />
Sam said, “Anyone want to get out be<strong>for</strong>e I park?”<br />
A fairly wide one-story building stood three car lengths away. Ed heard liquid pouring into<br />
a hollow metallic container, a faint dinging. He smelled diesel, and suddenly he was back at Fort<br />
Riley fueling a Bradley, right next to <strong>the</strong> sand-painted armor. He smelled his own starchy, heavycanvas<br />
fatigues mixed with <strong>the</strong> odor of diesel, and he could swear he felt dog tags in <strong>the</strong> hollow of<br />
his chest and <strong>the</strong> beaded chain pulling a hair on <strong>the</strong> back of his neck. Then he was back in <strong>the</strong><br />
truck at <strong>the</strong> truck stop again, and he shivered.<br />
“I’m taking a piss,” he said and climbed out.<br />
Gavin squatted at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> trailer’s doorway until his butt touched his ankles and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n half jumped, half stepped out in a way that looked like a gurney unfolding its legs while being<br />
pulled from an ambulance.<br />
The sky was crisp blue, without even a wisp of a cloud, and <strong>the</strong> air was cold, but not<br />
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nearly as cold as Missouri had been. The only paved areas were one swath immediately along <strong>the</strong><br />
front of <strong>the</strong> truck stop’s building and a pad around <strong>the</strong> unsheltered fuel pumps. The parking lot<br />
beyond that was gravel and dirt. The woods beyond even that, far away, were a sudden, thick wall<br />
of tall pines, oak, and a few bare trees too far away to identify. Ed did see <strong>the</strong> peeling bark of a<br />
pair of Sycamores. The interstate was higher than <strong>the</strong> truck stop, spanning two manmade hills at<br />
ei<strong>the</strong>r end. Bright green grass grew newly cut, thick, and complete all <strong>the</strong> way from <strong>the</strong><br />
interstate’s shoulder to <strong>the</strong> service road at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> truck stop’s lot. Only patches of snow<br />
lay in <strong>the</strong> deepest shadows here and <strong>the</strong>re. The sun, almost immediately overhead, lit up <strong>the</strong><br />
exposed grass like <strong>the</strong> carefully manicured lawn of Irwin Army Hospital.<br />
Ed shivered again. The sun felt good in <strong>the</strong> crisp air, but Ed wanted to get inside and away<br />
from <strong>the</strong> smell of diesel and all that grass that looked like his hospital’s.<br />
* * *<br />
They parked with <strong>the</strong> tail end of <strong>the</strong> trailer butted up against <strong>the</strong> wood line and its<br />
shadowy tendrils of snow, <strong>the</strong> truck’s nose pointing toward <strong>the</strong> truck stop’s building half a<br />
football field away. Sam had left enough room between <strong>the</strong> door side of <strong>the</strong> trailer and <strong>the</strong> next<br />
truck’s trailer to allow <strong>the</strong> large side doors to swing all <strong>the</strong> way open and <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong>m to set up <strong>the</strong><br />
two folding wooden chairs in a half circle facing <strong>the</strong> open trailer. The sun shined down into <strong>the</strong><br />
space between <strong>the</strong> trailers.<br />
John sat on <strong>the</strong> floor of <strong>the</strong> trailer’s opening, his feet dangling above sparse gravel being<br />
overtaken by grass—or perhaps grass that had been spread with a first assault of gravel. Gavin sat<br />
in one of <strong>the</strong> wooden chairs, and Ed sat in <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
Sam climbed out of <strong>the</strong> cab holding a half-bulging brown paper bag by its twine handles.<br />
Sam stared <strong>for</strong> a second at Ed in <strong>the</strong> folding chair and <strong>the</strong>n sat on <strong>the</strong> trailer’s floor’s edge next to<br />
John and set <strong>the</strong> paper bag between <strong>the</strong>m. One by one, Sam pulled out four sandwiches, each halfwrapped<br />
in a paper towel, and handed three of <strong>the</strong>m out.<br />
Gavin said, “Thanks, Sam.”<br />
Ed took a huge bite from his and swallowed almost without chewing.<br />
“Yeah, thanks,” John said.<br />
Edges of thinly sliced turkey jutted from between slices of whole wheat bread. It was real<br />
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east meat, almost white and with clearly visible crosscut striations of muscle tissue.<br />
Sam took a bite and chewed. While swallowing, Sam pulled a Christmas card–sized<br />
receipt out of one pocket and held it out to John.<br />
“Here’s a shower ticket, if you want it.”<br />
John took <strong>the</strong> receipt. It was large but printed on flimsy white paper with a yellow<br />
duplicate attached beneath by a pair of per<strong>for</strong>ated strips <strong>for</strong> a tooth-fed printer.<br />
Sam said, “Bring that to <strong>the</strong> fuel cashier’s desk and ask <strong>for</strong> a shower. They’ll give you a<br />
towel and a little bar of soap and a key to one of <strong>the</strong>ir showers.”<br />
“I smell that bad, huh?”<br />
Sam snickered. “No. But you’ve been on <strong>the</strong> road a while, right? I just figured you might<br />
want a shower.” Sam glanced at Ed. “Ed can have <strong>the</strong> next one.”<br />
John asked, “It’s, like, a separate room?”<br />
“With a shower stall and a sink with a mirror and all that, and a toilet.” Sam nodded<br />
toward <strong>the</strong> building. “This truck stop’s showers are pretty clean.”<br />
John bit into his own sandwich, fresh tomato gushing and lettuce crunching. The turkey<br />
was smoked. He tasted sharp cheddar. Juice from <strong>the</strong> breast meat and <strong>the</strong> tomato pooled around<br />
his teeth, and he swallowed that while still chewing <strong>the</strong> solid part of <strong>the</strong> bite. The juices ran down<br />
<strong>the</strong> full length of his tongue and made him hungrier, and he quickly swallowed and took a second<br />
bite.<br />
Ed took a fourth bite of his sandwich, still swallowing almost without chewing, and said,<br />
“We could share that shower ticket, John.”<br />
John shook his head. “I’m not showering with you, Ed.”<br />
Ed’s eyes rolled. “I don’t mean at <strong>the</strong> same time, man. You shower, <strong>the</strong>n give me <strong>the</strong> key,<br />
that sort of thing.”<br />
Sam said, “You’re not supposed to do that, but <strong>the</strong>re didn’t seem to be a line or<br />
anything.”<br />
Ed nodded firmly once, took a fifth huge bite of his sandwich, and <strong>the</strong>n turned to Gavin,<br />
“What’d you do be<strong>for</strong>e loading trucks, Gavin? You’re pretty old, and you said you’ve only done<br />
this thirty years. What job did you have <strong>the</strong> thirty years be<strong>for</strong>e that?”<br />
“Hah!” Gavin reared his head back, <strong>the</strong>n looked at Ed, still shaking with laughter. “I’m not<br />
that old.”<br />
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“What’d you do? Were you a soldier? You seem like a soldier type.”<br />
“That’s even funnier,” Gavin said. “I was a janitor.”<br />
Ed blinked. His face was o<strong>the</strong>rwise expressionless.<br />
Gavin said, “I didn’t shoot people. I cleaned up <strong>the</strong>ir shit. I worked nights, emptying<br />
bathroom-stall used-tampon canisters, restocking toilet paper, scrubbing splatters from people’s<br />
popped zits off mirrors, mopping up spilled coffee in break rooms, stuff like that.”<br />
John nodded.<br />
Gavin said, “I had a manager one time who changed my title to ‘custodial engineer,’ but I<br />
was still a janitor.” He took ano<strong>the</strong>r bite and chewed slowly, one dozen, <strong>the</strong>n two dozen times. “If<br />
that manager had really wanted to give my self-esteem a boost,” he said after swallowing, “he’d<br />
have given me a raise, or just said that I did a good job, you know, that I was <strong>the</strong> best janitor he’d<br />
ever seen—only if it was true, of course. But he just renamed me ‘custodial engineer’ and patted<br />
himself on <strong>the</strong> back. Maybe he thought he was a hell of a manager <strong>for</strong> that.”<br />
Sam said, “A janitor by any o<strong>the</strong>r name is still <strong>the</strong> person who cleans up o<strong>the</strong>r people’s<br />
shit.”<br />
Sam’s hand rested on <strong>the</strong> trailer floor next to John.<br />
“Literally,” Gavin said, “and a thief by any o<strong>the</strong>r name is still a low-life son of a bitch. He<br />
called himself a manager, but all he managed to do was put himself out of business—put us out of<br />
business. He embezzled from himself. How crazy is that?”<br />
Sam said, “Just a sign in <strong>the</strong> window.”<br />
Gavin said, “No last paycheck, no apology, no nothing.”<br />
Ed said, “Well, it was his company, right? You didn’t invest anything in it.”<br />
“You mean o<strong>the</strong>r than my life?” Gavin shook his head and took ano<strong>the</strong>r bite from his<br />
sandwich. He chewed and chewed and <strong>the</strong>n swallowed and said, “But it turned out <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> best.<br />
Sam here pays me well. And Sam says I’m a good loader.”<br />
“And you are,” Sam said.<br />
“Thank you, Sam.” Gavin nodded. “And Sam won’t drive in a way that’ll kill me in my<br />
sleep. I got a daughter that’s going to college at <strong>University</strong> of <strong>Florida</strong>. She counts on me making<br />
decent money, and she needs me alive <strong>for</strong> a while yet.”<br />
John set his hand on <strong>the</strong> trailer floor next to Sam’s, less than an inch from it.<br />
Ed held up what remained of his sandwich, only two bites now—or one Ed-sized bite. “Is<br />
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this Miracle Whip?” he asked.<br />
“Mayo,” Sam said.<br />
“I like Miracle Whip better.”<br />
“Don’t finish it, <strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
Ed smirked, <strong>the</strong>n knit his brows and said to John, “We could do a wash, too, while we’re<br />
in that truck stop. There were washers and dryers in <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
John liked <strong>the</strong> idea of Ed finally getting clean.<br />
Sam nodded.<br />
Ed said to John, “You’ve got spare clo<strong>the</strong>s, right? You shower and put those on, <strong>the</strong>n we<br />
start a wash. I’ll hand <strong>the</strong> last of my stuff out to you—put <strong>the</strong> truck stop’s towel in <strong>the</strong>re, too—<br />
<strong>the</strong>n you hand my stuff and <strong>the</strong> towel back when <strong>the</strong>y’re good and dry. I’ll just hang out in <strong>the</strong><br />
shower till <strong>the</strong>y’re done.”<br />
“Okay,” John said.<br />
Ed stared coldly at Sam, packed <strong>the</strong> last of his sandwich into his mouth, and asked Gavin<br />
while Ed chewed his two or three times, “You godda college-age dauder?”<br />
“Uh-huh.”<br />
Ed swallowed and asked, “You have her when you was fifty?” He took ano<strong>the</strong>r huge bite.<br />
“I didn’t have her,” Gavin said. “My wife did.”<br />
“Your wife leave you?”<br />
Gavin stopped chewing. “Dead now, God rest her soul.” He made <strong>the</strong> sign of <strong>the</strong> cross.<br />
“Saw her little girl graduate high school, though.” He chewed again.<br />
John raised his pinky, hovered it over Sam’s. It would take only a tiny motion now, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>ir hands would be touching. Ed and Gavin didn’t seem to notice.<br />
Ed asked Gavin, “What do you expect in return <strong>for</strong> paying your daughter’s college bills?<br />
You want her to support you in your old age? Let me correct myself: your really, really ancient<br />
age?”<br />
Gavin stared hard at Ed. Gavin’s jaw muscles clenched, and his mesh of tanned wrinkles<br />
rolled like a scurry of fresh ripples across huge ocean swells from a faraway storm. On top of<br />
<strong>the</strong>m, gray whiskers undulated in <strong>the</strong> sharp sunlight.<br />
John looked at Sam <strong>the</strong>n, but he couldn’t see a single whisker.<br />
Gavin said, “I don’t expect anything from my daughter except <strong>for</strong> her to be who she is. I<br />
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love my daughter. I do <strong>for</strong> her because it makes me happy to see her happy, but I suppose you<br />
wouldn’t understand that.”<br />
Ed said, “I’d retire if I was you, use that money to buy a little place and relax.”<br />
“And do what, watch <strong>the</strong> grass grow? I’m relaxed now, doing my job. I like my job.”<br />
Ed said, “You’re not doing anything but getting a free ride on a medical profile.”<br />
“A what?”<br />
“You’re a sucker,” Ed said, “throwing away your money like that.”<br />
Sam stared hard at Ed, Sam’s cheeks knotting up and lips pressing thinly toge<strong>the</strong>r. The<br />
scowl made Sam’s chin, cheekbones, and lips seem harder, more masculine than John liked.<br />
John took his hand from next to Sam’s and put it back on his sandwich.<br />
Gavin rolled his lips inside his mouth and sucked on <strong>the</strong>m. Then he asked Ed, “Anyone<br />
ever do anything <strong>for</strong> you just because? Anyone care <strong>for</strong> you that much?”<br />
Ed’s lids lowered to <strong>the</strong> tops of his pupils, which had dilated and consumed his irises,<br />
turning his eyes black. He seemed not to brea<strong>the</strong> while he stared at Gavin.<br />
Ed said, “ You think you can psychoanalyze me, but you’re a truck loader, remember?<br />
Not a psychiatrist, not a doctor, not a philosopher.”<br />
“I’m a human being,” Gavin said.<br />
“One who thinks he knows everything just because he’s been around longer than most.<br />
Age don’t make you smart, old man. It just means you been lucky.” Ed sniggered. “Up to now.”<br />
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CHAPTER 33<br />
John stood in front of <strong>the</strong> three washing machines. He was clean-shaven, freshly scrubbed,<br />
his hair still wet and slicked down, standing bare-ankled in his dress shoes and wearing his dress<br />
slacks and his sweater with no shirt. He chose <strong>the</strong> cleanest washer and stuffed <strong>the</strong> truck stop’s<br />
towel and his own hand towel, T-shirt, dress shirt, jeans, underwear, and all his socks inside.<br />
Ed held <strong>the</strong> key and said, “I’m trusting you, now. Once I hand my stuff out to you, no<br />
running off and leaving me naked at <strong>the</strong> truck stop.”<br />
“Of course,” John said.<br />
Ed pointed <strong>the</strong> key at John like a <strong>for</strong>efinger. “I’ll have my coat and blanket in <strong>the</strong> shower<br />
room with me. If I have to, I’ll chase you down wearing just those.”<br />
Ed’s whiskers were thick, looking more like <strong>the</strong> beginnings of a beard than simply<br />
whiskers. John imagined Ed’s hair growing like <strong>the</strong> sprouts on a time-lapsed ad <strong>for</strong> a Chia Pet.<br />
“No problem,” John said.<br />
Ed looked around and made sure no one was watching, <strong>the</strong>n hunched up <strong>the</strong> front of his<br />
parka, pulled out Cecil’s pistol, and slid it into one of <strong>the</strong> two biggest of his parka pockets. The<br />
tip of <strong>the</strong> pistol’s barrel stick out of <strong>the</strong> pocket, and Ed tried to drape <strong>the</strong> pocket flap over that,<br />
but even it wouldn’t cover <strong>the</strong> very end completely. He hunched up his parka front again and<br />
unfastened his belt. He pulled <strong>the</strong> belt off with his left hand while holding his knife and sheath<br />
against <strong>the</strong> front of his hip with his bandaged hand’s wrist. He draped <strong>the</strong> belt over his shoulder,<br />
glanced over that same shoulder, and pulled his knife, sheath and all, from beneath <strong>the</strong> parka and<br />
slid it into <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r largest parka pocket. The hilt stuck out <strong>the</strong> knife’s pocket far<strong>the</strong>r than <strong>the</strong><br />
barrel did <strong>the</strong> pistol’s.<br />
Ed rolled up his belt and shoved it into <strong>the</strong> pocket with <strong>the</strong> knife, keeping his hand inside<br />
<strong>the</strong> pocket an extra second and <strong>the</strong>n pulling out <strong>the</strong> bandanna by a corner, unfolding it as it came,<br />
poofing it into view like a magician’s handkerchief. Ed shook <strong>the</strong> bandanna out and set it on <strong>the</strong><br />
closed washer lid next to <strong>the</strong> washer John had loaded. Then Ed peeled his parka off and rolled it<br />
up around <strong>the</strong> knife and pistol.<br />
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Ed’s sweatshirt was splotched with stains <strong>the</strong> same color as those on his ball cap. The<br />
shirt’s stains, though, were larger. One huge, dark, solid stain spread all <strong>the</strong> way across his belly<br />
and up close to his left shoulder.<br />
John asked, “Is that blood?”<br />
Ed peered down at <strong>the</strong> front of his sweatshirt.<br />
“Oh,” he said. “Yeah. That’s from <strong>the</strong> rabbit.”<br />
“That’s a lot of blood <strong>for</strong> a little doggie.”<br />
“I said, ‘rabbit.’”<br />
“Yeah,” John said.<br />
Ed chortled exaggeratingly, his brows rising too high, lids flaring open too far, eyes rolling<br />
just a split second too long. “I think every drop in that rabbit squirted on me, you know? There<br />
must be not one drop out <strong>the</strong>re on <strong>the</strong> ground.”<br />
“You had your coat off when you murdered him?”<br />
“Once I finally got around to killing and cleaning it, I did, yeah. I’d worked up quite a<br />
sweat chasing it. You know, out <strong>the</strong>re in those wide open fields and woods and all.”<br />
Ed checked his rolled-up parka, sliding his left hand into <strong>the</strong> very axis of <strong>the</strong> roll. John<br />
imagined him gripping <strong>the</strong> knife’s hilt or <strong>the</strong> pistol, checking to make sure he could whip one out<br />
in a split second if he wanted.<br />
John said, “You’re going to wash that sweatshirt in <strong>the</strong>re with all my clo<strong>the</strong>s?”<br />
“Oh, sure. I’ll put spot remover on it.”<br />
Ed pulled off first his ball cap and <strong>the</strong>n his sweatshirt. The blood from his sweatshirt had<br />
seeped through to his dirt- and sweat-stained T-shirt. A fainter version of <strong>the</strong> sweatshirt’s stain<br />
pattern covered <strong>the</strong> T-shirt, <strong>the</strong> spots darker brown in places where <strong>the</strong> blood had drenched <strong>the</strong><br />
sweatshirt, lighter rusty brown in spots where blood had merely brushed it. Between <strong>the</strong> blood<br />
that had soaked through and <strong>the</strong> blackened-with-dirt sweat stains, Ed’s white T-shirt looked tiedied<br />
charcoal, umber, and rust. Ed smelled horrible, like those bar drains at Leopold’s, or a dead<br />
animal.<br />
John swallowed and readjusted his clo<strong>the</strong>s in <strong>the</strong> bottom of <strong>the</strong> washer. His hand didn’t<br />
seem able to let go.<br />
“Don’t worry,” Ed said, plopped his sweatshirt in a ball next to his bandanna on <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
washer lid, and put his ball cap back on. “Sure, this rabbit blood will swish around with your<br />
177
clo<strong>the</strong>s, but nothing will stick. I use lots of spot remover.”<br />
“You have <strong>the</strong> spot remover now?”<br />
“I’ll go get it.”<br />
“You sure go through <strong>the</strong> spot remover. Maybe you ought to buy it by <strong>the</strong> case.”<br />
Ed laughed sarcastically, his head canted, his eyes squinting, his top teeth bared in a<br />
snarling fake smile. He shoved his bandanna into a front jeans pocket, clenched his parka tight<br />
against <strong>the</strong> side of his waist, and turned and walked back down <strong>the</strong> washer hallway toward <strong>the</strong><br />
convenience store part of <strong>the</strong> building.<br />
John studied Ed’s sweatshirt without touching it. He tried to imagine all that blood inside<br />
Hawking’s veins. Even if that animal <strong>the</strong>y had eaten hadn’t been Hawking, even if it had been <strong>the</strong><br />
biggest jackrabbit John could imagine, all that blood didn’t make sense. Even John’s fa<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />
butcher aprons hadn’t caught that much blood.<br />
Though, John thought, dad never actually killed <strong>the</strong> animals. They had stopped bleeding<br />
long be<strong>for</strong>e he’d gotten his hands on <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
John recalled a scene from The Discovery Channel, a close-up of a Maasai shooting an<br />
arrow’s tip into a cow’s jugular from only inches away, of <strong>the</strong> arrow bouncing back like it had<br />
gently tapped a rubber ball instead, and of <strong>the</strong> cow’s blood gushing out through <strong>the</strong> cut like a<br />
stream from a water fountain.<br />
That’s what that stain looks like, John thought. That’s <strong>the</strong> kind of blood that would do<br />
that.<br />
Then Ed was back with a half-gallon of spot remover with a wide screw-off lid instead of<br />
a squirt spout or a plastic scrubber top thick with tiny cilialike fingers. It was a container meant<br />
<strong>for</strong> refilling smaller bottles. Ed shoved his rolled-up parka onto <strong>the</strong> closed washer’s top, twisted<br />
<strong>the</strong> spot remover’s top off, poured huge globs onto his sweatshirt, and scrubbed it in using <strong>the</strong><br />
folds of <strong>the</strong> shirt itself.<br />
John didn’t want to leave his clo<strong>the</strong>s in <strong>the</strong> washer. Ei<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong> blood would seep in, or <strong>the</strong><br />
excessive spot remover would damage <strong>the</strong> material. John wondered why everything seemed to<br />
happen to Ed in extremes. He never had one tiny spot that would need only one dab of remover.<br />
Ed’s life seemed to unravel in a cliffhanger sort of way, or Macbeth-extreme.<br />
But I have no money, he thought. And my clo<strong>the</strong>s are filthy. And now that I’m clean, I<br />
can’t stand <strong>the</strong>ir smell. I’ll get to Pamela’s soon and won’t need a sweater <strong>the</strong>re, right? Maybe<br />
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Kevin will loan me something, a pair of baggy, island-vacation kind of wrinkly shorts, a bleachedout<br />
thread-worn shirt, something tropical-beach glaringly white and comfy. Maybe I don’t need to<br />
do a wash at all.<br />
Ed shoved his gel-soaked sweatshirt into <strong>the</strong> washer, pulled off his ball cap, rubbed spot<br />
remover into it and dropped it into <strong>the</strong> washer. He folded his bandanna catty-corner, like a<br />
neckerchief, draped it over <strong>the</strong> top of his head, and tied <strong>the</strong> corners in back, like he were a pirate<br />
or a biker. The bandanna wrinkled, loosely con<strong>for</strong>ming to <strong>the</strong> ridges and valleys in his <strong>for</strong>ehead,<br />
but if John hadn’t already known <strong>the</strong> shape of Ed’s head, he wouldn’t have guessed it from <strong>the</strong><br />
wrinkles.<br />
Ed peeled off his T-shirt next, blobbed cleaner onto it, and scrubbed it <strong>the</strong> same way he<br />
had <strong>the</strong> sweatshirt. Ed’s chest, back, and upper arms were pasty pale and covered with wide<br />
patches of black hair. His rotting oniony smell hit John in a new wave. John held his breath, and<br />
he knew how horribly inept commercial washers were, that indiscernible parts of Ed and <strong>the</strong> blood<br />
would seep into his own clo<strong>the</strong>s by <strong>the</strong> time <strong>the</strong> wash finished, regardless of how much <strong>the</strong><br />
detergent’s “brisk-breeze” artificial scents might try to mask what was about to happen.<br />
Ed picked up his roll from <strong>the</strong> floor and his rolled-up parka and headed toward <strong>the</strong><br />
shower-room doors.<br />
“Come on,” he said.<br />
John followed him, and Ed unlocked and opened <strong>the</strong> door.<br />
“Okay,” Ed said. “Wait here, and I’ll hand <strong>the</strong> rest of my stuff out to you.<br />
* * *<br />
Ed hadn’t finished by <strong>the</strong> time <strong>the</strong> washer was done, so John shoved his own clo<strong>the</strong>s, still<br />
wet, into his gym bag; put Ed’s stuff into a dryer and started it; carried his gym bag out of <strong>the</strong><br />
truck stop; walked as fast as he could—wanting to sprint—back to Sam’s truck; and, half out of<br />
breath, told Sam, “Ed’s decided to stay on his own . . . We should go now.”<br />
Sam blinked. “He doesn’t want a ride?”<br />
“He hates us all.”<br />
“I could see that. I just—”<br />
“Just go, Sam, please. Now.”<br />
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Sam said, “Okay,” shut Gavin and <strong>the</strong> chairs in <strong>the</strong> trailer again, started <strong>the</strong> truck, and<br />
pulled out of <strong>the</strong> lot, turned onto <strong>the</strong> ramp heading south, and soon accelerated through eight<br />
gears to highway speed.<br />
John didn’t see any sign of Ed in <strong>the</strong> passenger side mirror, and he sighed and sank back<br />
into <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>table padding of <strong>the</strong> seat.<br />
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CHAPTER 34<br />
Ed peeked through <strong>the</strong> cracked shower room door, <strong>the</strong> towel wrapped around his waist,<br />
and didn’t see anyone. One dryer ran noisily, its gravelly bearings squealing twice on each<br />
rotation—a long and a short squeal; long, short . . . long, short—in <strong>the</strong> rhythm of a heartbeat, <strong>the</strong><br />
harsh hum of <strong>the</strong> motor seeming to clear its throat in a “Hmmmm, Hmmmm, Hmmmm . . .” that<br />
paired up perfectly with <strong>the</strong> squeals, one hum per full heartbeat. After <strong>the</strong> humid wash of <strong>the</strong><br />
shower room, <strong>the</strong> dry heat of <strong>the</strong> laundry area smelled acrid, like <strong>the</strong> beginnings of an electrical<br />
fire.<br />
Ed waited, figuring John had gone to <strong>the</strong> restroom or something. Ed didn’t think John was<br />
<strong>the</strong> type to abandon anyone, but <strong>the</strong>n Ed remembered John’s leaving him at Wal-Mart, and Ed’s<br />
own breathing increased to faster than that of <strong>the</strong> dryer. His heartbeat sped up like he were seven<br />
again and a train were barreling down on his trailer court and Marcus was riding his bicycle down<br />
<strong>the</strong> thin edge of <strong>the</strong> highway between trailer courts, that half-full canvas bag of papers slung from<br />
his shoulder.<br />
Ed never thought to holler John’s name because calling out <strong>for</strong> anyone had never once<br />
worked in his life after Marcus had died on that sunny, cool day—a day amazingly like today, a<br />
day amazingly like <strong>the</strong> day he had first woken back up after trying to kill himself.<br />
Ed sucked in two diaphragm-aching lungfulls, holding each in turn <strong>for</strong> a full two seconds<br />
to blast his blood with oxygen, and <strong>for</strong>ced his heart to calm. He clenched his molars hard, set his<br />
jaw and tightened every muscle in his face, and said, “Fuck you.”<br />
He threw down his towel and marched out to <strong>the</strong> dryer with nothing on but <strong>the</strong> fresh<br />
bandage around his right hand. It almost glowed, it was so white.<br />
Fuck everyone, Ed thought. Fuck all your make-believe relationships.<br />
He didn’t expect that dryer to hold his clo<strong>the</strong>s. He expected to have to steal someone<br />
else’s—wanted to, actually. But when he yanked open <strong>the</strong> door and killed <strong>the</strong> dryer’s heartbeat<br />
and saw that <strong>the</strong>y were, in fact, his clo<strong>the</strong>s inside, he sighed, his muscles all relaxed, and he felt<br />
guilty <strong>for</strong> having walked out into <strong>the</strong> hallway naked like that. He didn’t look toward <strong>the</strong> store or<br />
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care if anyone saw him, figuring <strong>the</strong>y’d be more focused on his <strong>for</strong>ehead than his ass anyway.<br />
He pulled on his still-damp ball cap and snugged that over his head, <strong>the</strong>n put on his<br />
underwear, jeans, and T-shirt. He closed <strong>the</strong> dryer door and restarted <strong>the</strong> humming and squealing<br />
to finish drying <strong>the</strong> rest of his clo<strong>the</strong>s.<br />
He walked barefoot back to <strong>the</strong> shower room and closed himself inside while he put on his<br />
belt, K-bar, and parka, tucked Cecil’s pistol inside his belt, and grabbed his roll and boots.<br />
He studied himself in <strong>the</strong> mirror. His cap’s bill sat crooked above his face, <strong>the</strong> cardboard in<br />
it warped from <strong>the</strong> wash, his nose bent. All that, combined with his sudden cleanliness, gave Ed<br />
<strong>the</strong> conceit that he looked like a turn-of-<strong>the</strong>-century boxer between fights, showered and waiting,<br />
being photographed <strong>for</strong> that same bent look, looking <strong>for</strong>ward to <strong>the</strong> next big match up, and it<br />
seemed apt to him.<br />
He shoved <strong>the</strong> towel and key into <strong>the</strong> laundry’s trash can, hoping even a little trouble <strong>for</strong><br />
Sam would be something, and after <strong>the</strong> dryer stopped, he pulled out his socks and piled <strong>the</strong>m on<br />
top of <strong>the</strong> adjacent closed washer. He held each sock up in turn, scrutinized <strong>the</strong> lay of <strong>the</strong> toe, and<br />
smoo<strong>the</strong>d it out into one of three stacks on <strong>the</strong> washer’s lid: right-toed, left-toed, and ambiguous.<br />
He had nearly two dozen pair, and each of <strong>the</strong> three stacks was a different height, <strong>the</strong> center one<br />
<strong>the</strong> smallest.<br />
He paired up <strong>the</strong> socks from <strong>the</strong> outer two stacks, rolling each pair into a tight little<br />
bundle <strong>the</strong> size and shape of a Twinkie. Then he studied those from <strong>the</strong> center stack more closely,<br />
tried to guess which were more right-toed and which left-, and paired <strong>the</strong>m up as best as he could.<br />
He couldn’t stand ambiguously toed socks.<br />
As he stuffed all <strong>the</strong> rolled-up socks inside his Ziplock baggies, a man walked up to <strong>the</strong><br />
next washer with a plastic shopping bag full of clo<strong>the</strong>s and cheerily asked Ed, “How ya doin?”<br />
“Fine,” Ed said and shot <strong>the</strong> man a harsh smile from beneath squinty eyes. He rolled up his<br />
sweatshirt and Ziplock-baggied socks into his blanket and cinched <strong>the</strong> rope at ei<strong>the</strong>r end.<br />
The man loaded his clo<strong>the</strong>s into ano<strong>the</strong>r washer and said, “Oh, fine, fine. Thank you.<br />
Gorgeous day out, isn’t it?” He shook his head and sighed. “Boy, Christmas sure comes around<br />
faster every year.” He chuckled. “Just goes to show . . .”<br />
Ed walked away.<br />
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CHAPTER 35<br />
Kevin dropped <strong>the</strong> lobster trap back over <strong>the</strong> side of his boat and fed <strong>the</strong> line out. Thin,<br />
high clouds had draped <strong>the</strong> sky, sun, and moon with light gray. The boat rolled sloppily on big<br />
swells rolling in from <strong>the</strong> north, <strong>the</strong>ir surfaces smooth from <strong>the</strong> deceptive calm. No land was in<br />
sight anywhere.<br />
“The wind will come soon,” Kevin said.<br />
The barometer’s needle had dropped all night and all morning, accelerating into <strong>the</strong><br />
afternoon.<br />
“One more line of traps,” he said, “<strong>the</strong>n back toward home.”<br />
He tossed that trap’s float over and searched <strong>the</strong> swells <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> next. His mouth tasted<br />
bitter.<br />
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CHAPTER 36<br />
After <strong>the</strong> two-lane highway through Arkansas’ foothills, I-49 through Louisiana was a<br />
smooth, steady ride, and <strong>the</strong> far<strong>the</strong>r John got from Ed, <strong>the</strong> more at ease he felt. Between<br />
Shreveport and Alexandria, very little traffic used I-49, though <strong>the</strong> highway remained four lanes<br />
with limited-access on and off ramps, wide shoulders, and a median like a large, mowed back<br />
yard.<br />
Now <strong>the</strong> woods on ei<strong>the</strong>r side of <strong>the</strong> highway were almost completely pine. The tall,<br />
straight trunks started well back from <strong>the</strong> interstate on both sides and stood like <strong>the</strong> teeth of a dog<br />
brush between its gummy base and <strong>the</strong> dense mat of fur at <strong>the</strong> tooth ends. At times, <strong>the</strong> trunks<br />
even seemed as uni<strong>for</strong>m, lining up in straight rows that made John wonder whe<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>est had<br />
been planted by hand, if <strong>the</strong> original old-growth <strong>for</strong>est had been harvested a generation be<strong>for</strong>e and<br />
a faux <strong>for</strong>est put down in its place.<br />
Sam still used <strong>the</strong> heat instead of switching to vent or air, so John assumed it was still cold<br />
outside despite <strong>the</strong> complete lack of snow.<br />
John could remember both warm and cool childhood Christmases in Biloxi, and one cold<br />
one. More times than not, he had worn shorts as a child, even on Christmas day. But <strong>the</strong>re had<br />
been one Christmas when it had snowed, though it didn’t stick. The flakes vanished as soon as<br />
<strong>the</strong>y struck <strong>the</strong> earth, as if <strong>the</strong>y were merely passing through this dimension from one gateway up<br />
in <strong>the</strong> clouds to ano<strong>the</strong>r flush with <strong>the</strong> tips of <strong>the</strong> grass blades—except <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> thin white line <strong>the</strong><br />
snow left along <strong>the</strong> very base of each house’s north wall. John’s world had captured <strong>the</strong><br />
unworldly stuff <strong>the</strong>re, but only <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> morning. He knew it wouldn’t last long.<br />
John scraped up <strong>the</strong> entirety of one house’s snow and made a snowball to throw at<br />
Pamela, but she didn’t come outside, and his snowball began to melt in his hands. Icy water<br />
coated his fingers and seeped between and around to <strong>the</strong>ir bottoms and drip, drip, dripped to <strong>the</strong><br />
grass. The snowball was imperfect, anyway, course and discolored with sand and grass seed. John<br />
threw it right smack into <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong>ir front door with a sharp thud. Eight seconds later, his<br />
mo<strong>the</strong>r opened <strong>the</strong> door, as if expecting a visitor. She saw John standing at <strong>the</strong> street edge of <strong>the</strong>ir<br />
184
yard, his hands dripping wet, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> quickly melting clods of snow on <strong>the</strong>ir stoop, and she<br />
quietly closed <strong>the</strong> door. John wondered if he wouldn’t have been so quick to make a snowball if<br />
<strong>the</strong>y had had more snow. Maybe his first instinct <strong>the</strong>n would have been to make a snowman or an<br />
angel.<br />
John pressed his palm against <strong>the</strong> cab’s passenger window. The glass felt cool but not<br />
cold, not as cold as <strong>the</strong> Beetle’s window had felt, and not nearly as cold as his childhood’s one<br />
snowball. He kept his hand on <strong>the</strong> glass <strong>for</strong> almost a full minute, and it never got so cold that he<br />
felt uncom<strong>for</strong>table holding it <strong>the</strong>re. It was nice. He wished he could smell <strong>the</strong> pine again.<br />
“Sam,” he said and pulled his hand from <strong>the</strong> window, “could we roll <strong>the</strong> windows down?”<br />
Sam looked at him, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> heater controls. The temperature selector knob rested<br />
beneath a thinner part of <strong>the</strong> red line, where it ran above <strong>the</strong> beginnings of <strong>the</strong> very tip of <strong>the</strong> point<br />
of <strong>the</strong> long, thin blue wedge that came from <strong>the</strong> opposite side. The knob had been at <strong>the</strong> extreme<br />
red end that morning.<br />
Sam watched <strong>the</strong> mostly empty, almost-straight-as-an-arrow road again.<br />
“It’s still cold outside,” Sam said. “Tomorrow, maybe.”<br />
“Could we at least flip <strong>the</strong> source knob from recirculate to outside air?”<br />
Sam slid that knob from above a U-shaped arrow inside a simple graphic of a cab toward a<br />
straight arrow coming through <strong>the</strong> graphic of a cab. Sam stopped <strong>the</strong> knob in <strong>the</strong> middle, though,<br />
on <strong>the</strong> half-half mixture.<br />
Sam asked, “How’s that?”<br />
“Okay,” John said.<br />
John tried to smell pine in <strong>the</strong> air from <strong>the</strong> vents, and he thought he detected a whiff, but<br />
he wasn’t sure.<br />
John glanced into <strong>the</strong> sleeper again and asked, “Have you read all those books, Sam?”<br />
Sam said, “There aren’t all that many <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
“But you’ve read <strong>the</strong>m?”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“Even <strong>the</strong> bible. You’ve read it in its entirety?”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“Are you religious?”<br />
Sam’s lips curled in on <strong>the</strong>mselves, and Sam looked dead ahead, eyes narrowing.<br />
185
Sam said, “Not like most people would interpret that word, I think.”<br />
“Like what, <strong>the</strong>n?”<br />
Sam hesitated, <strong>the</strong>n said, “My dad is a preacher.”<br />
“So you grew up religious.”<br />
Sam stared at only <strong>the</strong> road. “No. My dad wasn’t around.”<br />
“He traveled?”<br />
Sam chortled. “Yeah. One way.”<br />
“In what sort of way?”<br />
Sam glanced at John quickly, suspiciously.<br />
“No,” Sam said, looking back at <strong>the</strong> highway. “He abandoned my mom and me, never<br />
came back.”<br />
John thought about what he’d done to Ed and stared at his hands.<br />
Sam’s lips curled in on one ano<strong>the</strong>r again. “As a kid, I read <strong>the</strong> bible to try to get to know<br />
him, and later I read simply to find justification <strong>for</strong> what he’d done.”<br />
The truck went beneath an overpass, and <strong>the</strong>y shot through <strong>the</strong> shadow and back out into<br />
<strong>the</strong> sun in <strong>the</strong> time it takes a television or a movie screen to switch scenes.<br />
Sam said, “But nothing in <strong>the</strong> bible gives anyone any excuse to abandon his family, even a<br />
child like me. Everything says to do <strong>the</strong> opposite.”<br />
John thought, But Ed’s . . . different, and <strong>the</strong>n John thought of his parents. It seemed to<br />
him that he should have thought of <strong>the</strong>m be<strong>for</strong>e Ed instead of after. Why after? Because <strong>the</strong>y had<br />
abandoned him? What had <strong>the</strong>y done, really, simply fallen out of love, or out of infatuation?<br />
Maybe <strong>the</strong>y still loved each o<strong>the</strong>r but just couldn’t stand to live in <strong>the</strong> same house anymore.<br />
That’s all <strong>the</strong>y’d done. At least <strong>the</strong>y had tried to explain it to him and Pamela, and <strong>the</strong> truth was<br />
that <strong>the</strong>y had tried to stay in touch with him. John was <strong>the</strong> one who had cut <strong>the</strong>m off, not <strong>the</strong><br />
o<strong>the</strong>r way around.<br />
Sam swallowed and said, “I was lucky, really. My mom . . . um. My mom . . .” Sam sighed<br />
and looked at John <strong>for</strong> a second, <strong>the</strong>n looked back at <strong>the</strong> road and said, “My mom wouldn’t let<br />
<strong>the</strong>m cut on me. The doctors told her what <strong>the</strong>y wanted to do instead of just doing it. And when<br />
she said, ‘No. Don’t you dare cut on my little baby,’ my dad couldn’t handle it. He said, ‘Hasta la<br />
vista, baby,’ or something like that, and walked out. I don’t know <strong>the</strong> ‘couldn’t handle it’ part <strong>for</strong><br />
sure. I’m assuming that, but <strong>the</strong> facts are <strong>the</strong>re, <strong>the</strong> be<strong>for</strong>e and after. It must be cause and effect,<br />
186
ight?”<br />
John said, “I don’t know,” and thought, Maybe <strong>the</strong>re is no cause and effect. Maybe things<br />
don’t happen <strong>for</strong> any reason at all. But he didn’t believe himself.<br />
Sam said, “My mom loves me <strong>for</strong> who I am, not <strong>for</strong> who she thinks I should be. She trusts<br />
God to know what He’s doing more than my dad seems to trust Him.” Sam’s head shook. “He<br />
ran away. You know what I mean?” Sam snickered. “Trying to run away from himself, really.”<br />
John looked at his hands again.<br />
Sam said, “I’ve read about parents who say, ‘Yeah, okay, cut away.’ They claim <strong>the</strong>y do<br />
that out of love. They say <strong>the</strong>y’re worried about <strong>the</strong>ir kids getting teased in gym class. So cutting<br />
on <strong>the</strong>ir little babies is <strong>the</strong> answer. But that’s not unconditional love, John. Unconditional means<br />
you don’t say, ‘I love you, except <strong>for</strong> that one thing . . .’” Sam glared at John. “You get that?”<br />
“Yes, I do.”<br />
Sam stared back through <strong>the</strong> windshield. “Well, you’re one out of about three hundred<br />
million, <strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
John thought, No I’m not.<br />
Sam snickered at John, and <strong>the</strong>n watched <strong>the</strong> road, smiling broadly, open-mou<strong>the</strong>d. Sam’s<br />
teeth were bright white in <strong>the</strong> sunlight, though not quite straight.<br />
“And so I learned about <strong>the</strong> bible but not my dad. I learned about me but not my dad. I<br />
learned about my mom but not my dad. O<strong>the</strong>r than that one really bad part of him.” Sam exhaled<br />
hard, shoulders slumping. “I would have liked to have known something good about him, though,<br />
just one thing.”<br />
“Have you asked your mo<strong>the</strong>r about him? Does she say anything good about him?”<br />
“She talks about <strong>the</strong> early times. Sometimes she’ll talk about how in love <strong>the</strong>y are, a<br />
young couple, you know. Sometimes she curses him as if he’d just walked out yesterday.”<br />
“So you did get to find out something, right? Something good?”<br />
“I tracked him down, a few years back. I never confronted him. But I found him, online.<br />
Then I looked him up in <strong>the</strong> phone book, when I was in his new home town. I drove past his<br />
church, three times over three years, and once past his house. He has a new family now.”<br />
“Why don’t you reach out to him, <strong>the</strong>n?”<br />
“Oh, come on, John, do you really think he wants me showing up on his doorstep? Me?<br />
You think his new wife and children will hug me and welcome me? I doubt <strong>the</strong>y’ve ever even<br />
187
heard my mom’s name.” Sam huffed a heavy sigh. “My third time past his church, on Fa<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />
Day, <strong>the</strong> marquee on <strong>the</strong> lawn said, ‘Fa<strong>the</strong>rs, do not exasperate your children; instead, bring <strong>the</strong>m<br />
up in <strong>the</strong> training and instruction of <strong>the</strong> Lord.’”<br />
“Maybe that means he feels bad about what he’s done. Maybe he just needs a little push to<br />
do what’s right.”<br />
Sam said, “If he wanted to be in touch, he’d have been in touch. We lived at his old<br />
address <strong>for</strong> years.”<br />
John hoped his fa<strong>the</strong>r’s address was still <strong>the</strong> same, his mo<strong>the</strong>r’s. Would <strong>the</strong>y still be in<br />
touch with each o<strong>the</strong>r? Pamela would have <strong>the</strong>ir numbers. Surely.<br />
John asked, “Where’s your mom now?”<br />
“She’s in Orlando. I stop and see her whenever me and Gavin are in <strong>the</strong> area. She’s sweet,<br />
my best friend.”<br />
John said, “That’s nice.”<br />
“Sometimes,” Sam said. “She has Alzheimer’s.”<br />
Sam glanced at John. Sam’s eyes seemed blank, expressionless. John didn’t know whe<strong>the</strong>r<br />
Sam was angry, sad, suspicious, or what.<br />
Sam looked back at <strong>the</strong> road. “Isn’t that something? My dad’s <strong>the</strong> one who wants to<br />
<strong>for</strong>get his past, and my mom’s <strong>the</strong> one who loses hers. The son of a bitch. I hate him.” Sam<br />
swallowed and kept watching <strong>the</strong> road. “No. I’m not supposed to hate him. I’m supposed to hate<br />
what he did, but not him.”<br />
John twisted his hands in his lap.<br />
Sam said, “The next time I opened my bible, I read just because I liked it, <strong>the</strong> old stories<br />
and stuff, Jesus’s teachings.”<br />
John glanced back at Sam. “Do you believe in all <strong>the</strong> old rules, Leviticus and all that?”<br />
“We ate a rabbit, didn’t we? That’s against those rules. The Old Testament makes God<br />
out to be pretty human, don’t you think? Vindictive, jealous, quick to anger, showing<br />
favoritism—you know, <strong>the</strong> chosen people and all that. Even God admits it. Part of <strong>the</strong> first<br />
commandment is ‘I am a jealous God.’ I like Jesus’s God better, a God of unconditional love, of<br />
<strong>for</strong>giveness.”<br />
“It’s <strong>the</strong> same God.”<br />
“An eye <strong>for</strong> an eye and a tooth <strong>for</strong> a tooth doesn’t jive very well with turn <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r cheek,<br />
188
now, does it?”<br />
John’s heart raced. He didn’t know why. A bitter taste seeped onto <strong>the</strong> back of this tongue<br />
and <strong>the</strong> insides of his cheeks. He felt like Ed was still with him, still goading him. He suddenly<br />
wanted a drink of water.<br />
Sam asked, “What do you do if someone strikes you so hard in <strong>the</strong> cheek that he knocks<br />
out one of your teeth? How do you obey both Leviticus and Luke <strong>the</strong>n?”<br />
John said, “Doesn’t sound much like you’ve turned <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r cheek when it comes to your<br />
fa<strong>the</strong>r.”<br />
Sam’s head and eyes snapped viciously toward John. “So you’ve always turned <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
cheek?”<br />
John turned away. “No.” Almost never, he admitted.<br />
Sam stared back at <strong>the</strong> road and hit a pair of buttons on <strong>the</strong> driver’s door panel. Both<br />
windows swooshed down and vanished within <strong>the</strong> doors. Air rushed in and whipped John’s skin<br />
and hair cold and sharp, like sleet. Sam’s face was obscured behind great whirls of whipping dark<br />
hair. Sam’s head stayed hard and fast, stonily focused on <strong>the</strong> road, though John couldn’t see how<br />
Sam could still see anything.<br />
The air was as cold as that one day when it had snowed in Biloxi.<br />
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CHAPTER 37<br />
They were just beyond Alexandria, still within its outskirts, really, when from somewhere<br />
inside Sam’s cab, John heard <strong>the</strong> Green Acres <strong>the</strong>me song in electronic dings. Sam had rolled <strong>the</strong><br />
windows back up long be<strong>for</strong>e Alexandria, and <strong>the</strong>y had ridden in silence <strong>for</strong> what had seemed to<br />
John like years.<br />
Sam pulled a cell phone from <strong>the</strong> cubby hole in <strong>the</strong> driver’s door, glanced at its front, let it<br />
keep dinging, and <strong>the</strong>n set it back in <strong>the</strong> cubby hole. The song finally stopped.<br />
“I need to pull over,” Sam said. “That’s my Baton Rouge delivery, probably wondering<br />
where we are.”<br />
“You’re supposed to be <strong>the</strong>re now?” John asked.<br />
“No, but <strong>the</strong>y’re a little anal. Young family. Few belongings. I’d be worried, too, I guess.”<br />
John nodded.<br />
Sam pulled off at <strong>the</strong> next off ramp with a truck stop and parked, and Sam, Gavin, and<br />
John went inside. The truck stop’s double glass doors swung shut and sealed out <strong>the</strong> sounds of<br />
<strong>the</strong> highway and <strong>the</strong> still-occasional buffeting icy breeze, and Sam opened <strong>the</strong> cell phone and<br />
started pushing buttons.<br />
Next to Sam, Gavin browsed through <strong>the</strong> paperback carousel, rotating it ano<strong>the</strong>r quarter<br />
turn every minute and a half or so, <strong>the</strong> carousel’s ancient, worn base squealing its hesitance each<br />
time.<br />
John stood and watched <strong>the</strong> sunlit lot through <strong>the</strong> huge panes of glass up front. It<br />
reminded him of his and Billie’s trip to buy a television, and he suddenly felt more right about<br />
leaving Denver than ever. The truck stop smelled of vinyl logbook covers and <strong>the</strong> paper and ink<br />
of new atlases and <strong>the</strong> stale cardboard of convenience store grocery packaging. It was a mostly<br />
<strong>for</strong>eign smell to John, but it felt more normal to him than standing in that cul-de-sac of televisions<br />
with <strong>the</strong> snow falling outside and with Billie arguing with him about moving that tiny painted-over<br />
nail. He felt more like himself here than <strong>the</strong>re, even if he didn’t feel completely himself yet.<br />
He thought, What was it that had been on all those televisions be<strong>for</strong>e <strong>the</strong> cartoon?<br />
190
Something about a murder?<br />
Then he noticed that one of <strong>the</strong> cars driving south on <strong>the</strong> highway slowed and pulled to a<br />
stop on <strong>the</strong> shoulder just south of <strong>the</strong> overpass. It looked like <strong>the</strong> car’s driver had meant to take<br />
<strong>the</strong> exit but had accidentally shot past it. But <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> passenger door opened, someone got out<br />
and pulled something from <strong>the</strong> back seat, and <strong>the</strong> car drove off. John stepped closer to <strong>the</strong> huge<br />
windows. The person from <strong>the</strong> car half ran, half slid down <strong>the</strong> grass embankment at <strong>the</strong> edge of<br />
<strong>the</strong> highway, crossed <strong>the</strong> on ramp, and disappeared behind <strong>the</strong> trees growing between <strong>the</strong> on ramp<br />
and <strong>the</strong> truck stop. John’s heart stopped. He thought <strong>for</strong> certain that <strong>the</strong> person was wearing a<br />
gray parka and that <strong>the</strong> thing pulled from <strong>the</strong> back seat was a rolled-up blanket, but at that<br />
distance, it was impossible to tell.<br />
John stepped right up next to <strong>the</strong> glass and played what he’d just seen over in his mind<br />
again. He thought, It’s possible, but he also wondered if his mind was playing tricks on him. A car<br />
did stop, and someone did get out and go down <strong>the</strong> embankment, over <strong>the</strong> on ramp, and into <strong>the</strong><br />
woods. His eyes had definitely seen that. But he wasn’t sure whe<strong>the</strong>r he’d really seen <strong>the</strong> parka<br />
and <strong>the</strong> rolled-up blanket or if it had just been anxious imagination, like a Rorschach. He had,<br />
after all, just been thinking of a murder. He wondered if he would see Ed everywhere now.<br />
Sam’s truck didn’t seem at first to particularly stand out from <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> row of<br />
trucks parked in <strong>the</strong> lot. The logo on <strong>the</strong> trailer’s side was common enough. But <strong>the</strong> pairing of an<br />
unlogoed ultramarine tractor with it was not. The crown of thorns on <strong>the</strong> grill was not. All that<br />
was in plain sight of <strong>the</strong> highway, and if Ed had been riding in a car up <strong>the</strong>re, he would have been<br />
able to recognize Sam’s truck, demand that <strong>the</strong> driver stop, and be dropped off right about where<br />
that car had dropped off whoever it was that it had.<br />
The trees <strong>the</strong> person had disappeared behind, or into, led almost right up to <strong>the</strong> back of<br />
<strong>the</strong> row of trucks. A shallow ditch and a barbed-wire fence was all that stood between <strong>the</strong> tree<br />
line and all <strong>the</strong> lined-up back doors of all <strong>the</strong> trailers. John scoffed. A moat and a wall with<br />
manned parapets wouldn’t keep Ed out.<br />
John imagined Ed jogging through <strong>the</strong> trees toward <strong>the</strong> lot, and John felt as if some<br />
carnivorous beast had clamped its jaws onto his windpipe.<br />
John went back to <strong>the</strong> carousel and Sam and Gavin.<br />
“Sam,” he said.<br />
Sam turned away, head bowing and shaking, waving one hand dismissively, still listening<br />
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to <strong>the</strong> phone.<br />
“Sam,” John said again.<br />
Sam asked into <strong>the</strong> phone. “There’s a sign <strong>for</strong> Perkins Road on <strong>the</strong> interstate, right?”<br />
John turned to Gavin and said, “Gavin, we have to leave.”<br />
Gavin blinked and turned back to <strong>the</strong> carousel. “Soon enough.”<br />
John imagined Ed stomping on <strong>the</strong> lowest strand of barbed wire, pulling up on <strong>the</strong> next<br />
one, crouching and first tossing his roll through <strong>the</strong> gap he’d made, and <strong>the</strong>n stepping through<br />
himself.<br />
“Come on,” John said and walked toward <strong>the</strong> front doors.<br />
Gavin twisted <strong>the</strong> carousel ano<strong>the</strong>r quarter turn.<br />
Squeal, <strong>the</strong>n nothing.<br />
John went outside of <strong>the</strong> building but stayed next to it, so that he could still see Sam and<br />
Gavin through one of <strong>the</strong> huge front panes but could also see <strong>the</strong> highway and <strong>the</strong> row of trucks<br />
more clearly. Sam’s truck’s sleeper and trailer were mostly masked by <strong>the</strong> next closest truck. That<br />
truck’s sleeper and trailer were mostly masked by <strong>the</strong> next, et cetera, et cetera. Somewhere<br />
behind <strong>the</strong>m all, John knew, Ed scanned all <strong>the</strong> pairs of trailer doors. John imagined Ed’s eyes<br />
locking on <strong>the</strong> moving company’s logo.<br />
Too late, John thought. He’s <strong>the</strong>re. He’s had time to do anything now, and John backed<br />
into <strong>the</strong> eave’s narrow shadow and watched, expecting Ed to emerge from <strong>the</strong> row of trucks and<br />
march steadily right toward him any minute now.<br />
Ed didn’t, but John stayed in <strong>the</strong> shadow of <strong>the</strong> eave anyway, <strong>for</strong> what seemed like ten<br />
minutes be<strong>for</strong>e Sam and Gavin finally came out of <strong>the</strong> truck stop.<br />
Sam asked John, “What’s wrong?”<br />
“Nothing.” John’s mouth was dry.<br />
“You seem in a hurry to get down <strong>the</strong> road.”<br />
“Yes,” John said.<br />
Sam said, “Well, let’s go.”<br />
Sam and Gavin stepped off <strong>the</strong> curb and walked toward <strong>the</strong> row of trucks, and John<br />
stayed in <strong>the</strong> eave’s shadow.<br />
Sam stopped and turned. “Aren’t you coming?”<br />
“Yeah,” John said again.<br />
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He brea<strong>the</strong>d deeply. He imagined Ed watching <strong>the</strong>m from <strong>the</strong> shadows between two of <strong>the</strong><br />
trucks, and he didn’t want to step into <strong>the</strong> sunlight, but he knew he had to in order to get to <strong>the</strong><br />
truck and get out of <strong>the</strong>re and away from Ed, so he followed Sam and Gavin into <strong>the</strong> blinding<br />
daylight, off <strong>the</strong> curb, and into <strong>the</strong> lot.<br />
At first he stayed behind Sam as <strong>the</strong>y walked, his shoulders and head scrunched <strong>for</strong>ward in<br />
a half crouch. Then he felt like a coward <strong>for</strong> that, and he moved out next to Sam and spread his<br />
arms slightly, palms <strong>for</strong>ward, like a skydiver picking up speed, and he leaned his head up and back<br />
and brea<strong>the</strong>d in long, smooth breaths. He knew he could easily be walking in Ed’s gunsights right<br />
that moment, and his heart beat faster because of voluntarily exposing his heart like that, but still,<br />
what he had at first thought had been a brave gesture now felt cheap, like Mel Gibson screaming<br />
“Freedom!” in <strong>the</strong> face of rubber knives and hooks, and <strong>the</strong> lack of a soundtrack and a makeup<br />
artist made <strong>the</strong> idea of John’s most-likely-imaginary nemesis seem even more absurd.<br />
He slumped his shoulders again, and he felt like a fool all <strong>the</strong> way until Sam had half<br />
circled <strong>the</strong> semi in a pretrip inspection, stopped behind <strong>the</strong> trailer, squinted, and said, “What <strong>the</strong><br />
hell?”<br />
Gavin stood at <strong>the</strong> big side door he had just unlatched and pulled open by inches. “What?”<br />
Sam kept looking at <strong>the</strong> trailer’s back doors, and Gavin and John walked down <strong>the</strong><br />
shadowy space between <strong>the</strong> trucks and joined Sam out at <strong>the</strong> lip of <strong>the</strong> ditch.<br />
In <strong>the</strong> dirt layer covering <strong>the</strong> back doors, someone had rubbed, in clean, half-foot-wide<br />
swaths, a huge pair of overlapping Vs, one upright and one upside-down. The upright V ran in<br />
straight lines from <strong>the</strong> top left corner of <strong>the</strong> back of <strong>the</strong> trailer down to <strong>the</strong> bottom middle and<br />
back up to <strong>the</strong> top right corner, and <strong>the</strong> upside-down V ran from each bottom corner up to <strong>the</strong><br />
top middle. One of <strong>the</strong> four taillights was missing its plastic red cover. The clear bulb sat<br />
unprotected in its chromed plastic cave.<br />
“What <strong>the</strong> hell?” Sam said again. “What happened to my light?”<br />
The bottom of <strong>the</strong> ditch behind <strong>the</strong>m was damp, tiny pools scattered throughout <strong>the</strong> grass<br />
in its bottom. The barbed wire ran crookedly, pulled loose from <strong>the</strong> posts in several spots. Ed<br />
could have come through any one of <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
“How’d <strong>the</strong>y reach way up <strong>the</strong>re?” Sam asked. “Had to be leaning down from on top of<br />
<strong>the</strong> trailer or something.”<br />
John imagined Ed hanging over scrubbing with his ditch-water-soaked bandanna.<br />
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Sam ran two fingers along one of <strong>the</strong> cleaned swaths.<br />
John said, “Maybe we should check <strong>the</strong> top of <strong>the</strong> trailer. Whoever it is could still be up<br />
<strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Gavin scoffed. “Good luck staying <strong>the</strong>re on <strong>the</strong> highway. If anyone’s idiotic enough to get<br />
up <strong>the</strong>re and stay up <strong>the</strong>re, he deserves what he gets.”<br />
“‘Wash me,’” Sam said. “If you draw a horizontal line through it halfway up,” Sam swept<br />
a karate-chop-like hand sideways across <strong>the</strong> doors, “it’s a W above an M. ‘Wash me.’ That’s all it<br />
is.”<br />
Gavin asked, “You sure <strong>the</strong> light cover wasn’t gone be<strong>for</strong>e?”<br />
John blurted out, “What if it’s Ed?”<br />
“Ed?” Sam asked. “We left Ed on <strong>the</strong> outskirts of Shreveport.”<br />
“What if he followed us? What if he wants to keep following us, even at night.”<br />
“He’s on foot,” Sam said. “Besides, he’s <strong>the</strong> one who decided to leave us, not <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
way around.”<br />
John shrugged.<br />
Gavin asked, “And why would he want to keep following us if he’s already caught us?”<br />
John said, “It’s too out in <strong>the</strong> open here. Too many people around. We’re all toge<strong>the</strong>r<br />
still.”<br />
Gavin snorted, “Hmph.” He glared at John. “You’re paranoid. Or guilty. What’d you do?”<br />
John swallowed and moistened his lips. “You’re glad he’s not with us anymore, right?”<br />
Sam shrugged. “Sure.”<br />
“And you?” John asked Gavin.<br />
Gavin shrugged. “Yeah.” He wiped <strong>the</strong> dirt around <strong>the</strong> bottom half of <strong>the</strong> overlapping Vs<br />
until <strong>the</strong> drawing was just a big W with its bottom points dipped nebulously into a smeared, blurry<br />
horizon. “Even if it was Ed, so what?”<br />
Sam said, “Let’s just go.”<br />
Gavin walked back up between <strong>the</strong> trailers and toward his waiting, open trailer door. Sam<br />
followed, sealed Gavin inside, and <strong>the</strong>n climbed into <strong>the</strong> cab. John stopped at <strong>the</strong> passenger door<br />
and watched <strong>the</strong> lot, bright in <strong>the</strong> sunlight, and <strong>the</strong>n turned and studied <strong>the</strong> shadowy recesses<br />
between <strong>the</strong> trunks of <strong>the</strong> trees in <strong>the</strong> wood line. The truck’s engine revved to life with a<br />
growling, smoky snarl rolling from <strong>the</strong> stacks.<br />
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John opened his door and clambered up and inside and closed <strong>the</strong> door. He peered into <strong>the</strong><br />
trees all <strong>the</strong> way until <strong>the</strong>y had driven out of <strong>the</strong> lot and onto <strong>the</strong> on ramp. He peered particularly<br />
closely at <strong>the</strong> woods along <strong>the</strong> on ramp, hoping he’d see some o<strong>the</strong>r bum, maybe <strong>the</strong> old, bearded,<br />
completely brown man Ed and Cecil had drenched in piss, crouching next to a campfire deep<br />
inside <strong>the</strong> woods, but all <strong>the</strong>re was was <strong>the</strong> trees, <strong>the</strong> shadowy undergrowth within, and <strong>the</strong><br />
shoulder of <strong>the</strong> road speeding up to a blur again. There was no Ed anywhere, but John still<br />
couldn’t shake him from everywhere.<br />
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CHAPTER 38<br />
The storm slammed down on Kevin. The combination of <strong>the</strong> clouds and dusk had snuffed<br />
out all <strong>the</strong> world’s lights in only seconds. Rain gushed at <strong>for</strong>ty-five degrees in almost complete<br />
blackness now, and <strong>the</strong> waves had turned viciously steep and taller than even Kevin’s boat was<br />
long, <strong>the</strong>ir tops blowing off in foamy lines that looked like lines of rolling clouds.<br />
Kevin ran straight into <strong>the</strong> waves toward St. George Island, his windshield wipers beating<br />
like mad, his boat feeling like a toy remote-control pickup trying to climb out of a storm gully.<br />
“I’m a lucky man,” he said.<br />
A wall of foamy spray and dark water pounded against his windshield, stalling <strong>the</strong> wipers<br />
from sheer weight alone. The wipers slugged back to life, and water rushed over and around <strong>the</strong><br />
narrow upper deck and ran in heavy sheets back to <strong>the</strong> stern and out <strong>the</strong> rear scuppers. One in<br />
every three waves hit him with so much water that <strong>the</strong> side decks and scuppers couldn’t handle it<br />
all, and it poured over <strong>the</strong> coaming and onto <strong>the</strong> deck all around and over his feet. The bilge pump<br />
thrummed constantly. Through <strong>the</strong> rain ahead, and sometimes from beneath a surge of solid<br />
water, his bow light’s faint red and green glow shined at <strong>the</strong> very point of his bow.<br />
He thought, This wind could have been blowing from ano<strong>the</strong>r direction, but St. George<br />
Island is dead upwind. That’s lucky as hell.<br />
He kept <strong>the</strong> boat pointed into <strong>the</strong> waves and said again, “I’m a lucky man.”<br />
Then an explosion like <strong>the</strong> big bang itself blasted all through his body and shook him like a<br />
mad parent trying to quiet his child, and a searing bright white blast of light engulfed him. The<br />
flash and <strong>the</strong> boom left him deaf and blind, but he gradually felt, first, <strong>the</strong> wheel still in his hands<br />
and, <strong>the</strong>n, <strong>the</strong> press of <strong>the</strong> deck heeling to port beneath his feet.<br />
He saw a heavy line of sea foam just out of reach, <strong>the</strong>n more lines of foam far<strong>the</strong>r out, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n he felt his boat sliding nose-first down <strong>the</strong> back wall of a wave, but this time <strong>the</strong>re was no<br />
shine of bow lights. He saw <strong>the</strong> white fiberglass edges and <strong>for</strong>ward deck of his boat dig into <strong>the</strong><br />
base of <strong>the</strong> next wave, and he felt <strong>the</strong> wheel try to wrench itself out of his hands and push through<br />
his chest, and still <strong>the</strong>re were no bow lights. The knotmeter and log, <strong>the</strong> GPS, <strong>the</strong> depth gauge,<br />
196
<strong>the</strong> compass were all black.<br />
Kevin realized he couldn’t hear <strong>the</strong> motors or <strong>the</strong> hum of <strong>the</strong> bilge pump. He didn’t<br />
believe his ears at first. He thought that maybe he was still deaf from <strong>the</strong> lightening blast, but he<br />
heard <strong>the</strong> roar and rumble of <strong>the</strong> waves and <strong>the</strong> wail of <strong>the</strong> wind. It had all quit: his lights, <strong>the</strong><br />
engine, <strong>the</strong> bilge pump, everything.<br />
His boat was suddenly thrust abeam in <strong>the</strong> waves, and it rolled violently from side to side.<br />
The next wave, or <strong>the</strong> next, could easily roll it and Kevin on over and upside down and sink <strong>the</strong>m.<br />
For an instant, he visualized himself sinking lifeless through <strong>the</strong> blackness, and <strong>the</strong> lobsters<br />
alighting on <strong>the</strong> sand and scurrying off in a long, thin line back to <strong>the</strong>ir homes.<br />
He poked two fingertips, fast and hard, four, five times against each instrument. Nothing.<br />
He tore open his companionway hatch, reached around, and flipped <strong>the</strong> breakers off and on, off<br />
and on, but his instruments remained dark. He left <strong>the</strong> breakers on and held on as <strong>the</strong> boat finished<br />
turning its bow downwind. A wave broke over <strong>the</strong> stern and sent dark water rushing below<br />
through his open companionway. Kevin closed <strong>the</strong> hatch and listened <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> bilge pump, hoping,<br />
to no avail.<br />
He still had <strong>the</strong> manual pump, but he had to get <strong>the</strong> motors going first, to gain <strong>for</strong>ward<br />
motion and control. He needed at least one to work.<br />
He pulled <strong>the</strong> throttles upright and pushed <strong>the</strong> ignition button, but he heard only <strong>the</strong> crash<br />
of waves, <strong>the</strong> whistle of <strong>the</strong> wind, <strong>the</strong> knock from below of some floating thing hitting some o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
thing in <strong>the</strong> sloshing water in <strong>the</strong> cabin. He turned <strong>the</strong> key off, <strong>the</strong>n on, and tried again. Nei<strong>the</strong>r<br />
motor did anything.<br />
Ano<strong>the</strong>r wave crashed over and around <strong>the</strong> twin outboards and rolled <strong>the</strong> boat hard to <strong>the</strong><br />
side. Solid water smashed against <strong>the</strong> closed companionway hatch and cabin bulkhead, but this<br />
water churned around Kevin’s legs instead of rushing en masse below. Still, tiny whirlpools<br />
showed where <strong>the</strong> water found gaps in <strong>the</strong> hatch’s frame and threshold. The boat slowly righted<br />
itself, and Kevin held on and tried to keep from slipping in <strong>the</strong> water or letting it pull his legs from<br />
beneath him.<br />
He clambered back to <strong>the</strong> motors, pulled one cover off, found <strong>the</strong> cord, and yanked and<br />
yanked. The motor started.<br />
He put <strong>the</strong> cover back on and removed <strong>the</strong> second motor’s cover. He yanked on that cord<br />
five times, <strong>the</strong>n five more, but <strong>the</strong> motor wouldn’t start.<br />
197
“Only one. Okay, <strong>the</strong>n,” he said.<br />
A wave crashed over <strong>the</strong> motors, slammed him in <strong>the</strong> face, and ripped <strong>the</strong> cover from his<br />
hands. He had no idea where it went. He fought his way <strong>for</strong>ward, slipped in ano<strong>the</strong>r boarding<br />
wave, grabbed <strong>the</strong> wheel, and pulled himself up. He braced his feet wide and pushed <strong>the</strong> left<br />
throttle <strong>for</strong>ward.<br />
The motor growled louder in <strong>the</strong> howl of <strong>the</strong> wind, and <strong>the</strong> boat came around, first rolling<br />
steeply to port as it fell abeam of <strong>the</strong> waves again, and <strong>the</strong>n back to its more-normal <strong>for</strong>ward-andback<br />
pitch as it climbed first up <strong>the</strong> face of <strong>the</strong> next wave, and <strong>the</strong>n down its back like a sled ride.<br />
“Yes,” Kevin said. “Yes.”<br />
Lightening flashed again, behind him, but still close. The blast came quick and loud and<br />
shuddered <strong>the</strong> boat.<br />
“Jesus,” Kevin said.<br />
He gave his one motor full throttle, and <strong>the</strong> boat’s motion settled again, <strong>the</strong> water gurgling<br />
out through <strong>the</strong> scuppers. He felt his wheel <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> Turk’s head in <strong>the</strong> dark, and kept it just to port<br />
to counteract <strong>the</strong> off-center push of just <strong>the</strong> one outboard.<br />
He opened <strong>the</strong> companionway hatch, reached around <strong>the</strong> bulkhead, and pulled out his<br />
flashlight. It still worked. Water sloshed around below at least two feet above <strong>the</strong> sole. His settee<br />
cushions, <strong>the</strong>rmos, and o<strong>the</strong>r paraphernalia floated like sargassum. He shoved <strong>the</strong> hatch closed<br />
again and shined <strong>the</strong> light on his compass. It was smashed.<br />
“What <strong>the</strong> hell?” He looked around <strong>for</strong> what could have done it, but <strong>the</strong>re was nothing big<br />
enough or heavy enough on deck. “The motor cover,” he said. “The damned motor cover.” He<br />
looked <strong>for</strong> it, but it had gone over. “Serves <strong>the</strong> thing right.”<br />
He steered <strong>the</strong> boat dead into <strong>the</strong> waves and peered through <strong>the</strong> rain-mottled windshield,<br />
<strong>the</strong> wipers were frozen in <strong>the</strong> angle <strong>the</strong>y were at when <strong>the</strong> lightening had struck. Kevin hoped <strong>the</strong><br />
wind wouldn’t shift, that he could count on St. George remaining dead upwind, against <strong>the</strong><br />
waves, and that <strong>the</strong> rain would let up be<strong>for</strong>e he got <strong>the</strong>re.<br />
“It’ll calm be<strong>for</strong>e I get <strong>the</strong>re,” he said. “It has to calm. The island will create wind shadows<br />
on my side, and I’ll know when I’m getting close because it will calm.”<br />
But he knew, too, that huge waves would be sweeping across Cape St. George Shoal in<br />
this wind, peaking and crashing in a tumbling roil, and if he was too far west, he’d end up in <strong>the</strong><br />
middle of that.<br />
198
He imagined Pamela waiting futilely <strong>for</strong> a dead man. He wanted her to know <strong>for</strong> fact that<br />
he loved her. He couldn’t remember <strong>the</strong> last time ei<strong>the</strong>r of <strong>the</strong>m had said those words. He hated<br />
<strong>the</strong> idea of her sitting alone in that darkened café wondering if he had really loved her right up<br />
until his death, if he had even thought of her in <strong>the</strong>se last moments, but he hated most <strong>the</strong> idea that<br />
she might regret not having said those words ei<strong>the</strong>r, wondering if he had known that she had<br />
loved him right up to <strong>the</strong> end, too.<br />
He thought, Of course I know you love me, you silly woman. Please don’t worry about<br />
that when I’m gone.<br />
“But I’m a lucky man,” he told himself again. “Just head straight into this mess, Kevin,<br />
and everything will be alright. You can tell her all that yourself <strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
He hoped he would be able to hear or see that roiling mess over <strong>the</strong> shoal from far enough<br />
away and skirt it and use it to find <strong>the</strong> calmer stuff and <strong>the</strong> land that would shield him from <strong>the</strong><br />
waves. He could drop anchor <strong>the</strong>re, and manually pump his bilge dry, and sleep, and try to figure<br />
out if he had what he needed on board to fix what that blast had broken, and, with hope, make his<br />
way home.<br />
He turned off his flashlight and blinked, trying to adjust his eyes. He couldn’t see even one<br />
light on <strong>the</strong> water.<br />
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CHAPTER 39<br />
It was night when <strong>the</strong>y finally stopped again. This truck stop was smaller than <strong>the</strong> last,<br />
down a side road from and—John was glad—out of sight of I-49. John smelled water, <strong>the</strong><br />
humidity in <strong>the</strong> air, and he felt a hint of warmer wafts in <strong>the</strong> coolness. They were deep down in<br />
Louisiana <strong>the</strong>n, near <strong>the</strong> Gulf, and <strong>the</strong> warmth was struggling to restake its claim after having to<br />
give way to that vicious cold front.<br />
Mounted on top of <strong>the</strong> restaurant’s roof were brightly painted signs with flashing colored<br />
incandescent bulbs and piercing neon tubes boasting <strong>the</strong> most generous slot machines within a<br />
hundred miles. Two dozen cars were snuggled up next to <strong>the</strong> building and filled that part of <strong>the</strong><br />
lot. A half dozen semis mostly filled <strong>the</strong> tiny lot’s outer edges. Across <strong>the</strong> two-lane highway,<br />
overflow parking swallowed <strong>the</strong> bottom third of a tiny convenience store.<br />
The music of an accordion, a fiddle, and a throbbing bass pulsated through <strong>the</strong> windowscarce<br />
walls of <strong>the</strong> restaurant and reverberated all through <strong>the</strong> night air. The air smelled sweet, of<br />
blossoms, though John couldn’t tell what kind. It wasn’t honeysuckle or magnolia. It was far too<br />
late in <strong>the</strong> year <strong>for</strong> those. He didn’t see blossoms anywhere in <strong>the</strong> lit-up parts of <strong>the</strong> lot, not in <strong>the</strong><br />
restaurant’s trim landscaping, not on <strong>the</strong> surface—a wall, really—of <strong>the</strong> dense greenery at <strong>the</strong><br />
edge of <strong>the</strong> dirt-and-grass parking lot. The far<strong>the</strong>st reaches of <strong>the</strong> dim lights kissed Spanish moss<br />
hanging from <strong>the</strong> oaks like hundreds of tiny silk ladies’ kerchiefs and lit up <strong>the</strong> pine trunks like<br />
columns to an enormous, encircling vine-entangled portico. He half expected to see garlands of<br />
blossoms wrapped around <strong>the</strong> trunks.<br />
The damp ground gave beneath John’s feet like a stiff sponge. The grass was still mostly<br />
green, though trampled down on top all <strong>the</strong> way to <strong>the</strong> thick wall of trees. John guessed it had<br />
been <strong>the</strong> now-absent snow or ice that had done that. It could have been only rain, but it would<br />
have had to have been recent rain, and hard. Still, <strong>the</strong>re was a bite in <strong>the</strong> air, too, an occasional<br />
waft of that Colorado blizzard, like an icy eddy that hits you while you swim in only slightly cool<br />
water.<br />
Sam had said that I-10 was right down <strong>the</strong> road, and that made John think of Biloxi again.<br />
200
He didn’t care to go <strong>the</strong>re, though he knew <strong>the</strong>y would have to go past. Going <strong>the</strong>re would seem<br />
too much morbid fascination ra<strong>the</strong>r than reminiscence.<br />
The Biloxi of his childhood was gone: his parents were gone, Pamela was gone, and now<br />
even <strong>the</strong>ir entire neighborhood was gone. He remembered two Biloxis, <strong>the</strong> one of his childhood,<br />
of trips to <strong>the</strong> beach and picnics and seagulls, and <strong>the</strong> one of his adolescence, when <strong>the</strong> casinos<br />
had invaded and stolen <strong>the</strong> beach from <strong>the</strong>m, all <strong>the</strong> glittery lights and towering concrete that had<br />
thrust <strong>the</strong>mselves into <strong>the</strong> view of <strong>the</strong> Gulf, disrupting <strong>the</strong> humid breeze, twisting <strong>the</strong> air so that it<br />
could no longer flow unhindered to <strong>the</strong> people <strong>the</strong>mselves. The Biloxi lighthouse seemed smaller<br />
with <strong>the</strong> casinos down <strong>the</strong> coast, <strong>the</strong> view of Deer Island less primal.<br />
And <strong>the</strong>n, in <strong>the</strong> one summer John had been away, Katrina had come. In her wrath, she<br />
had swept entire neighborhoods from <strong>the</strong> earth. From Denver, on <strong>the</strong> news, John had seen his<br />
childhood home—or <strong>the</strong> intersection near where it used to be. Everything had been leveled and<br />
scattered across a grid of streets. His home was gone. His entire past was gone. And all in his<br />
absence. He’d felt like a traitor.<br />
But <strong>the</strong> Biloxi lighthouse survived, standing amidst <strong>the</strong> debris, still peering out to Deer<br />
Island over once-again-calm waters. It was a link <strong>for</strong> John, a single, frail thread that still<br />
connected him to his childhood, that made his memories, his family, seem more than mere fantasy.<br />
The lighthouse was real, and <strong>the</strong>re<strong>for</strong>e his childhood had been, and <strong>the</strong>re<strong>for</strong>e he still was. That<br />
lighthouse was undeniable, inextinguishable proof.<br />
Once, he and a third-grade friend had tried to swim to Deer Island—What was his name?<br />
The swim had seemed so adventurous, like it had leapt off <strong>the</strong> pages of Huckleberry Finn. They<br />
had stood on <strong>the</strong> beach and looked out over <strong>the</strong> Gulf at Deer Island and imagined that <strong>the</strong>re were<br />
no people, no buildings, that it was a time of simple survival, and <strong>the</strong> most <strong>the</strong>y had feared had<br />
been <strong>the</strong> limits of <strong>the</strong>ir own muscles’ endurance, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong>y had walked into <strong>the</strong> water and<br />
begun swimming. As simple as that. The third-grade conceit of a cityless coast seemed a<br />
portentous premonition now, and John felt guilty <strong>for</strong> having had <strong>the</strong> fantasy. What was <strong>the</strong><br />
friend’s name? He was <strong>the</strong> one with dark hair. Was he still alive now? Or had Katrina taken him,<br />
too?<br />
Gavin and Sam and <strong>the</strong>n John went into <strong>the</strong> restaurant. Directly ahead, beneath a backlit<br />
yellowed plastic menu board, was a deli-counter-slash-bar. Lining <strong>the</strong> wall next to <strong>the</strong> left was a<br />
single row of slot machines dinging and flashing, only a few stools taken. John had seen people<br />
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piss <strong>the</strong>ir pants on slot machine stools, people afraid that taking even a restroom break might<br />
allow some casual passerby to pull that lever that one magical time that bestows a lifetime’s<br />
wealth in three or four seconds, that pull that those people who had so meticulously played <strong>the</strong><br />
machines <strong>for</strong> so long just absolutely knew should be <strong>the</strong>irs, <strong>the</strong> fear of losing <strong>the</strong>ir American<br />
dreams to some passerby far greater even than <strong>the</strong> fear of no one winning at all. The noise of <strong>the</strong><br />
dings grated John’s insides and nauseated him.<br />
John tried to ignore <strong>the</strong> slot machines and focused on <strong>the</strong> deli-bar and on <strong>the</strong> dining area<br />
and dance hall off to <strong>the</strong> right, looking as if it could be well out of earshot of <strong>the</strong> slot machines,<br />
especially with how vigorously <strong>the</strong> fiddler and <strong>the</strong> accordion player seemed to launch into <strong>the</strong><br />
music, and <strong>the</strong> bass player’s throaty Acadian. The band played in front of <strong>the</strong> far right wall, at <strong>the</strong><br />
good-luck end of <strong>the</strong> horseshoe of tables around <strong>the</strong> worn wooden dance floor. Couples danced in<br />
a strong sea of sways and twirls. They seemed oblivious to <strong>the</strong> ding, ding, ding of <strong>the</strong> slot<br />
machines behind John.<br />
Gavin bought a sandwich full of salami at <strong>the</strong> deli-bar, and John watched Sam study <strong>the</strong><br />
yellowed menu board studded with tiny red orange letters and numbers, no two letters or numbers<br />
looking as if <strong>the</strong>y had come from <strong>the</strong> same font.<br />
“Muffuletta,” Sam said and bought one of <strong>the</strong> sandwiches, too.<br />
John wanted a plate of red beans and rice, and cornbread, but he had no money, still, and<br />
he didn’t want to beg Sam <strong>for</strong> it, so John followed <strong>the</strong>m to a table and sat across from Sam, <strong>the</strong><br />
dance floor right next to <strong>the</strong>m both, no chair on <strong>the</strong> table’s dance-floor side.<br />
John wasn’t hungry anymore, not <strong>for</strong> beans, anyway. He watched Sam eat <strong>the</strong> muffuletta<br />
and watched Sam watch <strong>the</strong> dance floor and <strong>the</strong> band and nod to <strong>the</strong> music. Sam smiled and<br />
seemed to become part of <strong>the</strong> music, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> song ended and a waltz began, and Sam’s nod<br />
slid right from <strong>the</strong> beat of one kind of music into ano<strong>the</strong>r, this time swaying, John thought,<br />
longingly.<br />
Would you like to dance? John asked Sam in his mind. He could say it, he thought. He<br />
could do it. Would Sam want to? What might Gavin do?<br />
Would you like to dance? John said in his mind again, that time squeezing his vocal cords<br />
while exhaling in a tight stream, like putting a thumb over most of <strong>the</strong> end of a garden hose to<br />
squirt water far<strong>the</strong>r. His vocal cords had made no sound, but <strong>the</strong> illusion of sound had joined <strong>the</strong><br />
words in his mind. Would you like to dance? He tongued <strong>the</strong> words and hissed his vocal cords<br />
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and <strong>the</strong>n made a grunt as if clearing his throat.<br />
Sam turned to John, still smiling, still swaying. The waltz went on, something about belle,<br />
something about bonne. The fiddle wailed. Couples danced close.<br />
The song would end soon. They good songs always seemed to end so soon.<br />
Would you like to dance? That time John’s lips moved, his tongue worked, his breath<br />
hissed in a whisper. He sucked in three fast breaths afterward to catch up to <strong>the</strong> hordes of air his<br />
body suddenly seemed to need.<br />
“What?” Sam asked him.<br />
“Would you like to dance?” It was faint. Had Sam heard him? He cleared his throat.<br />
“Would . . . Would . . .” He couldn’t brea<strong>the</strong>.<br />
Sam stood, still smiling, set down <strong>the</strong> sandwich, and held a hand out to John. Sam swayed<br />
to <strong>the</strong> waltz.<br />
John took Sam’s hand. John couldn’t believe he had done that, but <strong>the</strong>re his hand was, in<br />
Sam’s <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> first time since <strong>the</strong>ir handshake back in Lamar. Sam’s hand was cool, smaller than<br />
John remembered, and soft, but with that hint of calluses he did remember.<br />
Sam led John to <strong>the</strong> dance floor. The fiddle and <strong>the</strong> shadows made everything<br />
o<strong>the</strong>rworldly, like a dream. John felt as if he were out of his body, watching. Then Sam stopped<br />
and turned, and John slid his o<strong>the</strong>r hand around Sam’s waist, and John was back in his body. He<br />
couldn’t catch his breath. His heart pounded so loudly that he couldn’t hear <strong>the</strong> fiddle. He sensed<br />
a rhythm, whe<strong>the</strong>r from <strong>the</strong> music, or from <strong>the</strong> thrumming of <strong>the</strong> many feet shuffling in time<br />
across <strong>the</strong> floor, he didn’t know. It was Sam. The rhythm came from Sam, and <strong>the</strong>y were moving<br />
across <strong>the</strong> floor with <strong>the</strong> flow of couples like part of a deep, fast river, and John slid his arm on<br />
around Sam’s waist, his chest pressing against Sam’s, and he held Sam tight, and <strong>the</strong> small of<br />
Sam’s back seemed to fit John’s arm perfectly. John closed his eyes and let Sam’s hair caress <strong>the</strong><br />
side of his face. They were tightly toge<strong>the</strong>r <strong>the</strong>n, swaying, dancing, moving as one, John’s temples<br />
throbbing with his heart’s beat, his lungs not able to catch up. John thought that Sam must have<br />
felt his panting, had to sense his shuddering breath. And <strong>the</strong>n Sam’s o<strong>the</strong>r arm was around John,<br />
both arms around him, Sam’s hand on <strong>the</strong> back of John’s neck, Sam’s fingertips caressing swirls<br />
that sent tingling shivers all through John’s body. John slid his o<strong>the</strong>r arm around Sam, and it all<br />
fit. Everything fit. And he squeezed Sam tight, and squeezed, and <strong>the</strong>y moved toge<strong>the</strong>r, and <strong>the</strong>n<br />
<strong>the</strong> edges of John’s eyelids were damp, and his eyelashes, and <strong>the</strong> dampness spread into Sam’s<br />
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hair. John felt Sam’s breath warm and moist against his cheek and <strong>the</strong> side of his neck, Sam’s<br />
breath where John’s blood pulsed so thickly so close to <strong>the</strong> surface, Sam’s lips so close to <strong>the</strong><br />
blood rushing from John’s heart, and John pressed closer to that part of Sam, greedy <strong>for</strong> it,<br />
wanting to go where Sam’s breaths had been, to get as close to <strong>the</strong> source as he could. John<br />
hoped <strong>the</strong> song wouldn’t end, and <strong>the</strong> fiddle and accordion played and played, and <strong>the</strong> bass player<br />
sang, La vie est belle, la vie est bonne, and <strong>the</strong>n, <strong>for</strong> John, <strong>the</strong>re was <strong>the</strong> music, and <strong>the</strong> rhythm,<br />
and him and Sam, and nothing else.<br />
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CHAPTER 40<br />
After entering <strong>the</strong> night again, <strong>the</strong> smell of sweet blossoms hitting John afresh, surrounded<br />
by <strong>the</strong> portico of pine trunks and <strong>the</strong> oaks draped with Spanish moss, in <strong>the</strong> humid wash of <strong>the</strong><br />
still-cool but distinctively Sou<strong>the</strong>rn-wetlands feel of <strong>the</strong> air, John, Sam, and Gavin stopped at <strong>the</strong><br />
fender of Sam’s truck, <strong>the</strong> sounds of <strong>the</strong> band now muffled into a soft dreaminess. Gavin<br />
mentioned in an oddly embarrassed way how tired he was, said goodnight, climbed into <strong>the</strong> trailer,<br />
and pulled <strong>the</strong> trailer door to behind him.<br />
Lantern light spilled out from <strong>the</strong> pulled-to door in a thin band. John heard faint, dull<br />
clunks like empty boots being dropped and coarse swishes like a blanket or sleeping bag being<br />
dragged across <strong>the</strong> trailer’s plywood floor.<br />
Sam said, “You can sleep in <strong>the</strong> trailer, too, if you want,” looked at John, and said lightly,<br />
“or in <strong>the</strong> cab.”<br />
John swallowed. The band of light from <strong>the</strong> trailer went out, and <strong>the</strong> trailer was still. Only<br />
<strong>the</strong> music, and an almost indiscernible hiss of insects from <strong>the</strong> wood line, stayed <strong>the</strong> silence.<br />
“Okay,” John said.<br />
“Okay, <strong>the</strong> trailer, or okay, <strong>the</strong> cab?”<br />
John’s fingertips buzzed. He could no longer feel his legs or his feet.<br />
“Cab,” he said, and he didn’t believe he had said that.<br />
Sam smiled and led John into <strong>the</strong> sleeper through its own big side door and closed <strong>the</strong><br />
door behind <strong>the</strong>m. The faint parking lot light shone in through <strong>the</strong> door’s window and through <strong>the</strong><br />
sunroof’s cover, which had been slid open by just a crack. Sam opened <strong>the</strong> sleeper’s side vents,<br />
and <strong>the</strong> cool, humid air seeped in and throughout <strong>the</strong> sleeper.<br />
The soft skin of <strong>the</strong> back of Sam’s hand brushed John’s cheek.<br />
Sam said, “Short whiskers hurt,” and flipped <strong>the</strong> hand so that <strong>the</strong> slight calluses caressed<br />
John’s unshaven cheek like fine sandpaper on balsa.<br />
“Sorry,” John said.<br />
“Don’t be.”<br />
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Sam leaned close and kissed John, and John pulled Sam tight and kissed back. Sam<br />
smelled humid, salty, and sweet, like <strong>the</strong> air, and John broke his lips away and drew long, deep<br />
breaths in through his nose and kissed <strong>the</strong> base of Sam’s neck.<br />
It seemed to John that this had all happened be<strong>for</strong>e, <strong>the</strong> dreaminess of <strong>the</strong> music and <strong>the</strong><br />
humid air, <strong>the</strong> press of Sam against him, <strong>the</strong> swell of ribs and <strong>the</strong> warmth of Sam’s flesh, <strong>the</strong> beat<br />
of Sam’s heart, Sam’s scent, this entire night had happened be<strong>for</strong>e. This very scene had played<br />
itself out <strong>for</strong> decades, <strong>for</strong> eons, and John was both remembering it and experiencing it at <strong>the</strong> same<br />
time.<br />
John’s hands seemed to move on <strong>the</strong>ir own and tugged at <strong>the</strong> bottom of Sam’s sweater<br />
exactly as <strong>the</strong>y had <strong>for</strong> thousands of years. They pulled <strong>the</strong> sweater and <strong>the</strong> T-shirt up until Sam’s<br />
T-shirt untucked and John’s knuckles brushed and <strong>the</strong>n pressed into <strong>the</strong> uncannily familiar soft,<br />
warm flesh of Sam’s midriff.<br />
Sam’s hands crossed, gripped <strong>the</strong> T-shirt and sweater where John did, and pulled <strong>the</strong><br />
T-shirt and sweater up and mostly off. The T-shirt’s neck hung on Sam’s chin and ears at first, <strong>the</strong><br />
thin white cloth covering Sam’s face and hair. Sam’s smooth, bared chest, tiny breasts, and hard<br />
nipples heaved in great breaths. John raised his hands to run <strong>the</strong>m up Sam’s entire chest but<br />
stopped when he saw Sam’s unshaved armpits.<br />
John asked, “You don’t shave your armpits?”<br />
Sam said through <strong>the</strong> T-shirt, “No. You shave yours?” Then <strong>the</strong> T-shirt’s neck jerked free<br />
over Sam’s face and splayed hair wildly out and down, and Sam said through <strong>the</strong> shifting, flowing<br />
dark waves, “I don’t cut any of my hair.” Sam’s face finally emerged again. “Who am I to try to<br />
improve on God’s work?”<br />
Sam unfastened John’s top shirt button, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> next and <strong>the</strong> next until John’s shirt<br />
fell back and off, and Sam’s chest was bare and warm against John’s, and Sam’s belt buckle<br />
clinked on <strong>the</strong> sleeper floor, and John’s did, and Sam’s hands slid down <strong>the</strong> outsides of John’s<br />
arms and rested in John’s hands. Sam stepped back until touching <strong>the</strong> bed, sat, and pulled John<br />
closer.<br />
Sam’s shoulder sank toward its rising hip, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r shoulder mirrored that. Sam<br />
bent <strong>for</strong>ward, cloth whispered against skin, and <strong>the</strong> span of Sam’s back was bare and smooth all<br />
<strong>the</strong> way from tumbling hair back to <strong>the</strong> mattress. Sam sat straight up again and slung a hand<br />
sideways, and a flash of white darted across <strong>the</strong> sleeper.<br />
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Sam said, “Why don’t you look at me?”<br />
John eyes closed, <strong>the</strong>n opened, still focused on Sam’s eyes. “I am.”<br />
“I mean my body.”<br />
Sam plopped back and lay on <strong>the</strong> bed, arms draped overhead and back, stretching across<br />
<strong>the</strong> mattress, Sam’s fingertips brushing <strong>the</strong> sleeper’s wall.<br />
“Look at me,” Sam said.<br />
John did, and he pulled off his own briefs, slipped into bed, and ran his quaking palms up<br />
<strong>the</strong> full length of Sam’s caramel smooth stomach, up ribs and across <strong>the</strong> tiny breasts and <strong>the</strong> hairy<br />
armpits and up Sam’s outstretched arms. Sam’s armpits effused a sourness so slight that it<br />
tantalized John, and he moved on top of Sam, sensing again that this had all happened be<strong>for</strong>e, that<br />
it was supposed to happen <strong>for</strong> eternity.<br />
Sam sighed heavily and said, “Stop. Wait. Over <strong>the</strong>re.” Sam pointed at <strong>the</strong> tiny curtained<br />
cupboard. “There are condoms in <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
John sat up and reached into <strong>the</strong> cupboard, past Ed’s baking soda, baking powder, and<br />
Bisquick, until he found <strong>the</strong> tiny and age-worn but already-opened box.<br />
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CHAPTER 41<br />
The entire horizon was dark, except <strong>for</strong> one tiny intermittent green light. Up until <strong>the</strong>n,<br />
Kevin had fought monster waves, huge, dark beasts with foamy tufts, breaking right on top of<br />
him. The wind and <strong>the</strong> rain had only grown. He was drenched with salt water, and cold. It stung<br />
his sinuses. Now that he saw that one light, he turned toward it. To avoid taking <strong>the</strong> waves<br />
directly on his beam and capsizing, he zigzagged, plowing into <strong>the</strong>m at an angle, and <strong>the</strong>n taking<br />
<strong>the</strong>m on his quarter.<br />
Kevin knew that once he wove his way nearer <strong>the</strong> light, he would be able to separate its<br />
own blinking pattern, if it were indeed blinking, from <strong>the</strong> way <strong>the</strong> waves made it wink into and out<br />
of existence. If it turned out to be a ship, he could hail <strong>the</strong>m and orient himself off its course,<br />
maybe relay a message. If it turned out instead to be a channel marker, it would lead him to o<strong>the</strong>r<br />
markers and he could count <strong>the</strong> seconds between <strong>the</strong>ir flashes and <strong>the</strong>n find <strong>the</strong>m on his chart.<br />
Ei<strong>the</strong>r way, he would finally know where he was and where he needed to go.<br />
His muscles relaxed and he brea<strong>the</strong>d easier. He knew that that one tiny intermittent light<br />
would ultimately lead him home, and he imagined Pamela holding it up, like a lantern, swinging it<br />
back and <strong>for</strong>th to draw his eye. The waves no longer seemed like monsters <strong>the</strong>n, only waves.<br />
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CHAPTER 42<br />
Ed ate his pancakes, though he hadn’t ordered blueberry. He knew <strong>the</strong>y would be subpar.<br />
Even <strong>the</strong> plain ones had turned out dry and doughy. Ed concluded that no one was capable of<br />
putting toge<strong>the</strong>r a decent pancake, except maybe John, and he refused to. Nothing seemed to<br />
match those pancakes from Ranger School, those ones those few mornings between starving in<br />
<strong>the</strong> woods at Darby and starving in <strong>the</strong> woods at Dahlonega, right be<strong>for</strong>e he had parachuted into<br />
<strong>the</strong> mountains and broken his nose and his leg, when everything still seemed on <strong>the</strong> verge of<br />
turning wonderful, back when his fa<strong>the</strong>r and his ranch were still waiting <strong>for</strong> him, back when Ed<br />
still firmly believed that he not only would earn that black-and-gold tab but would also be named<br />
his Ranger class’s honor graduate, that great things waited <strong>for</strong> him as an almost superhuman<br />
soldier killing <strong>for</strong> all that was right in <strong>the</strong> world. Then that Ranger instructor in that patrol base<br />
had peered right into Ed’s soul, hadn’t liked what he’d seen, and had singled Ed out <strong>for</strong> expulsion.<br />
Everything was over <strong>the</strong>n. If only he could go back and do it right, he thought.<br />
Ed hadn’t had <strong>the</strong> guts to kill John. Ed had held John right in his sights at that truck stop<br />
outside of Alexandria, had stood in <strong>the</strong> shadows between those trucks and had cocked <strong>the</strong> pistol<br />
and stared down <strong>the</strong> barrel at John’s chest, and <strong>the</strong>n John had spread his arms and stuck out his<br />
chin, like “Go ahead. I know you’re <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
The fucker, Ed thought.<br />
Ed’s hand had shaken <strong>the</strong>n. He’d lost his aim, and he’d uncocked <strong>the</strong> pistol and slipped<br />
back far<strong>the</strong>r into <strong>the</strong> shadows and <strong>the</strong>n around <strong>the</strong> tail ends of two o<strong>the</strong>r trucks and into a<br />
different shadowy gap.<br />
Ed shoveled in a bite of pancakes, pressed his elbow against <strong>the</strong> pistol butt through his<br />
parka, and thought, That fucking Cecil. Had to have a single-action, something that has to be<br />
manually cocked <strong>for</strong> each shot.<br />
The pistol seemed a hundred years old, <strong>the</strong> bluing shiny at <strong>the</strong> pistol’s edges, <strong>the</strong> rifling<br />
worn almost flat just inside <strong>the</strong> muzzle. Ed had no idea how many rounds <strong>the</strong> thing had seen. He<br />
didn’t even know if <strong>the</strong> pistol could have hit John from that distance. Ed figured he might have<br />
209
had better luck throwing rocks.<br />
And why, in God’s name, Ed thought, if it’s so damned slow and inaccurate, does it have<br />
to be such a noisemaker? Why couldn’t Cecil have had a Saturday night special, something with<br />
tiny bullets that never break <strong>the</strong> sound barrier, or better yet, a .22 short revolver, something you<br />
can also tape a plastic Coke bottle or a shampoo bottle onto to muffle <strong>the</strong> explosion of <strong>the</strong><br />
powder? No, Cecil had to have a hundred-year-old single-action .357 magnum with an eight-inch<br />
barrel.<br />
To a good marksman, Ed thought, someone who chooses his moments, caliber makes<br />
little difference, and a long barrel gets in <strong>the</strong> way. I could still tape a plastic bottle onto <strong>the</strong> thing,<br />
but with that much powder, <strong>the</strong> long barrel, and <strong>the</strong> sonic booms, <strong>the</strong> noise would draw attention.<br />
Like at Cassandra’s. Couldn’t use it <strong>the</strong>re, ei<strong>the</strong>r. What good is a pistol you can never<br />
use? About as good as a chef who won’t cook.<br />
Except, Ed thought, shoveling his pasty pancakes in, grimacing with every bite, I know<br />
where you’re going, and you have to stop and unload be<strong>for</strong>e you get <strong>the</strong>re. I’ll pass by your lying<br />
ass <strong>the</strong>n, you Goddamned mo<strong>the</strong>r-fucking fucker.<br />
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CHAPTER 43<br />
The semi crossed <strong>the</strong> Mississippi toward <strong>the</strong> Baton Rouge side of <strong>the</strong> I-10 bridge, and<br />
from <strong>the</strong> height of his seat in <strong>the</strong> semi, John had an expansive view over <strong>the</strong> railing and down and<br />
across <strong>the</strong> wide, muddy waters flowing fast beneath. The surface of <strong>the</strong> water seemed calm at<br />
first, but close scrutiny revealed subtle, flat eddies roiling <strong>the</strong> surface as if an infinitely large school<br />
of huge beasts swam hard and fast just beneath. John looked as straight down as he could and saw<br />
churning wakes streaming from beneath <strong>the</strong> bridge as if <strong>the</strong> concrete supports were a fleet of<br />
whaling ships charging upriver at full speed.<br />
This was <strong>the</strong> river that kept a huge swath of <strong>the</strong> Gulf murky and had made John’s<br />
childhood beach water <strong>the</strong> color of tea—looming, dark, and mysterious—but also bursting with<br />
shrimp, blue crab, flounder, sea life of all kinds. The Mississippi Sound itself seemed like a<br />
gumbo, after you had mixed a dark roux with homemade broth but be<strong>for</strong>e you had added all <strong>the</strong><br />
o<strong>the</strong>r ingredients, be<strong>for</strong>e you had thickened it fur<strong>the</strong>r with <strong>the</strong> slow cooking that disintegrates<br />
vegetables and turns <strong>the</strong> innards of okra into a faint facsimile of gelatin, be<strong>for</strong>e you had added <strong>the</strong><br />
pork and chicken and fish and shrimp and cooked it still more and <strong>the</strong>n poured it over steaming<br />
rice and taken that first warm, spicy, salty, sweet, meaty spoonful that made all <strong>the</strong> work that<br />
went into it worthwhile.<br />
John said, “You know gumbo is <strong>the</strong> Bantu word <strong>for</strong> okra?”<br />
“What?”<br />
“Gumbo means okra. It’s African. And gumbo filé powder is <strong>the</strong> ground leaves of <strong>the</strong><br />
sassafras tree. The Choctaws showed it to <strong>the</strong> settlers.”<br />
“Huh.”<br />
John said, “Gumbo’s a mixture from all over <strong>the</strong> world. Every pot’s different. Every bite’s<br />
different.”<br />
“Uh-huh,” Sam said.<br />
“In <strong>the</strong> restaurant business, inconsistency is a bad thing, but gumbo is a pleasant<br />
uncertainty, tantalizing if you can accept its inconsistency as just a part of what it is.”<br />
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“Help me look <strong>for</strong> this exit, will you John? That family’s waiting <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong>ir furniture.”<br />
“Okay.”<br />
John asked, “Have you ever tried gumbo, Sam?”<br />
“Sure.”<br />
“Really good gumbo?”<br />
“I don’t know.”<br />
“You’d know if you had. You need to let me make you gumbo sometime.”<br />
“Okay. When?”<br />
“I don’t know. After I get to my sister’s. But it’ll take days to make.”<br />
“So I’ll have to come back.”<br />
“Yes.”<br />
“You want me coming back around after this trip?”<br />
“Yes. Absolutely yes.”<br />
Sam asked, “You want your sister to meet me? Your parents?”<br />
John hadn’t thought of that be<strong>for</strong>e, but he did want that. He had never felt that way about<br />
Billie. In fact, he would have been embarrassed, in <strong>the</strong> end, to have brought Billie home.<br />
“Yes,” he said, “and I want to meet your mo<strong>the</strong>r, Sam. She sounds like a strong person.”<br />
“She won’t understand who you are. Doesn’t know me sometimes.”<br />
“I know,” he said, “but I’d still like to meet her, just to be in <strong>the</strong> presence of someone that<br />
heroic,” and he hoped, Maybe some of it will rub off.<br />
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CHAPTER 44<br />
Kevin walked into <strong>the</strong> kitchen still soaking wet, his hair swept roughly but snugly back by<br />
hand, his cap clasped in his fists at his abdomen. The gray morning light filtered in through <strong>the</strong><br />
kitchen’s one window, <strong>the</strong> window high up near <strong>the</strong> ceiling. The sky was thickly overcast, and<br />
rain pattered against <strong>the</strong> panes. The kitchen was humid and smelled yeasty. Pamela chopped onion<br />
on a poly cutting board on <strong>the</strong> metal prep table in <strong>the</strong> kitchen’s center.<br />
She inhaled heavily and said without looking up, “I heard you pull in. You get good<br />
lobsters?”<br />
On one side of her were a half dozen onions, each with its point end already cut off and its<br />
outermost layer peeled away. The onions glistened dully under <strong>the</strong> ceiling’s big center light. On<br />
<strong>the</strong> board was a half onion, flat side down, parallel cuts already running from <strong>the</strong> root end up to<br />
<strong>the</strong> end where <strong>the</strong> point used to be. On Pamela’s o<strong>the</strong>r side was a big clear glass bowl with one<br />
and a half onion’s worth of chopped cubes <strong>the</strong> size of a Risk game’s pieces.<br />
“Okay,” he said and took one step closer.<br />
“Pickup filled back up with gas?”<br />
She still didn’t look up. She kept her chef’s knife’s point end pressed to <strong>the</strong> board on<br />
Kevin’s side of <strong>the</strong> cutting board and cut cross-slices through <strong>the</strong> half onion with a sawing, sliding<br />
motion that made <strong>the</strong> knife go shwit, shwit, shwit against <strong>the</strong> board. Each slice freed an entire<br />
army of cubes.<br />
She cut harder and faster and said, “Trailer unhooked?”<br />
She reached <strong>the</strong> root end of <strong>the</strong> onion and slid <strong>the</strong> end off <strong>the</strong> table and into a garbage can.<br />
“Yes,” he said and stepped to within two paces of her. “Boat’s at <strong>the</strong> shop.”<br />
She stopped and looked up, expressionless, <strong>the</strong>n picked up <strong>the</strong> board and, with <strong>the</strong> back<br />
edge of her knife against it, scraped <strong>the</strong> pile of cubes into <strong>the</strong> bowl. She smacked <strong>the</strong> flat back<br />
edge of her knife hard onto <strong>the</strong> board, and every cube that had stuck to <strong>the</strong> blade leapt from its<br />
surface and scurried down into <strong>the</strong> bowl.<br />
“What happened?” she asked and clunked <strong>the</strong> board back onto <strong>the</strong> table. She grabbed<br />
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ano<strong>the</strong>r onion and chopped it in half. “How much will it cost?”<br />
“I don’t know,” he said.<br />
She cut lengthwise slices into one of <strong>the</strong> onion halves, stopping just shy of <strong>the</strong> root so<br />
that, though cut through, <strong>the</strong> half onion stayed toge<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
She said, “You don’t know what happened, or you don’t know how much it will cost?”<br />
and started <strong>the</strong> shwitting crosscuts again.<br />
“I don’t know how much it will cost.”<br />
The proofer timer beeped in high-pitched patters faster than <strong>the</strong> raindrops striking <strong>the</strong><br />
window.<br />
Pamela rinsed her hands and took <strong>the</strong> hand towel to <strong>the</strong> proofer, hit <strong>the</strong> proofer’s timer<br />
button, slung open <strong>the</strong> door, and pulled out a large stainless bowl. Steam poured into <strong>the</strong> kitchen,<br />
dissipated, and vanished. Kevin felt a fresh wave of humidity seconds after he could no longer see<br />
it. The window fogged with condensation.<br />
Pamela pulled a huge mass of whole-wheat dough out of <strong>the</strong> bowl and plopped it onto <strong>the</strong><br />
metal table’s o<strong>the</strong>r end. Kevin was now three paces away without having budged.<br />
“Great,” she said and punched <strong>the</strong> dough down.<br />
Kevin said, “We won’t fix it if it costs too much.”<br />
She drew a plastic-handled scraper from a basket on <strong>the</strong> shelf beneath <strong>the</strong> table and<br />
chopped a tight grid into and through <strong>the</strong> dough. With each chop, <strong>the</strong> scraper struck <strong>the</strong> table<br />
with a sharp metallic pop.<br />
She finished her grid and slung <strong>the</strong> scraper clattering onto <strong>the</strong> table beyond <strong>the</strong> dough.<br />
“Just how much will be too much to you?”<br />
He took <strong>the</strong> two steps to her end of <strong>the</strong> table and said, “Whatever we think toge<strong>the</strong>r.”<br />
She stopped and looked at him. His irises barely showed, his pupils large and glistening.<br />
The fog on <strong>the</strong> windows faded, <strong>the</strong> gray morning light shining in anew, <strong>the</strong> highlights in Kevin’s<br />
pupils brightening.<br />
She sighed and wrung her hands on her apron. “Are you okay?”<br />
“Fine, now,” he said.<br />
“You’re soaking wet. You should go change, maybe take a hot shower.”<br />
“Okay,” he said.<br />
Pamela watched him climb <strong>the</strong> steps to <strong>the</strong>ir home, chewed her lips, and sighed again.<br />
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Then she began rolling each tiny square of dough within her hands, letting <strong>the</strong> base of <strong>the</strong> dough<br />
just touch <strong>the</strong> table’s surface, gently cupping her palms and fingers so that <strong>the</strong> proofed dough’s<br />
corners and cut edges smoo<strong>the</strong>d out and <strong>the</strong> dough turned into a nearly perfect sphere. She was<br />
still amazed, after all those years of making bread, at just how elastic fermentation could make<br />
even gritty whole-wheat dough.<br />
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CHAPTER 45<br />
When John had first walked into Leopold’s bar in Denver, Leopold had grinned wide but<br />
closed-mou<strong>the</strong>d at him.<br />
“You decided to come,” Leopold said.<br />
“Yeah.”<br />
“Ballsy.<br />
With <strong>the</strong> flat of <strong>the</strong> palm of his entire hand, Leopold stroked his Vandyke three times, his<br />
thumb running down one cheek and his fingers <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r.<br />
“Go see Victor,” he said, “my manager. He’s doing inventory in <strong>the</strong> walk-in out back.”<br />
John walked through <strong>the</strong> side station, <strong>the</strong> kitchen, and <strong>the</strong> kitchen’s back door; across <strong>the</strong><br />
sunlit but freezing back dock; and into <strong>the</strong> walk-in, dim, moist, and cool, but far warmer than <strong>the</strong><br />
air outside.<br />
Victor was smoking a cigarette, leaning against one of a half dozen untapped kegs against<br />
<strong>the</strong> cooler’s wall. A clipboard and pen lay on ano<strong>the</strong>r of <strong>the</strong> untapped kegs.<br />
John said, “I’m a new cook. I guess you’re supposed to give me <strong>the</strong> run-down on my job.”<br />
Victor dropped his cigarette butt to <strong>the</strong> metal walk-in’s floor next to two already-flattened<br />
ones and put it out with <strong>the</strong> toe of his black wing tip.<br />
On <strong>the</strong> dull-gray metal ceiling of <strong>the</strong> walk-in, two light bulbs, one clear and one soft-white,<br />
shone down on <strong>the</strong> horseshoe of kegs on damp wooden pallets against <strong>the</strong> three nondoored cooler<br />
walls. Yellowed plastic hoses as thick as John’s pinky ran from a pair of CO 2 cylinders into a bank<br />
of gauges and regulators, split, and ran like tentacles to <strong>the</strong> dozen or so tapped kegs. Black hoses<br />
shiny with a greasy or waxy film ran out from <strong>the</strong> same and joined toge<strong>the</strong>r through a hole stuffed<br />
with insulation in <strong>the</strong> cooler’s side, and led, John figured, to <strong>the</strong> taps behind <strong>the</strong> bar.<br />
Victor nodded. “The new cook. Now that you’re here, Eric’s history. Don’t worry,” he<br />
said when he saw John’s face, “he hasn’t even shown up yet today. Won’t be a surprise to him.”<br />
Victor pulled out his open pack of cigarettes, shook one out, seemed to think about it, and<br />
pushed it back in.<br />
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“Come on,” he said. “Dinner prep work’s waiting.”<br />
Victor pushed himself away from <strong>the</strong> keg, picked up <strong>the</strong> clipboard and pen, and opened<br />
<strong>the</strong> cooler door. Bright sunlight and freezing air poured in. John squinted in <strong>the</strong> bright vertical<br />
band of light that fell onto two clear plastic bins in <strong>the</strong> walk-in. One bin was filled with peeled,<br />
sliced potatoes in water; <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r, layered with soaked bar towels and oysters.<br />
John asked, “What about <strong>the</strong> butts?”<br />
“Leave <strong>the</strong>m,” Victor said. “I’m quitting soon, anyway. Leopold will know it’s me, not<br />
you.”<br />
“That’s not what I was concerned about.”<br />
“I know. I didn’t mean to imply that.”<br />
John shivered and cinched up his coat collar.<br />
“Come on,” Victor said.<br />
John tugged his collar up as far as he could get it over his neck, hunched over with his<br />
arms tight against his torso, and followed Victor back out of <strong>the</strong> cooler, across <strong>the</strong> dock, and into<br />
<strong>the</strong> kitchen door. Victor turned on one of <strong>the</strong> stove burners and warmed his hands.<br />
John asked, “Why are you quitting?”<br />
“Shh,” Victor said and glanced at <strong>the</strong> kitchen’s tiny camera. He peered through <strong>the</strong> service<br />
window and into <strong>the</strong> main part of <strong>the</strong> still-closed bar, said, “Come on,” and led John to a back<br />
corner of <strong>the</strong> kitchen, behind <strong>the</strong> camera.<br />
“Look,” Victor said and turned his back to <strong>the</strong> camera, even though it was looking <strong>the</strong><br />
o<strong>the</strong>r way. “I know Leopold can’t hear us, but I wouldn’t put it past him to be able to read lips.<br />
He’d probably learn how just so he could stand in corners at cocktail parties and try to figure out<br />
who all’s talking about him.” Victor shifted and rested against <strong>the</strong> shelves of huge tin cans of<br />
tomato sauce, jalapenos, and olives. “I’m going to Lithuania, soon as my passport comes in.<br />
Going to travel a bit. I don’t like who I’m becoming here.”<br />
“You mean ‘here’ as in America?”<br />
“No. ‘Here’ as in Leopold’s.” He straightened up, led John back into <strong>the</strong> kitchen, and<br />
asked, “How much experience do you have as a cook?”<br />
“My whole life.”<br />
“You’ll be both cook and dishwasher here. You know how to use that machine?”<br />
John glanced at it. “Only two buttons. Simple enough.”<br />
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Victor scrunched his lips.<br />
John said, “I’ve used much bigger and more complex dishwashing machines than that.”<br />
“Fair enough. We rent it and pay by <strong>the</strong> load, so make sure it’s fully loaded be<strong>for</strong>e turning<br />
it on each time. If all you need is one sauté pan, wash it by hand, okay?”<br />
“Okay.”<br />
“First thing you do each day is check all your sixth and third pans in <strong>the</strong> fridge. Prep<br />
anything you’re low on. We’re low on roasted red peppers right now, so you’ll want to roast a<br />
few be<strong>for</strong>e dinner. You’ll need that <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> humus. Check your condiments, too, like <strong>the</strong> humus<br />
hot sauce. We make all our own sauces, so you’ll need to check everything. Recipes are in that<br />
binder <strong>the</strong>re. You don’t want to run out of cocktail sauce or anything in <strong>the</strong> middle of a Friday<br />
night. The only way to bring down Leopold’s wrath more than wasting this stuff is not having<br />
enough. Okay?”<br />
“Okay.”<br />
Victor pointed at <strong>the</strong> bulletin board. “Stock levels by day of <strong>the</strong> week are listed <strong>the</strong>re.<br />
Don’t shuck oysters until <strong>the</strong> last thing. You saw <strong>the</strong>m in <strong>the</strong> cooler.”<br />
John nodded.<br />
Victor said, “You want <strong>the</strong>m as fresh as if <strong>the</strong>y just came out of <strong>the</strong> ocean. Leopold loves<br />
oysters and will almost always try one just to see. You’ve shucked oysters be<strong>for</strong>e, right?”<br />
“Yeah.”<br />
“Now, if you have free time, don’t just hang out. For example, Leopold really loves his<br />
hood grease-free. If you ever want to make brownie points, be polishing up that hood when he’s<br />
in his office watching his cameras, which is most <strong>the</strong> time.”<br />
Brownie points had not been John’s goal when Leopold had shown up again later in <strong>the</strong><br />
day, but John had been wiping down <strong>the</strong> stove top anyway and had glanced through <strong>the</strong> service<br />
window when Victor, behind <strong>the</strong> front bar, had greeted Leopold walking in through <strong>the</strong> vestibule,<br />
and John saw Leopold heading <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> side station that led to <strong>the</strong> kitchen. Leopold hadn’t noticed<br />
John noticing him, so John simply moved his hand and its washrag from <strong>the</strong> stove up to <strong>the</strong> hood<br />
and had been meticulously scrubbing <strong>the</strong> hood when Leopold walked into <strong>the</strong> kitchen thirty<br />
seconds later.<br />
Leopold stopped, blinked, and smiled.<br />
“Good man,” he said and patted John on <strong>the</strong> shoulder.<br />
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Then he left through <strong>the</strong> back door. John heard <strong>the</strong> cooler latch open, and <strong>the</strong> kitchen’s<br />
door finished swinging shut.<br />
Victor grinned mischievously at John through <strong>the</strong> service window and shook his head.<br />
“Oh, boy,” he said.<br />
John shrugged.<br />
Likewise, John had learned all of Leopold’s surveillance points early on. Leopold loved to<br />
lean against <strong>the</strong> wall in <strong>the</strong> shadows across <strong>the</strong> street in front of his bar and watch his employees<br />
<strong>for</strong> hours, or he’d watch <strong>the</strong> loading dock from inside his car in <strong>the</strong> parking lot down <strong>the</strong> alley<br />
behind <strong>the</strong> bar. Then <strong>the</strong>re were <strong>the</strong> cameras. It was simple: whenever you potentially stepped into<br />
Leopold’s view, be drying a sauté pan or organizing menus or checking off items on a worksheet<br />
on a clipboard, and never, never look directly at <strong>the</strong> cameras.<br />
The day after Leopold had announced that Victor would be leaving <strong>the</strong>m, John had found<br />
a twenty-dollar bill in <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> kitchen floor. It had been folded twice but had unraveled<br />
partially, like some discarded origami figure. John picked it up and tacked it to <strong>the</strong> prep chart<br />
bulletin board. Forty-five minutes later, Leopold walked into <strong>the</strong> kitchen.<br />
“What’s this?” Leopold asked, fingering <strong>the</strong> twenty like how <strong>the</strong> legs of a starving spider<br />
probe a fly struggling in its web.<br />
“I found it on <strong>the</strong> floor.”<br />
“Then it’s yours.”<br />
“It’s not mine.”<br />
“You found it lying around. Why not keep it?”<br />
John stopped scraping seeds from <strong>the</strong> split Roma tomatoes and wiped his hands on a<br />
towel. “Someone will be worried over that. It could have blown in from <strong>the</strong> side station, and<br />
someone’s bank will be short, or someone could have dropped it while digging in a pocket or<br />
something.”<br />
“Couldn’t you use twenty bucks?”<br />
“Sure, but it’s not mine.”<br />
“It’s mine,” Leopold said and yanked it off corkboard, tearing it in <strong>the</strong> process. He shoved<br />
it in his pocket.<br />
John said, “Someone could be worrying over that.”<br />
Leopold walked to within a foot of John and grinned, his eyes closing halfway, like a<br />
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purring cat’s. “Don’t you think it’s worth twenty dollars to know who’s working <strong>for</strong> you?” he<br />
asked. “I’ve owned this bar <strong>for</strong> thirteen years, and you and Victor are <strong>the</strong> only ones who’ve never<br />
just shoved it in your own pockets.” He nodded proudly and left.<br />
The next day, Leopold handed John a huge ring of keys and announced to everyone that<br />
this was <strong>the</strong>ir new manager, that Victor would be training him over <strong>the</strong> next week, and to treat<br />
him as if he were Leopold himself.<br />
John had held <strong>the</strong> keys out to Leopold after, in private, and told Leopold, “But I’ve never<br />
managed anything be<strong>for</strong>e,” and Leopold had refused <strong>the</strong> keys and said, “I can teach anyone to<br />
manage a bar. I have no idea how to teach honesty.” Then he had turned his back and walked<br />
away.<br />
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CHAPTER 46<br />
John’s muscles were tired. Unloading <strong>the</strong> boxes and furniture in Baton Rouge—doing<br />
actual physical work—had felt good at first, but <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> day had grown hot, and <strong>the</strong> embrace of<br />
<strong>the</strong> morning’s cool humidity had turned into a midday strangling squeeze, and <strong>the</strong> top edges of <strong>the</strong><br />
backs of John’s loafers had rubbed his Achilles tendons afresh. John had left sweat marks from his<br />
arms and <strong>the</strong> wet gut of his T-shirt on each box he’d carried inside <strong>the</strong> house, and <strong>the</strong> boxes had<br />
left a stale, dusty smell all over him. After finally cooling off in <strong>the</strong> cab back on <strong>the</strong> road, he had<br />
changed T-shirts, so that part of him felt fresh, but his muscles still all felt depleted, and his heels<br />
still hurt, and he felt both completely beaten and satisfyingly spent.<br />
It was late afternoon now, <strong>the</strong>y were crossing Mississippi, and Sam and John both rode<br />
quietly. Pine trees along I-10 were stripped, bent, and broken. Some billboards were still only<br />
posts with roughly shorn tops jutting out of <strong>the</strong> ground. Occasional lots of generic white trailers<br />
punctuated <strong>the</strong> broken landscape.<br />
They didn’t go into Biloxi itself. You couldn’t see <strong>the</strong> town from I-10, even with <strong>the</strong><br />
<strong>for</strong>ests broken like that, but signs and place names popped up along <strong>the</strong> interstate that thrust<br />
John’s mo<strong>the</strong>r’s or fa<strong>the</strong>r’s voice, or Pamela’s or childhood friends’, into his ears as if <strong>the</strong>y were<br />
sitting right next to him. He saw <strong>the</strong> sign <strong>for</strong> Bay Saint Louis and suddenly heard his mo<strong>the</strong>r’s<br />
voice saying <strong>the</strong> name and saw her smiling and telling some childhood story about her and her<br />
cousins’ exploits, her eyes shining.<br />
He saw <strong>the</strong> exit <strong>for</strong> Highway 49 to Gulfport and Hattiesburg and remembered being a boy<br />
scout ushering a Sou<strong>the</strong>rn Miss. game. After kickoff, he and two o<strong>the</strong>r scouts, <strong>the</strong> dark humid<br />
late-summer air around <strong>the</strong>m like a thick wool blanket, like a fourth companion, had watched <strong>the</strong><br />
cheerleaders and argued over who would get which. Then <strong>the</strong>y had explored to <strong>the</strong> very top and<br />
end of <strong>the</strong> stadium, thumped huge owlet moths on <strong>the</strong> heads to stun <strong>the</strong>m, and dropped <strong>the</strong>m over<br />
<strong>the</strong> edge and watched <strong>the</strong>m spiral down and hit bottom on concrete that had seemed miles below.<br />
He saw town names that no one, if not from <strong>the</strong> area, would know how to pronounce,<br />
Pass Christian with <strong>the</strong> stress on <strong>the</strong> last syllable, Gautier with <strong>the</strong> soft “t” like a cross between a<br />
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“ch” and a “sh” and its silent “r,” Escatawpa’s “p” sounding like a “b,” and even Biloxi itself, with<br />
its “ux” instead of <strong>the</strong> “ox” so many seemed to use.<br />
And all along <strong>the</strong> way were huge, new billboards brandishing casinos’ claims of generous<br />
slots and huge jackpots. The billboards spawned no luscious scents, no caresses of humid nights,<br />
no voices, no images of smiling, glittering eyes. They churned up only memories of Leopold and<br />
Billie and bland gumbo like soup and <strong>the</strong> continual, deafening ding of slot machines and a<br />
windowless interior like a space station. The memories of his job <strong>the</strong>re might as well have been of<br />
any old Wal-Mart or McDonald’s in <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> night anywhere in <strong>the</strong> world.<br />
John was glad to finally get that out of <strong>the</strong> way, to slip past <strong>the</strong> sandhill crane reserve and<br />
Pascagoula and <strong>the</strong> state line. He thrilled in Mobile at dipping beneath <strong>the</strong> water through I-10’s<br />
tunnel, where Sam clicked on <strong>the</strong> headlights <strong>for</strong> two minutes, and <strong>the</strong>n popping up and out <strong>the</strong><br />
o<strong>the</strong>r side and being done with Biloxi, and crossing Mobile Bay and finally, finally seeing <strong>the</strong> Gulf<br />
again.<br />
The bay was, from I-10, really more of a salt marsh, and <strong>the</strong> water was a calm, umber–<br />
pale-blue mix and didn’t look like big water without its waves, but <strong>the</strong> sunlight glittered on what<br />
ripples and wavelets were <strong>the</strong>re, and <strong>the</strong>re was that one fine line on <strong>the</strong> horizon where <strong>the</strong> sky<br />
kissed <strong>the</strong> water, a narrow band of landless water that John knew went on and on over <strong>the</strong> curve<br />
of <strong>the</strong> earth and out of <strong>the</strong> bay and past <strong>the</strong> tip of Dauphin Island and on out into <strong>the</strong> Gulf and<br />
didn’t hit land until Mexico, and even <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong>re was <strong>the</strong> Yucatan Channel and <strong>the</strong> whole wide<br />
Caribbean. With just <strong>the</strong> right squint of <strong>the</strong> eye and tilt of <strong>the</strong> head, <strong>the</strong> water could go on <strong>for</strong>ever.<br />
John brea<strong>the</strong>d a sigh of relief.<br />
Sam asked, “You okay?”<br />
John said, “Yes,” and remembered having asked Ed <strong>the</strong> same thing when Cecil had driven<br />
past Fort Riley and Ed’s face had tightened into knots and virtually convulsed.<br />
But John felt at peace now, and he doubted Ed did. John felt lucky being able to release<br />
<strong>the</strong> tension Biloxi had brought him, of being able to cast it off and leave it behind like a heavy,<br />
itchy coat in June and being able to brea<strong>the</strong> freely again. John figured maybe Ed needed a tunnel<br />
like <strong>the</strong> one he had just gone through, a view of something like <strong>the</strong> Gulf and <strong>the</strong> sky, some series<br />
of things that lent <strong>the</strong>mselves so well to becoming a gateway bordering on infinity.<br />
But <strong>the</strong>re was still Sam. John felt relieved to be so close to Pamela, but he wasn’t sure<br />
what to do with Sam now. Did his feelings <strong>for</strong> Sam mean, at least, that he was over Billie, too?<br />
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Did it mean he could believe in fairy tales again? He knew better, that <strong>the</strong>re was no such thing.<br />
He and Billie had said, “I love you,” plenty. He had started it, after only three months of<br />
seeing her. But he had never really felt it, and he suspected that she hadn’t, ei<strong>the</strong>r. He had said it<br />
because he had felt like it was about <strong>the</strong> time in <strong>the</strong>ir relationship where he should say it, because<br />
he thought she expected it and he feared losing her if he didn’t say it. After all, if he didn’t fall in<br />
love with her, that would mean his entire trip to Denver had been a waste, and it was just too<br />
romantic a notion, too classic a lover’s move, not to be love.<br />
He wanted never to say those words again without feeling <strong>the</strong>m, and despite how strong<br />
his feelings were <strong>for</strong> Sam, <strong>the</strong>y weren’t <strong>the</strong> fairy tale kind of feelings. He expected never to be<br />
giddy like that again, to be swept away as if by a riptide. Would what he felt <strong>for</strong> Sam be enough?<br />
It was real, anyway.<br />
Sam asked, “Which town exactly are you going to?”<br />
John’s upper back and <strong>the</strong> back of his neck tightened up, and <strong>the</strong> seat felt as if it were<br />
stinging him, like jellyfish.<br />
John looked at his hands. “Eastpoint, just outside Apalachicola.”<br />
They were near Pensacola <strong>the</strong>n, were already in <strong>Florida</strong>, but Eastpoint was still two<br />
hundred and fifty miles away. John brea<strong>the</strong>d a sigh of relief at that.<br />
Sam said, “We should cook those beans of yours tonight.”<br />
John said, “We ought to get a small piece of ham, <strong>the</strong>n, something real, with a crosscut of<br />
bone and ribbons of fat still in.”<br />
“Bone and fat, huh?”<br />
“It’ll flavor beans a lot better than those fake, water-based hams.”<br />
“You’re like some sort of anti–food-processing terrorist, aren’t you.”<br />
“I hate all that processed crap. Let me figure out what I want on my own. You know?”<br />
John gritted his teeth, and <strong>the</strong> muscles around his mouth contracted until his lips were tiny<br />
and hard like a peach pit.<br />
Why do I have to fight to keep from crying? he thought. It’s just a damned piece of ham.<br />
They turned off I-10 toward Pensacola and stopped at one promising shopping center,<br />
<strong>the</strong>n ano<strong>the</strong>r, Sam insistent on <strong>the</strong> parking lot being real concrete instead of blacktop (“A semi<br />
can dent blacktop in <strong>the</strong> south like a wagon in a sandbox,” Sam had said), until <strong>the</strong>y found slice of<br />
ham with <strong>the</strong> bone and fat still in.<br />
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In <strong>the</strong> store, Gavin also loaded <strong>the</strong> hand basket with a replacement loaf of whole-grain<br />
bread, two sweet Vidalia onions, and three Idaho potatoes.<br />
“For those beans,” Gavin said. “Put a peeled potato in while <strong>the</strong>y cook. Takes <strong>the</strong> gas<br />
out.”<br />
John said, “Ginger does that. It’s good <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> stomach. Ginger snaps or ginger ale is good<br />
<strong>for</strong> motion sickness, too.”<br />
“Huh,” Gavin said, and he broke off a rounded chunk of ginger root, smelled <strong>the</strong> broken<br />
end, and put that in <strong>the</strong> basket, too.<br />
And <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong>y were off again, heading through <strong>the</strong> last vestiges of Pensacola along I-10,<br />
sections of housing with blue tarps still tacked to <strong>the</strong>ir roofs, but whe<strong>the</strong>r from Ivan or Dennis or<br />
Katrina, John had no idea. It seemed impossible to keep a permanent anything anymore.<br />
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CHAPTER 47<br />
Sam was right. The rest area was beautiful. It was twilight, <strong>the</strong> sky and thick woods<br />
shadowy. Trees towered all around, live oaks with branches stretching out as big around as entire<br />
trunks, massive pine and pignut hickory, all draped with moss and dripping with bare vines John<br />
assumed were kudzu. The winter had stripped a few of <strong>the</strong> trees bare, but most still held <strong>the</strong>ir<br />
leaves, and <strong>the</strong> shiny, deep, scallion green of magnolias more than compensated <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong>ir few bare<br />
neighbors.<br />
They parked in a spot away from <strong>the</strong> rest area’s building, as close to <strong>the</strong> freshly cut grass,<br />
picnic tables, and primordial wood line as <strong>the</strong>y could.<br />
Gavin opened <strong>the</strong> side box, pulled out <strong>the</strong> hibachi and <strong>the</strong> cast-iron Dutch oven, and set<br />
<strong>the</strong> hibachi on <strong>the</strong> concrete at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> lot, near <strong>the</strong> closest picnic table. He and John<br />
worked out <strong>the</strong> strategy <strong>for</strong> both cornbread and beans, and <strong>the</strong>n Gavin poured a huge pile of<br />
briquettes in <strong>the</strong> hibachi.<br />
John mixed cornbread batter, oiled <strong>the</strong> bottom of <strong>the</strong> Dutch oven, and poured <strong>the</strong> batter<br />
in. Gavin scooped out and held a shovelful of glowing coals while John <strong>for</strong>ced <strong>the</strong> hibachi grill<br />
right down on <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r coals, set <strong>the</strong> oven on top of that, and <strong>the</strong>n put <strong>the</strong> oven’s lid on, and<br />
Gavin shoveled <strong>the</strong> coals on <strong>the</strong> oven’s lid. The outer lips of <strong>the</strong> lid rose like a city wall all around<br />
<strong>the</strong> hot coals, and <strong>the</strong> lid’s handle stuck out of <strong>the</strong> center of <strong>the</strong> coals like <strong>the</strong> St. Louis arch.<br />
Twenty minutes later, Gavin used an iron hook to lift <strong>the</strong> lid from <strong>the</strong> oven. He held <strong>the</strong> lid<br />
suspended and swaying lightly from <strong>the</strong> hook while John used a large spatula to pry, lift, and slide<br />
<strong>the</strong> cornbread out of <strong>the</strong> oven in one wide, flat piece, like a flying saucer, set it on a plate, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n set <strong>the</strong> plate onto <strong>the</strong> picnic table to cool. The smell of <strong>the</strong> fresh, hot cornbread made John<br />
ache to sla<strong>the</strong>r butter all over it, tear off chunks, and shove <strong>the</strong>m, butter dripping, into his mouth,<br />
but he knew that would spoil his appetite <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> beans, and he wanted to enjoy <strong>the</strong>m both as<br />
much as he knew his hunger would make him.<br />
Gavin said, “I didn’t think about what I was going to do with this lid while you cook <strong>the</strong><br />
beans’ ingredients.”<br />
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John got his iron skillet out and set that on <strong>the</strong> pavement, and Gavin balanced <strong>the</strong> lid on it.<br />
John, stomach grumbling, poured fresh oil into <strong>the</strong> oven, added flour, and turned that<br />
steadily so <strong>the</strong> flour wouldn’t burn, until <strong>the</strong>y had a blonde roux. He dumped in finely chopped<br />
garlic and onion, and <strong>the</strong>y sizzled and sent steam roiling up out of <strong>the</strong> oven, and again, John’s<br />
stomach growled. The smell of steaming garlic and onion always energized him, like <strong>the</strong> rush of<br />
ozone be<strong>for</strong>e a storm.<br />
John stirred while Gavin trickled <strong>the</strong> water in. John stirred <strong>the</strong> roux after each slight<br />
addition, making sure no lumps <strong>for</strong>med, and once <strong>the</strong>y had a much runnier paste, John had Gavin<br />
added <strong>the</strong> remaining water, <strong>the</strong> beans, <strong>the</strong> chopped-up ham, <strong>the</strong> ham bone slice, sea salt, freshly<br />
ground pepper, and minced fresh ginger. Then John put <strong>the</strong> lid on again and tried to resist <strong>the</strong><br />
wide golden slab of cornbread.<br />
Night had completely fallen, and though it was <strong>the</strong> pit of winter, insects raised a buzz like<br />
a white-hot hiss, and John had to watch <strong>the</strong> oven closely because he wouldn’t be able to tell that<br />
hiss from <strong>the</strong> one of boiling-over water dripping onto <strong>the</strong> hibachi’s coals. Having some task that<br />
required his constant attention like that made it easier <strong>for</strong> him to resist <strong>the</strong> cornbread.<br />
After <strong>the</strong> beans had softened, John added rice right into <strong>the</strong> beans and let that cook <strong>for</strong><br />
half an hour, and he spooned rice and beans out toge<strong>the</strong>r into Sam’s bowls, and <strong>the</strong>y ate in hungry<br />
silence, John dipping his slice of cornbread right in his beans.<br />
After, Sam spooned <strong>the</strong> leftover beans and rice into a smaller pot, one that would fit inside<br />
<strong>the</strong> truck’s minifridge, <strong>the</strong>n poured water all over <strong>the</strong> coals and stretched and looked at <strong>the</strong> stars.<br />
“I’m beat,” Sam said. “Long day tomorrow.”<br />
“Yeah,” John said, but he didn’t want to think about that. He wanted to enjoy what time<br />
<strong>the</strong>y had.<br />
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CHAPTER 48<br />
The brown, bearded hitchhiker peed all over John.<br />
“Hah, hah,” <strong>the</strong> hitchhiker said. “That’s funny.”<br />
John lay on <strong>the</strong> ground, or on a bed, or something. He couldn’t move, and <strong>the</strong> hitchhiker<br />
stood above John peeing and peeing.<br />
The hitchhiker laughed again and said, “That’s fucking hilarious. What a hoot!” He<br />
seemed to have an endless stream of piss.<br />
Then it was no longer <strong>the</strong> hitchhiker, but was Floyd, and instead of peeing on John, Floyd<br />
leaned over John and slapped him.<br />
“Gettup,” Floyd said, his burnt sienna skin shining beneath <strong>the</strong> straw fedora and floral<br />
hatband. “Gettup.”<br />
Floyd slapped John harder, pulled down on <strong>the</strong> rim of what had become a straw cowboy<br />
hat, but still with <strong>the</strong> floral hatband, and reared up to his full three and half feet, made a tight fist<br />
above his head, scrunched up his face until <strong>the</strong> lines and his lips looked like <strong>the</strong> ridges in a<br />
walnut’s shell, and <strong>the</strong>n slammed his fist down hard into <strong>the</strong> middle of John’s face.<br />
Behind Floyd was a tall, broad-shouldered silhouette with puffy hair full of dandruff. The<br />
heavy black coat had huge dandruff flakes all over <strong>the</strong> shoulders, and tiny, shiny, beady eyes<br />
glowered from within <strong>the</strong> silhouette.<br />
“Geddup,” Floyd screamed and <strong>the</strong>n punched John again, a roundhouse this time.<br />
John’s front teeth flew out, and blood spattered on Floyd’s aloha shirt. Floyd sighed as if<br />
he were disappointed in John <strong>for</strong> that.<br />
Floyd punched John again, mechanically, without a hint of anger, and this time it sounded<br />
like he said, “Giddyup.”<br />
Then Floyd reached <strong>for</strong>ward with his first two fingers and his thumb, like an eagle’s claw,<br />
and grabbed John’s nose and mouth, Floyd’s thumb digging inside John’s bloody mouth and up<br />
into his hard palate, Floyd’s fingers sinking in through <strong>the</strong> top of John’s nose and into his sinuses<br />
somehow, and Floyd squeezed and pulled. John found it harder and harder to brea<strong>the</strong>. His face<br />
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felt like Floyd were twisting it into Ed’s.<br />
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CHAPTER 49<br />
John woke and sucked in breath after breath of <strong>the</strong> cool air. It was <strong>the</strong> first hint of<br />
daylight, and <strong>the</strong> rest area’s faint lamplight shone in through <strong>the</strong> sleeper door’s window and<br />
through <strong>the</strong> tiny gap in <strong>the</strong> almost completely closed sunroof. Through <strong>the</strong> windshield, <strong>the</strong> top<br />
edges of <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>est behind <strong>the</strong> parking lot lamp was almost black, just a hint of morning grayness.<br />
Sam lay sleeping next to John, one hand on John’s chest, rising and falling to John’s finally<br />
calming breaths. One of Sam’s knees was draped over John’s thigh. The thin sheet covered <strong>the</strong>m<br />
both in <strong>the</strong> cool, humid air, <strong>the</strong> com<strong>for</strong>ter bunched up at <strong>the</strong>ir feet.<br />
John ran his tongue along his upper teeth. All were still <strong>the</strong>re, all still healthy. His nose and<br />
sinuses seemed fine.<br />
He shook off <strong>the</strong> strange dream.<br />
It’s nothing, he thought. Guilt. That’s all, guilt at what I used to be, not what I am now.<br />
But he didn’t believe himself.<br />
Sam smelled of <strong>the</strong> sweat of <strong>the</strong> previous day’s unloading, a more pervasive scent than<br />
that of <strong>the</strong>ir first night toge<strong>the</strong>r, starker, but it wasn’t a stale odor yet, and it made John want to<br />
be even closer to Sam. He bent his head down until his nose touched Sam’s shoulder. He wanted<br />
to drag his teeth across Sam’s shoulder in a light bite, but he didn’t want to wake Sam.<br />
He leaned his head back onto <strong>the</strong> pillow again and whispered, “Why can’t <strong>the</strong>re be more<br />
time? I need more time.”<br />
Sam stirred.<br />
John lay quiet <strong>the</strong>n and brea<strong>the</strong>d deeply and slowly, like he were asleep, and Sam settled<br />
again without waking.<br />
John watched <strong>the</strong> partially open sunroof, <strong>the</strong> window in <strong>the</strong> sleeper’s door, <strong>the</strong> tiny,<br />
perfectly aligned holes that were <strong>the</strong> sleeper’s vent. The light breeze that wafted through <strong>the</strong><br />
sleeper’s vents smelled more like morning than night—dewy instead of musty. John heard a<br />
mockingbird, <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> hum of a car pulling into <strong>the</strong> rest area and stopping, <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> mockingbird<br />
alone again <strong>for</strong> five minutes, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> car restarting and <strong>the</strong> hum of it pulling away.<br />
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By <strong>the</strong>n, <strong>the</strong> outline of <strong>the</strong> top of <strong>the</strong> wood line had become distinguishable against <strong>the</strong><br />
slightly lighter sky. The woods <strong>the</strong>mselves were still a single black mass. Sam’s hand still lay on<br />
John’s chest. John closed his eyes and wanted to sleep again, to dream something else, something<br />
with Sam in it. He felt <strong>the</strong> truck move, as if Gavin were climbing out of <strong>the</strong> trailer. For some<br />
reason, John visualized Floyd crawling into <strong>the</strong> trailer instead of Gavin climbing out. John knew<br />
<strong>the</strong>re was wasn’t much time left, and he closed his eyes and tried to memorize Sam’s scent and<br />
<strong>the</strong> exact feel of Sam’s hand.<br />
Sam stirred and woke, and John caught himself watching Sam with what he knew was a<br />
worrisome look. He tried to stop looking, or at least change his look, and he ended up grinning<br />
facetiously and <strong>the</strong>n staring at <strong>the</strong> sunroof again, but be<strong>for</strong>e he realized it, he would be watching<br />
with his worrisome look again.<br />
Sam asked, “What’s wrong?”<br />
John looked at <strong>the</strong> sunroof again and closed his eyes.<br />
Sam sat up, <strong>the</strong> sheet slipping down and baring Sam from <strong>the</strong> waist up.<br />
“Something’s wrong,” Sam said. “What is it?”<br />
John sat up, too. “I don’t want you to leave me, Sam.”<br />
“In Eastpoint?”<br />
“No. I mean in general.”<br />
“You mean you want to go to Jacksonville? Or you want me to stay here?”<br />
“Ei<strong>the</strong>r. Both. I don’t know.”<br />
Sam said, “I have to earn a living.”<br />
“I know.”<br />
Sam asked, “What do you want, to settle in Orlando with me? Get married? Make<br />
payments on an SUV and a McMansion in <strong>the</strong> suburbs and have our two and a half kids and our<br />
half of a pet dog, or whatever <strong>the</strong> statistics are?”<br />
“I don’t want that,” John said. “I don’t think I’ll ever want any of that.”<br />
“You don’t even know if I can have kids, or can even marry you.”<br />
John asked, “Why wouldn’t you be able to?”<br />
“I’ve never tried.”<br />
“Never tried to get married?”<br />
“Never tried to have kids.”<br />
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“I mean, why wouldn’t you be able to marry me?”<br />
Sam’s brows scrunched toge<strong>the</strong>r. “Why would you want to marry me, John? We met three<br />
days ago—two and a half. We don’t really know each o<strong>the</strong>r.” Sam’s hands twisted <strong>the</strong> sheet into<br />
knots. “Do you have any idea what you’d get into? I don’t take stuff like this lightly.”<br />
John brea<strong>the</strong>d as if he were rushing up an endless flight of stairs.<br />
Sam said, “I don’t know if I want to marry you. It’s way too soon.”<br />
“Of course it is. Two and a half days isn’t enough.”<br />
Sam said, “And don’t say you love me. Not after two and a half days. Don’t you dare say<br />
that.”<br />
“You don’t know how happy I am to hear you say that.”<br />
Sam laughed. “Okay, <strong>the</strong>n. I don’t love you, ei<strong>the</strong>r.”<br />
John said. “But I’m really infatuated with you.”<br />
“‘Really’ as in truly or ‘really’ as in very?”<br />
“Both.”<br />
“Then say it twice.”<br />
“I’m really really in infatuation with you.”<br />
“Unconditionally?”<br />
“Yes,” John said, “I’m really really unconditionally in infatuation with you, Sam.”<br />
“Okay.” Sam nodded, teeth clenched and cheek muscles knotting. “Okay. I’m really really<br />
unconditionally in infatuation with you, too. We’ll see about <strong>the</strong> rest.”<br />
The trailer moved again, and Sam scooted over to <strong>the</strong> sleeper vent facing <strong>the</strong> woods and<br />
peered through <strong>the</strong> tiny holes, <strong>the</strong> sheet slipping down and <strong>the</strong>n covering only Sam’s calves and<br />
feet. John reached out and brushed his fingertips across Sam’s shoulder blade, ran <strong>the</strong>m down <strong>the</strong><br />
deepening draw down Sam’s spine, and lighted <strong>the</strong>m across one cheek of Sam’s butt and down<br />
<strong>the</strong> back of Sam’s thigh.<br />
John got out of bed and went into <strong>the</strong> cab. He pulled Sam’s visor down and glanced<br />
through <strong>the</strong> CDs stored <strong>the</strong>re.<br />
“Come back here,” Sam said from <strong>the</strong> bed and picked up <strong>the</strong> box of condoms.<br />
“I’m in <strong>the</strong> mood <strong>for</strong> music.”<br />
From John’s height now, he could no longer see <strong>the</strong> sky, and <strong>the</strong> night was still black<br />
through <strong>the</strong> windshield and door windows. The windows were so dark, <strong>the</strong>y looked like someone<br />
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had brushed <strong>the</strong>m with a heavy gouache. The encroaching morning was betrayed by only a slight<br />
blue gray glow diffusing itself throughout <strong>the</strong> cab.<br />
In <strong>the</strong> faint light, John picked out a CD, slid <strong>the</strong> CD into <strong>the</strong> player, and <strong>for</strong>warded to a<br />
song he’d seen listed on <strong>the</strong> label.<br />
An acoustic guitar thrummed, and Ed’s face appeared in <strong>the</strong> windshield.<br />
Ed reared his arm back and smashed <strong>the</strong> butt of his pistol against <strong>the</strong> windshield twice.<br />
Each of <strong>the</strong> two bangs made John jump, and he felt <strong>the</strong> shockwave surge into his feet through <strong>the</strong><br />
floor and spread up through his entire body, exploding like crashing waves against <strong>the</strong> upper back<br />
part of his skull. Two starbursts of cracks glittered in <strong>the</strong> glass.<br />
Ed pointed <strong>the</strong> pistol directly at John. “Get out!” he yelled. “Get out now, or I’ll shoot<br />
you both right through this window.”<br />
John glanced back at Sam, who still sat on <strong>the</strong> bed but had pulled <strong>the</strong> sheet up to cover<br />
chest, groin, knees.<br />
John felt <strong>the</strong> truck move again, and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> passenger window shattered inward with a<br />
loud popping noise like a shot. Glass sprayed in, and tiny blue white trapezoidal glass crystals<br />
landed like heaps of diamonds on <strong>the</strong> passenger seat and scattered all across <strong>the</strong> floor around and<br />
on top of John’s bare feet.<br />
John wondered if he’d been shot, but he couldn’t see a hole in his chest anywhere.<br />
Ed’s pistol barrel stuck in through <strong>the</strong> gap where <strong>the</strong> window used to be. No smoke curled<br />
from its barrel. John wondered if smoke really curled from pistol barrels after <strong>the</strong>y’d been fired, or<br />
if that was just a Hollywood gimmick.<br />
Ed reached in and unlocked <strong>the</strong> door, <strong>the</strong>n pulled <strong>the</strong> door open and swung himself and<br />
<strong>the</strong> pistol around so that he could keep <strong>the</strong>m both clearly in his sight. Ed reeked of whiskey.<br />
He shifted <strong>the</strong> pistol into his bandaged hand and, with his good hand, pulled <strong>the</strong> CB mic<br />
from its bracket and yanked on it like it were <strong>the</strong> handle on a lawnmower starter cord. The CB’s<br />
cord popped and <strong>the</strong>n dangled from <strong>the</strong> CB. Short loose wires jutted from its end where <strong>the</strong> mic<br />
used to be. Ed tossed <strong>the</strong> mic over his shoulder and out into <strong>the</strong> gray morning and switched <strong>the</strong><br />
pistol back to his good hand.<br />
“Get dressed,” Ed told John. “I don’t want pubic hair in my pancakes.”<br />
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CHAPTER 50<br />
The morning sky’s faint grayness had grown to a medium one, though <strong>the</strong> woods all<br />
around <strong>the</strong> rest area were still deep black just inside <strong>the</strong> outermost row of trunks, as if <strong>the</strong><br />
blackness were a massive creature crouched everywhere within <strong>the</strong> expanse of woods, shrinking<br />
back little by little from <strong>the</strong> encroaching daylight.<br />
John plopped a heavy rag onto one of <strong>the</strong> picnic tables and wiped up a huge swath of <strong>the</strong><br />
dew, wrung out <strong>the</strong> rag over <strong>the</strong> grass, and wiped up ano<strong>the</strong>r huge swath. In <strong>the</strong> first spot John<br />
had wiped, Sam set <strong>the</strong> two plastic grocery bags of ingredients Ed had made <strong>the</strong>m, at gunpoint,<br />
load up from <strong>the</strong> truck’s fridge and cupboard. John kept alternatingly wiping and wringing until he<br />
had wiped off <strong>the</strong> entire table and both benches. At one end of <strong>the</strong> table, he had to step around his<br />
gym bag and <strong>the</strong> bag of charcoal briquettes Ed had also made him bring to <strong>the</strong> table.<br />
Ed stayed just out of arm’s reach of both John and Sam, training <strong>the</strong> pistol on whoever<br />
had most recently moved, which was almost always John.<br />
Sam glanced at <strong>the</strong> half-open trailer door. It was open wider than Gavin had left it <strong>the</strong><br />
night be<strong>for</strong>e. The opening was wide enough now <strong>for</strong> a person to step through.<br />
John had been wondering about Gavin, too, but he wished Sam would stop looking <strong>the</strong>re.<br />
If Ed hadn’t already been in <strong>the</strong> trailer, Sam’s glances would give Ed <strong>the</strong> idea.<br />
John tried to keep moving. He hefted his gym bag and set it heavily on one end of one of<br />
<strong>the</strong> benches.<br />
Ed thrust <strong>the</strong> muzzle of his pistol more toward John and <strong>the</strong>n swung it in little waves.<br />
“Step away from <strong>the</strong> table,” Ed said.<br />
John did.<br />
Ed, still holding <strong>the</strong> pistol on John and Sam, pulled John’s knives from <strong>the</strong> bag and slung<br />
<strong>the</strong>m one at a time off toward <strong>the</strong> wood line saying, “Don’t need knives to make pancakes.”<br />
John saw something else in <strong>the</strong> grass out near where Ed had hurled <strong>the</strong> knives, something<br />
small and silvery shiny. Then he saw <strong>the</strong> short wooden handle, and <strong>the</strong> small silvery part took on<br />
<strong>the</strong> shape of a hammer’s head and claws.<br />
233
Sam saw it too, gasped “Gavin,” and ran toward <strong>the</strong> trailer door.<br />
Ed laughed and moved back to his original spot, where he could watch everyone and<br />
everything most easily. He swung <strong>the</strong> pistol barrel in little waves again, this time from John<br />
toward <strong>the</strong> table.<br />
“Back to work,” he said.<br />
Sam disappeared in <strong>the</strong> darkness inside <strong>the</strong> trailer.<br />
“Back to work,” Ed said to John more <strong>for</strong>cefully.<br />
John walked to <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> parking lot and dumped <strong>the</strong> hibachi’s ashes from <strong>the</strong><br />
previous night into a smokey pile in <strong>the</strong> crook of <strong>the</strong> curb. He brushed <strong>the</strong> belly of <strong>the</strong> hibachi<br />
with his hand, stalling, hoping to be near <strong>the</strong> truck when Sam reemerged in case Sam and Gavin<br />
could figure out a way to surprise Ed. Then he wondered where he could do <strong>the</strong> most good if<br />
<strong>the</strong>y did so, near <strong>the</strong>m or next to Ed.<br />
Ed said, “Come on, now. You don’t need <strong>the</strong> thing supply-room clean.”<br />
John carried <strong>the</strong> hibachi back to <strong>the</strong> table and, continually glancing back and <strong>the</strong> trailer<br />
between tasks, set <strong>the</strong> hibachi on <strong>the</strong> end of <strong>the</strong> table opposite <strong>the</strong> two grocery bags, filled its belly<br />
with fresh charcoal briquettes, struck a match, and lit <strong>the</strong> briquettes.<br />
First, <strong>the</strong> scent of sulfur hit John; <strong>the</strong>n, that of <strong>the</strong> lighter-fluid-infused briquettes.<br />
One of Sam’s feet pushed <strong>the</strong> trailer door and swung it more fully open. The morning light<br />
spilled onto <strong>the</strong> trailer floor and onto Sam helping Gavin out of <strong>the</strong> trailer, one of Gavin’s arms<br />
wrapped tightly over Sam’s shoulders, Gavin barely putting any weight on his feet. The gray sky<br />
had donned a hint of coral by <strong>the</strong>n, and <strong>the</strong> spreading light revealed <strong>the</strong> blood all over Gavin’s<br />
bare feet and pooled on <strong>the</strong> trailer floor behind him.<br />
John ran over and helped Sam get Gavin out of <strong>the</strong> trailer and carry him toward <strong>the</strong> grass<br />
near <strong>the</strong> picnic table. Gavin’s feet dangled from his ankles as loosely as Christmas tree ornaments,<br />
and John tried, unsuccessfully, to keep Gavin’s toes from grating against <strong>the</strong> concrete of <strong>the</strong><br />
parking lot.<br />
Once <strong>the</strong>y were in <strong>the</strong> grass, John asked Sam, “You got him?”<br />
“Yeah.”<br />
John rushed to his gym bag and pulled out <strong>the</strong> ratty motel blanket. He shook <strong>the</strong> blanket<br />
open, draped it across <strong>the</strong> grass, and ran back to help Sam carry Gavin to it.<br />
The entire time, Ed snickered and gleefully lolled his head around.<br />
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Gavin brea<strong>the</strong>d in short, heavy waves and grunted each time one of his feet bounced into a<br />
different position.<br />
John and Sam lay Gavin on <strong>the</strong> blanket. Gavin’s Achilles tendons had been cut clean<br />
through and had disappeared up inside <strong>the</strong> backs of his lower legs, somewhere up beyond <strong>the</strong><br />
cuffs of his pants legs. His feet, ankles, and cuffs were coated in blood dark and sticky with<br />
coagulation. Fresh, bright-red trickles oozed from <strong>the</strong> gaping wounds at <strong>the</strong> backs of his ankles.<br />
Sam glared at Ed. “You bastard.”<br />
Ed shrugged. “I couldn’t have him running off anywhere while I took care of you two,<br />
now could I?” Ed waved <strong>the</strong> pistol at <strong>the</strong>m. “Get away from him now. Thank you <strong>for</strong> bringing<br />
him out here.”<br />
John and Sam stepped away from <strong>the</strong> blanket.<br />
Ed said, “Be grateful. He could be dead. But alive, he’s ano<strong>the</strong>r level of coercion <strong>for</strong> John<br />
here.” He scratched his nose with his bandaged hand. “Now, if both of you don’t do exactly as I<br />
say—especially you, John—I’ll kill Gavin. Then if you don’t do what I say, I’ll kill Sam. You,”<br />
Ed pointed his muzzle at Sam, “move that truck so that it blocks us off from <strong>the</strong> rest of <strong>the</strong> rest<br />
area, be<strong>for</strong>e anyone else pulls in here. Park it right up along <strong>the</strong> curb <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Sam didn’t move.<br />
“Now,” Ed said and aimed <strong>the</strong> pistol at Gavin’s chest. “And no funny stuff.”<br />
Sam returned to <strong>the</strong> truck, closed <strong>the</strong> trailer door, climbed in <strong>the</strong> cab, and started <strong>the</strong><br />
engine.<br />
Ed asked John, “You think you have enough incentive now to make a perfect pancake?”<br />
Gavin lay back and asked in an extra-gravelly voice, “Why couldn’t you just want money<br />
or sex like everyone else?”<br />
Gavin’s turning “else” into two syllables in his familiar lilt made John brea<strong>the</strong> easier. He<br />
was glad to hear Gavin’s voice.<br />
Gavin rolled onto his back, stared at <strong>the</strong> sky, and blinked slowly. The sky’s coral color had<br />
lightened to orange pink. The shadows in <strong>the</strong> woods had shrunk back ano<strong>the</strong>r twenty yards.<br />
Sam finished parking <strong>the</strong> truck, its passenger side facing <strong>the</strong> picnic table, and came back to<br />
<strong>the</strong> picnic table.<br />
“Good,” Ed said and looked at John. “Cook. Make <strong>the</strong> best damned blueberry pancakes in<br />
<strong>the</strong> world.”<br />
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John asked skeptically, “And you’ll let us go, huh?”<br />
“Yes. You like <strong>the</strong> old agreement better now? <strong>Pancake</strong>s <strong>for</strong> a bus ticket?”<br />
John and Sam just stared at Ed. Gavin kept looking at <strong>the</strong> sky.<br />
Ed said, “Now it’s cook <strong>for</strong> your life. Don’t get so nervous that you fuck it up, okay?”<br />
Still no one else said anything.<br />
“Go,” Ed said as if starting a race.<br />
From his bag, John pulled his mo<strong>the</strong>r’s bowl, his grandmo<strong>the</strong>r’s iron skillet, one of <strong>the</strong><br />
wooden spoons, and a <strong>for</strong>k. He dug through <strong>the</strong> grocery bag and pulled out <strong>the</strong> ventilated plastic<br />
bin of blueberries.<br />
He asked Sam, “Could you rinse <strong>the</strong>se?” Then he asked Ed, “Can Sam help?”<br />
Ed shrugged. “Suits me. But no leaving where I can see, except into <strong>the</strong> truck if you need<br />
something from inside. And if <strong>the</strong> driver’s door or window opens even a tiny bit, I kill Gavin.”<br />
Sam said, “I need water, though. The rest area has—”<br />
“Use one of your big jugs of water, or did you and John suck it all down while you were<br />
in L’Amour?” He laughed.<br />
“I was going to buy more this morning,” Sam said.<br />
“Use whatever you have in <strong>the</strong>re, or just don’t rinse <strong>the</strong>m. Or rinse <strong>the</strong>m with milk.”<br />
Sam climbed into <strong>the</strong> cab, returned with a half-liter plastic bottle a third full, and rinsed <strong>the</strong><br />
blueberries sparingly.<br />
John scooped oats and whole-grain and all-purpose flours in <strong>the</strong> bowl, <strong>the</strong>n added baking<br />
soda, baking powder, and salt.<br />
Ed asked, “You put salt in? They’re supposed to be sweet, not salty.”<br />
John said, “It’s only half a teaspoon <strong>for</strong> a double batch. Salt brings out <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r flavors.”<br />
“I don’t believe you.”<br />
“That doesn’t change anything.” John mixed <strong>the</strong> dry ingredients. “I need ano<strong>the</strong>r bowl, <strong>for</strong><br />
<strong>the</strong> liquid ingredients, and you’ll need a plate.”<br />
“‘We,’” Ed said. “There’s enough here <strong>for</strong> everybody.” He smiled. “I’m feeling generous<br />
today.”<br />
“We’ll need plates, <strong>the</strong>n,” John said, “plural.”<br />
Ed said, “Don’t tell me. Tell that thing,” and pointed his muzzle at Sam.<br />
Gavin said, still staring at <strong>the</strong> sky, “Y’all go ahead. I don’t feel much like eating right<br />
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now.”<br />
Sam went to <strong>the</strong> semi and came back with a cereal bowl and four plates.<br />
John put one cup of <strong>the</strong> blueberries in <strong>the</strong> bowl and mashed <strong>the</strong>m with <strong>the</strong> <strong>for</strong>k. At first,<br />
<strong>the</strong> blueberries resisted and wanted to jump out of <strong>the</strong> bowl and onto <strong>the</strong> table, but John guarded<br />
<strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> bowl with his o<strong>the</strong>r hand. Then <strong>the</strong> blueberries gave in, and <strong>the</strong>ir innards oozed<br />
out thick and opaque.<br />
Ed craned his neck and peered into <strong>the</strong> bowl without coming any closer.<br />
“They’re white inside,” he said.<br />
John said, “The blue comes from <strong>the</strong> skin.”<br />
The blueberry skins, flattened, thin, and wrinkly, mixed with <strong>the</strong> pulp and tore into parts.<br />
The blue from <strong>the</strong> skin stained <strong>the</strong> pulp light blue at first, like <strong>the</strong> sky directly overhead was<br />
quickly becoming, <strong>the</strong>n a medium purplish blue, like John imagined <strong>the</strong> deepest parts of <strong>the</strong> ocean.<br />
Once John had <strong>the</strong> pulp mostly deep blue and <strong>the</strong> consistency of yogurt, with most of <strong>the</strong> skins<br />
broken into tiny specks, he broke <strong>the</strong> eggs in on <strong>the</strong>m, poured <strong>the</strong> buttermilk, and stirred until <strong>the</strong><br />
bulk of <strong>the</strong> mixture was creamy pale blue. Then he poured that into <strong>the</strong> dry mixture and stirred<br />
with large, folding strokes.<br />
Ed said, “It’s still not blue enough.”<br />
John said, “Don’t worry about that.”<br />
He poured <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r cup and a half of rinsed blueberries into <strong>the</strong> mixture and folded it over<br />
and over itself. Teeny tiny bubbles <strong>for</strong>med and popped from <strong>the</strong> baking soda.<br />
Sam took a swig from <strong>the</strong> water bottle and offered it to John.<br />
John shook his head and set <strong>the</strong> grill on <strong>the</strong> hibachi and <strong>the</strong> skillet on that.<br />
Ed said, “Maybe we should use food coloring after all.”<br />
John said, “Too late <strong>for</strong> that.”<br />
“What if I want food coloring?”<br />
“Fine. Sam will drive down <strong>the</strong> road and get some right now. We’ll just hang out here,<br />
you and me, Ed.”<br />
Ed said, “I’ll just use my imagination, <strong>the</strong>n.”<br />
Gavin chortled, still slowly blinking at <strong>the</strong> growing brightness in <strong>the</strong> sky. Gavin’s face was<br />
as pale as <strong>the</strong> buttermilk.<br />
The sun, huge and deep orange and still dull behind <strong>the</strong> morning haze, peeked over <strong>the</strong><br />
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trees. The trees’ tops cut off <strong>the</strong> very bottom edge of <strong>the</strong> sun in a jagged line, and <strong>the</strong> haze turned<br />
<strong>the</strong> part of <strong>the</strong> sun <strong>the</strong>y could see into yellow, yellow orange, and orange layers like a parfait. The<br />
haze made <strong>the</strong> sun easy—even enjoyable—to look at.<br />
“Cook some,” Ed said, never looking at <strong>the</strong> sun.<br />
John said, “Have to wait <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> skillet to heat up.”<br />
“Should have put it on sooner.”<br />
John nodded at <strong>the</strong> bowl of batter. “Have to wait <strong>for</strong> <strong>the</strong> oats to soak up some of <strong>the</strong><br />
moisture, anyway. Most things worthwhile take time, Ed.”<br />
Ed switched <strong>the</strong> pistol to his injured hand and, with his good hand, picked up <strong>the</strong> cereal<br />
bowl, now only streaked with what looked like blue yogurt. He backed back up to his original<br />
spot and licked <strong>the</strong> bowl clean, slowly, like a cat bathing itself.<br />
John said, “There were raw eggs in <strong>the</strong>re.”<br />
Ed shrugged.<br />
John dribbled a tablespoon of oil onto <strong>the</strong> skillet. It thinned and spread quickly. John lifted<br />
<strong>the</strong> skillet using his folded towel and shook and turned <strong>the</strong> skillet so that <strong>the</strong> oil spread. He set <strong>the</strong><br />
skillet back on <strong>the</strong> hibachi and spooned an egg-sized scoop of batter into <strong>the</strong> middle of <strong>the</strong> skillet.<br />
The hole he’d scooped into <strong>the</strong> batter in <strong>the</strong> bowl remained at first, with severed half bubbles<br />
showing. It slowly filled in, and <strong>the</strong> scoop in <strong>the</strong> skillet sank just as slowly, stopping once half an<br />
inch thick.<br />
Ed said, “Stop making an experimental one first and just cook <strong>the</strong> damned things.”<br />
“If you know so well what to do, you cook <strong>the</strong>m.”<br />
The edges of <strong>the</strong> pancake lost <strong>the</strong>ir glisten and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>for</strong>med little bubbles that broke. John<br />
lifted one edge with <strong>the</strong> spatula and flipped <strong>the</strong> pancake over. Golden brown lines ran in relief<br />
across a pale blue-beige background. Whole blueberries appeared black, imbedded flush in <strong>the</strong><br />
surface. One oozed shiny, <strong>the</strong>n bubbled. Then ano<strong>the</strong>r did, and a third.<br />
Ed said, “That looks like <strong>the</strong>m. That’s blue enough.”<br />
John watched <strong>the</strong> very edges of <strong>the</strong> pancake until <strong>the</strong>y cooked dry. He let it cook after<br />
that, and <strong>the</strong>n checked its underside, pulled it out, and set it on a plate.<br />
Ed said, “Pour some syrup on that plate, next to <strong>the</strong> pancake.”<br />
John did.<br />
Ed picked up <strong>the</strong> pancake and sopped both sides of it in <strong>the</strong> syrup so that only <strong>the</strong> part his<br />
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<strong>for</strong>efinger and thumb touched was syrup-free.<br />
While Ed was near, John thought about clubbing Ed with <strong>the</strong> iron skillet. John wondered if<br />
he could pull it off, or if Ed would just block it with his arm or something and <strong>the</strong>n shoot Gavin.<br />
John wondered just how well Ed could handle <strong>the</strong> pistol with his hurt hand. The skillet was a lot<br />
of weight to get moving like that. There was no way to do that without giving all kinds of clues:<br />
changing his grip, shifting his weight, <strong>the</strong> initial slowness of <strong>the</strong> swing. John wanted to believe<br />
that maybe Ed really would let <strong>the</strong>m go.<br />
Ed moved back to his original spot and turned <strong>the</strong> pancake up and back down so that <strong>the</strong><br />
syrup didn’t drip but instead ran one way and <strong>the</strong>n <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r and <strong>the</strong>n circled around.<br />
John poured more oil into <strong>the</strong> skillet, swirled it around, and spooned in three more scoops<br />
of batter.<br />
Ed bit one quarter of <strong>the</strong> pancake off.<br />
“That’s good,” he said and took ano<strong>the</strong>r bite. “Pretty close, but it should be sweeter. I<br />
warned you about <strong>the</strong> salt.”<br />
“Sop up more syrup, <strong>the</strong>n,” John said.<br />
Ed finished off <strong>the</strong> pancake, licked his fingertips, and said, “That might even be better than<br />
<strong>the</strong> ones I had in Ranger School.”<br />
John flipped <strong>the</strong> pancakes in <strong>the</strong> skillet. “I thought you said those had been perfect. How<br />
do you beat perfection?”<br />
“I guess I was wrong about <strong>the</strong>m,” Ed said. “Write down this recipe <strong>for</strong> me.”<br />
Sam slapped one thigh as if trying to trap something <strong>the</strong>re, Sam’s eyes widening and<br />
showing <strong>the</strong> whites all around both irises. Then <strong>the</strong> Green Acres jingle dinged in electronic beeps<br />
from beneath Sam’s hand.<br />
Ed asked, “What is that?”<br />
Sam swallowed and pulled out <strong>the</strong> cell phone.<br />
Green Acres dinged again.<br />
Ed’s brows rose. “You’re kidding me.”<br />
Sam opened <strong>the</strong> phone and answered, “Hello?”<br />
Ed shook his head and worked his lips tightly like he were about to spit out something<br />
bitter. He pointed <strong>the</strong> pistol at Gavin and watched Sam.<br />
“Yes,” Sam said and turned toward <strong>the</strong> parking lot.<br />
239
Sam took two casual steps toward <strong>the</strong> semi and stopped exactly between Ed’s pistol and<br />
Gavin, <strong>the</strong>n turned and faced Ed, staring straight into Ed’s eyes.<br />
Sam said into <strong>the</strong> phone, “In <strong>the</strong> grass at <strong>the</strong> edge of <strong>the</strong> parking lot, on <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r side of<br />
<strong>the</strong> moving truck.”<br />
“Fine,” Ed said and raised <strong>the</strong> pistol at Sam’s chest and cocked it.<br />
John grabbed <strong>the</strong> skillet with both hands and charged Ed, swinging it like he were in an<br />
Olympic hammer throw. He slammed <strong>the</strong> skillet’s edge into <strong>the</strong> side of Ed’s head at <strong>the</strong> same<br />
moment that Ed fired <strong>the</strong> pistol. The shot missed Sam, and pancakes and Ed landed in <strong>the</strong> freshly<br />
cut, damp, green grass without a sound o<strong>the</strong>r than <strong>the</strong> ringing in John’s ears from <strong>the</strong> blast of <strong>the</strong><br />
shot. The skillet burned John’s palms, but Ed still held <strong>the</strong> pistol and tried to get to his feet. John<br />
raised <strong>the</strong> skillet high over his and Ed’s heads, and Ed, with bits of grass clinging to and falling<br />
from his face, raised <strong>the</strong> pistol at John and cocked it. John slammed <strong>the</strong> skillet down, <strong>the</strong> pistol<br />
blasted, and John fell onto his back, feeling like someone had punched him hard in <strong>the</strong> chest. He<br />
rolled over and tried to raise <strong>the</strong> skillet again, but it was no longer in his hands, though his palms<br />
still burned as if it were.<br />
Ed lay on his back gurgling, his ball cap in <strong>the</strong> grass a foot from him. Ed’s <strong>for</strong>ehead’s<br />
ridges and valleys seemed less prominent. Ed gagged and coughed, and blood sprayed up and out<br />
of his mouth like a spurt from an aerosol can. Droplets landed all over John.<br />
Ed groaned, “Marcus,” and <strong>the</strong>n gurgled again. His chest heaved in spasms, and blood<br />
burst in a bubbling pool out of his mouth and down his chin and cheeks.<br />
John dragged himself up onto all fours and <strong>the</strong>n felt someone lifting him from beneath his<br />
armpits. He still heard nothing but ringing and, somehow, Ed’s gurgling.<br />
Ed kept jerking in spasms, <strong>the</strong> pool of blood in his mouth bubbling. A pink froth oozed<br />
from his de<strong>for</strong>med nostrils and swayed like sea foam in an onshore breeze. One of Ed’s pupils had<br />
dilated and consumed that eye’s entire iris; <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r pupil was a pinpoint in <strong>the</strong> morning light.<br />
Then John felt as if a large glob of phlegm had leapt down his windpipe and made him<br />
cough. His chest still felt punched, and a sharper pain came to life within <strong>the</strong> duller one. John<br />
coughed again and hacked out a gurgle of blood.<br />
Sympathy bleeding, he thought. Then he thought that didn’t make sense.<br />
He heard a slurping noise, and realized it was coming from his chest.<br />
“Come on,” Sam said and kept holding John and pulling him away from Ed. “Come on.”<br />
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“Make it stop,” John said and coughed again. “Turn him over.”<br />
Then two beige-and-umber–uni<strong>for</strong>med deputies jogged past Sam and John and pinned<br />
Ed’s arms to <strong>the</strong> grass. A man in a white-and-red uni<strong>for</strong>m took one of John’s arms, he and Sam<br />
led John toward all <strong>the</strong> flashing lights and laid him on a gurney, and <strong>the</strong>n John was inside an<br />
ambulance. The paramedic put a clear mask over John’s nose and mouth, pulled <strong>the</strong> elastic band<br />
around to <strong>the</strong> back of John’s head, tugged its ends snug, and with a pair of oddly bent scissors<br />
with a large set of handles and teeny tiny blades, cut open <strong>the</strong> front of John’s sweater and T-shirt,<br />
slowly, methodically, but steadily. John coughed again, and <strong>the</strong> paramedic held John’s sweater<br />
and T-shirt away from John’s chest as he cut.<br />
John’s sweater was coated with blood, and he kept thinking, Where’d all that blood come<br />
from? That’s way more than Ed spit on me, more than I coughed up. Where’d it all come from?<br />
The paramedic turned John on his side. John kept hearing <strong>the</strong> sucking noises that got<br />
louder with each of his breaths, and he thought, Please let me live. Please let me call my parents<br />
again. Just long enough to do that, please.<br />
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CHAPTER 51<br />
John stirred <strong>the</strong> roux <strong>for</strong> ano<strong>the</strong>r of Pamela’s catering gigs. The roux had turned a deep<br />
chocolate brown, and John kept <strong>the</strong> heat on it, continually stirring. The skillet was Pamela’s huge<br />
cast-iron one, and deep. The wooden spoon dug thick swirls into <strong>the</strong> roux, cutting channels all <strong>the</strong><br />
way to <strong>the</strong> skillet’s bottom. Hints of clear grease tried to separate itself from <strong>the</strong> pasty thickness<br />
and seep into <strong>the</strong> channels, but by <strong>the</strong> time <strong>the</strong> edges of each channel had turned shiny, be<strong>for</strong>e any<br />
grease could pool, John’s spoon had cut ano<strong>the</strong>r path through and made <strong>the</strong> roux start <strong>the</strong> whole<br />
seeping process over again. The kitchen smelled of <strong>the</strong> cooking grease and flour, of onion and<br />
bacon. Pamela and Kevin were still upstairs, John assumed asleep, and <strong>the</strong> sun had just risen and<br />
cast an orange trapezoid, a distorted facsimile of <strong>the</strong> kitchen window, high on <strong>the</strong> wall next to<br />
him.<br />
John had spent two weeks at Tallahassee Memorial Hospital, Sam by his side at first, and<br />
<strong>the</strong>n Pamela. He had called his parents, had insisted to Pamela that she let him call <strong>the</strong>m first and<br />
not <strong>the</strong> o<strong>the</strong>r way around, and she had let him, instinctively—Her instincts always seemed so<br />
good, he thought. Then he’d spent two more weeks recuperating upstairs here at Pamela and<br />
Kevin’s. Their fa<strong>the</strong>r had even come and visited.<br />
John gazed at <strong>the</strong> bright trapezoid on <strong>the</strong> wall, crisscrossed with <strong>the</strong> shadowy grid of <strong>the</strong><br />
window’s glazed sashes and muntins. The trapezoid had already shifted downward, was gliding<br />
toward him and turning brighter and more yellow than orange. It would be bright white by <strong>the</strong><br />
time it reached him. The gumbo would be simmering by <strong>the</strong>n.<br />
John opened his left hand wide, stretching <strong>the</strong> new skin on his palm, <strong>the</strong>n swapped hands<br />
on <strong>the</strong> spoon and stretched open his right. The burns had healed, but <strong>the</strong> new skin was still tight<br />
and shiny. It was still hypersensitive, especially to <strong>the</strong> heat rising from Pamela’s big skillet and <strong>the</strong><br />
roux, but <strong>the</strong> new skin had come in fast and healthy. Even <strong>the</strong> cracks <strong>the</strong> cold, dry air in Colorado<br />
had split into <strong>the</strong> tips of his fingers had healed.<br />
On <strong>the</strong> phone <strong>the</strong> night be<strong>for</strong>e, Sam had promised to stop by on <strong>the</strong>ir way out of Orlando,<br />
on <strong>the</strong> way to Arizona, Lake Havasu City. Over <strong>the</strong> phone, Sam had sounded excited, too.<br />
242
The window hung open just a tad, and <strong>the</strong> salty, dewy air drifted in through <strong>the</strong> screen and<br />
all around John and <strong>the</strong>n went up and out through <strong>the</strong> stove’s hood. Something about <strong>the</strong> air in<br />
<strong>the</strong> kitchen made <strong>the</strong> dew seem to press deep inside him, seemed to make him feel as if he had just<br />
stepped out of <strong>the</strong> ocean, seemed to match <strong>the</strong> temperature and salinity of his blood so exactly<br />
that it made him feel a part of it, as if his skin were more a whimsically drawn line than a fleshy<br />
barrier, a separation between him and <strong>the</strong> world that could have been anywhere, or nowhere.<br />
On <strong>the</strong> stainless table in <strong>the</strong> center of <strong>the</strong> kitchen was a huge clear glass bowl filled with<br />
minced garlic and chopped onion, bell pepper, and celery. A chef’s knife lay on <strong>the</strong> white poly<br />
cutting board next to <strong>the</strong> bowl. Next to that was sliced-up smoked andouille sausage in a pile. In<br />
<strong>the</strong> fridge was a plastic-wrap-covered glass bowl of cleaned, deveined shrimp and a bowl of cubed<br />
grouper. Next to John was a crowded congregation of spices: Old Bay, crab boil, Tabasco,<br />
Worcestershire, three kinds of ground pepper, virtually every spice from Pamela’s shelves.<br />
John wondered, Why isn’t garlic part of <strong>the</strong> Cajun holy trinity, too? Seems like garlic goes<br />
into everything Cajun or Creole. Maybe it’s implied, like, “Of course it gets garlic. No one should<br />
have to ask. Just accept it and cook.”<br />
Ed’s bullet had gone right between John’s heart and left pulmonary vein, piercing his lung.<br />
It was a fully jacketed bullet and had splintered <strong>the</strong> back of his fourth rib on its way out. He had<br />
metal braces, pins, and screws in <strong>the</strong>re now. “If you’d been hit even a tiny bit differently,” <strong>the</strong><br />
doctor had told him, “a fraction of an inch left or right, or if it’d been a hollow point, you’d likely<br />
be dead, almost died on <strong>the</strong> operating table anyway.” So although every vital thing inside John<br />
had been badly shocked and bruised, even though <strong>the</strong>y’d had to cut part of him out, John had<br />
lived, and though he was still weak and still continued to heal, his heart was finally safe again.<br />
Ed had died at <strong>the</strong> rest area, drowned in his own blood with <strong>the</strong> deputies on top of him.<br />
John kept wondering if he could have helped Ed. John didn’t figure <strong>the</strong>re was much he could have<br />
done to save Cassandra, and <strong>the</strong>re was no way he could have prevented that woman’s death in<br />
Wyoming, so John wouldn’t have been able to prevent Ed’s going to prison or death row,<br />
whichever <strong>the</strong> case would have been, but maybe he could have had an impact on who Ed was at<br />
<strong>the</strong> end, on what kind of person <strong>the</strong>y would have sent to death row.<br />
Ed’s last word had been “Marcus.” John couldn’t get that sound out of his head. Ed<br />
hadn’t said it as if Marcus were greeting Ed from <strong>the</strong> afterlife or anything nutty like that. He’d<br />
said it as if Ed were still seven, as if Edwin’s and Marcus’s parents had put <strong>the</strong>m to bed in <strong>the</strong><br />
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trailer, turned out <strong>the</strong> lights, and gone to bed <strong>the</strong>mselves, and in <strong>the</strong> quiet of <strong>the</strong> tiny room, across<br />
<strong>the</strong> six feet of darkness between <strong>the</strong>ir beds, or maybe from <strong>the</strong> bottom bunk to <strong>the</strong> top, Ed had<br />
said, “Marcus.” Marcus would say, “Yeah. What, Edwin?” “I’m afraid, Marcus.” “Don’t be. I’ll<br />
take care of you. Go to sleep, Edwin. I’ll always take care of you.”<br />
That’s what that one word had sounded like to John, and he couldn’t shake that feeling,<br />
no matter how many times he told himself that everything o<strong>the</strong>r than that last word could be only<br />
his imagination. There was something about <strong>the</strong> way Ed had told that part of his story.<br />
John brought <strong>the</strong> huge glass bowl from <strong>the</strong> table and scraped <strong>the</strong> cut vegetables into <strong>the</strong><br />
roux. The vegetables sizzled and crackled and sent steam up toward <strong>the</strong> hood in graceful swirls.<br />
He folded <strong>the</strong> roux over and over <strong>the</strong> vegetables and wished he had cut <strong>the</strong> celery into smaller<br />
cubes now. He wished he’d taken more care.<br />
Near <strong>the</strong> hood, beneath <strong>the</strong> light of <strong>the</strong> window and mixing with <strong>the</strong> damp saltiness from<br />
outside, <strong>the</strong> swirls of steam from <strong>the</strong> vegetables and <strong>the</strong> roux spun toge<strong>the</strong>r and disappeared. John<br />
felt, through <strong>the</strong> wooden spoon, <strong>the</strong> celery, onion, and bell pepper softening and smelled <strong>the</strong><br />
tantalizing combination of <strong>the</strong> vegetables and garlic.<br />
The celery will turn out okay, he thought. It will soften and be fine after <strong>the</strong> long simmer.<br />
Have to focus now on not burning <strong>the</strong> roux, especially at this late stage.<br />
He leaned over <strong>the</strong> skillet, inhaled greedily, and thought, This’ll be a good gumbo, maybe<br />
<strong>the</strong> best I’ve ever made.<br />
He looked <strong>for</strong>ward to mixing <strong>the</strong> roux with <strong>the</strong> broth, to adding <strong>the</strong> sausage and seafood<br />
and adjusting <strong>the</strong> spices, to seeing how Sam would react to that first steaming spoonful.<br />
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BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH<br />
Roger Siebert grew up an Air Force brat, ending up on <strong>the</strong> Mississippi Gulf Coast <strong>for</strong><br />
his junior high and high school years, and has since lived primarily in Oklahoma, <strong>Florida</strong>, and<br />
Missouri. In 2002, he earned a BA in English, with distinction and department honors, at <strong>the</strong><br />
<strong>University</strong> of Missouri–Kansas City. In <strong>the</strong> twenty-two years between graduating from high<br />
school and earning his bachelor’s degree, Roger worked as a burger joint cook, a janitor, a waiter,<br />
a restaurant and bar manager, a movie <strong>the</strong>ater manager, a U.S. Army infantryman, a deli clerk, a<br />
doughnut shop clerk, a library clerk, a cross-country truck driver, a sailing instructor, a fitness<br />
instructor, and a salesman. He has attended several writing workshops, including <strong>the</strong> Squaw<br />
Valley Community of Writers Fiction Workshop, <strong>for</strong> which he won a tuition waver. His fiction<br />
has appeared in Writers’ Journal; his poetry, in yelLow muStard and The Human Factor; and his<br />
nonfiction, in The Sou<strong>the</strong>ast Review. He currently works as a book editor in Austin, Texas, where<br />
he lives with his wife, Victoria, and <strong>the</strong>ir cat, Clover.<br />
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