Bless the Beasts & Children (6 page)

Teft obeyed, and the truck moved away and the mutineers began walking and none of them could quite believe what was happening, that the Bedwetters were breaking up, zap, pow, just like that, over nothing, when they were nearly there. But in less than a block Cotton pounded on the window and ordered Teft to pull over and in a minute Shecker and Lally 1 caught up with them. Cotton said okay, to get in, everybody was probably hungry and would operate better after some food, so get in and hit the floor while he looked for a place, there'd be a lot more fuzz in Flag than there had been in Prescott. He put Goodenow in back with them and slid in beside Lally 2 in the cab and they started again.

Intersecting with the main street, Teft turned right. This was U.S. 66, the central east-west conduit of the nation. In the good old days, guiding on a tall pine trimmed of boughs, known then as a flagstaff, wagon trains had watered at the springs here and bedded down for the night. Now the town was a day's run out of Los Angeles, and its main street, U.S. 66, was a caravansary of ten-dollar rooms, diesel spatter, clogged urinals, tubercular waitresses, anti-sleep pills, yesterday's pastry, flat tires, paper diapers, cigarette butts, and exhausted coffee, as tawdry by night as it was depressing by day. Cotton told Teft to turn off, away from the ratrace, and onto a side street. It was now 1:51 a.m.

Against a transient parental environment, which was overstimulating and unpredictable as well, Billy Lally's defense was to withdraw into a world of fantasy, self-created, into an isolation to which he admitted no one. His case was complicated by his discovery that the more completely he regressed, the greater advantage this gave him over Stephen, his older brother, so that withdrawal became for him both a necessity and a device. It was habitual now, with attendant infantile practices. Besides wetting his bed and sucking his thumb he had bad dreams and suffered night terrors. His parents twice enrolled him in special schools, only to take him out to travel with them. At various times he began treatment with four different therapists, one of them in Switzerland, only to have his father and mother reconcile and pack their suitcases. At twelve he was the youngest camper, and underage by restrictions, but his parents could not have gone to Kenya without disposing of both sons somewhere and the Director was persuaded to make an exception. Cottons cabin was his second. When, in the first, he withdrew under his bed with the foamrubber pillow from home and curled into a ball in his sleeping bag, the other boys hauled him out, screaming as though ripped from the womb. He burrowed back in. They hauled him out again. The sport went on till Cotton came by and offered to take Billy Lally in with him. With him, Cotton asserted, he could hide under his bed whenever he needed to, or up a tree, or in a cave for all he cared, or any damn where
.

"Hold it," Cotton said. "Over there. Park and I'll make a recon."

He got out and crossed the dim street and spied into a yellow window, then returned and said to come on, this would do, and they piled out, leaving the engine running and stowing the rifle on the cab floor.

The place was an allnight beer and beanery with a griddle behind the counter and a mechanical bowling alley crowded between rickety chairs and tables. Two young men were drinking beer and bowling and on the floor, his head against the wall, an elderly Navajo snoozed in silver hair and a green velvet shirt. The Bedwetters lined up on stools and shortordered from the limited menu on the wall, two hamburgers each and a pint of milk. The counterman was bony and ketchupeyed and his chin had the contours of a spatula. On the wall beside the menu was this notice, flyspecked: "Our Credit Mgr. Is Helen Waite. If you Want Credit Go to Helen Waite." Balls trundled on the alley and pins clattered and bells rang, but when the game was over, the only sounds in the beanery were the hiss of grease and the caterwaul, issuing from two jacket pockets, of Grandpa Jones, and from three, of Gladys Knight and the Pips.

Glasses in hand, the two bowlers came up behind the six boys at the counter. They were young men of twenty or so in tight jeans and sassy western shirts and big belt buckles and long sideburns.

"What you milkdrinkers doin' out so late by your ownselves?" asked one.

Waiting for their hamburgers, the Bedwetters strawed milk from the cartons.

"How's come you listen to all them radios?" asked the other.

"We're musicians," Shecker said. "A rock outfit. Drums, four guitars, and a front singer. From L.A."

"Musicians, huh. You got a name?"

"Group Therapy," said Teft.

"Then we changed to After Death," said Goodenow, "but that was too morbid."

"So what're you now?"

"The Before Christ," Shecker said.

"Before Christ?"

"Dig our backs, man."

The sideburns studied the BC's on the backs of jackets. Then they studied the miscellany of headgear along the counter.

"Want an autographed picture?" asked Lally 1.

"Give us a listen on the Groovy label," said Goodenow.

The sideburns were not amused. "I asked what you doin' out so late," said one. "Now less hear, you hear?"

"In the West," said Teft, apropos of nothing in particular, "everything sticks, stings, or stinks."

"We're on tour," Shecker said. "Also we're talent scouts. Looking for local vocal talent."

"Sure," said Lally 1. "Sing something. We like it and we might wax you."

"We're from a boys' camp near Prescott," Cotton said quickly. "We've been camping out and now we're on our way back."

"Walkin'?"

"We've got a car."

The sideburns snorted. "None of you sonnys old enough to drive."

"You learn guitar and you might be as big as Simon and Garfunkel," Shecker said.

"Anything I can't abide," said one of the sideburns, reaching for Shecker's milk and pouring beer from his glass down the straw, "is a driplip dude kid."

"Would you like to know who my father is?" Shecker said.

"Okay." Cotton was off his stool. "Okay, you guys, let's go." He had his wallet out, and dropping a five on the counter, motioned at the door. "Let's go, we're late."

"But I'm hungry!" said Lally 2.

"I said let's go!" Cotton cried, his voice so shrill that it woke the Navajo in the green velvet shirt and the counterman dropped a plastic mustard dispenser and the other five were on the floor and ahead of him out the door like scalded cats.

"Walk, don't run," he said, his voice low now. "Walk and into that damn truck and let's roll, don't look back, act natural, and keep moving."

Just as they reached the pickup and were going over the tailgate and into the cab the beanery door opened and the two locals stepped outside and watched as Teft cooled away from the curb.

"Why'd we have to leave?" demanded Goodenow, who was up front with Cotton. "What's the matter with those jerks?"

"Gunslingers," Cotton said. "Out for fun and games. And we can't take chances."

"Oh-oh," Teft said. He had turned left and intersected again with U.S. 66 and, waiting for a green light, stared into the big side mirror on the Chevy. "Trouble. I think it's them, the local Mafia."

"See if they tail us when we turn." The light changed and Teft swung onto the interstate. "They following?"

"Yup."

Cotton knocked on the cab window and yelled at those in back to lie low, then banged his helmet liner on the dash. "Dammit, to be almost there and run into those hoods and Shecker get funny in a New York accent. Anyway, stay in the speed limit till we're out of town, we can't afford to have the fuzz after us, too."

They snailed along at thirty-five for a mile, through a warren of motels and gas stations, then half a mile at forty-five, watching for the city limit sign. Cotton asked what kind of car the gunslingers were driving and Teft said a real rod, a '63 Plymouth he thought, which had been a hot model, and he could guess they'd souped it up—a pair of four-barrel carbs and a fullhouse cam at least, and chopped the front end. It would run rings around this thing.

"What do they want?" Goodenow asked faintly.

"To cut us down," Teft said. "Once we're out of town, pass and make us pull off."

"Then what?"

"Show us their talent."

"Talent?"

"Sure, sing for us."

Suddenly lights behind them blinked once, twice, three times, and a hardtop zoomed even with them and stayed even though Teft stepped on it, then drew slightly ahead and began to bear right, bearing down on the front fender of the pickup and offering two alternatives only: pull over or collide. Teft held course as long as he dared.

"Cotton," he said finally, "I've never done this before. I'm chicken."

"Pull over," Cotton said.

Goodenow put hands over his face. "What'll we ever, ever do?"

Teft braked gradually and left the highway and they chunked over gravel and came to a stop as the Plymouth crowded in close ahead of them and doused its lights. In their own lights they could see its wide, smooth tires, racing slicks, and extending from beneath it, puttering at them, four scavenger pipes.

The two locals strolled back toward the Chevy. Even at second survey they did not seem mean or menacing. They were as clean and shaven and goodlooking, actually, as old Wheaties. But there was a scary difference. Old Wheaties was stupid. They were merely mindless. Wheaties had a lockerful of vices and a gizzardful of platitudes. They seemed to be unmotivated.

Cotton put the .22 on the cab floor and said to sit tight and stuck his head out the window and told the three in back to sit tight and no damn jokes.

"Well," said one local, "if it ain't The Before Christ. Howdy."

"Lights off," said the other.

Teft turned them off.

"Didn't eat your num-nums," said one.

"Everybody out," said the other.

Thumbs hooked in belts they waited on the highway side while the six boys climbed out and ranged themselves opposite, along the shoulder side of the pickup.

"How's come, if you're in a camp over to Prescott, you're headed for Albuquerque?" asked one.

No one answered.

"Less turn off that engine," said one sideburn, putting his head and arm into the cab. He ducked out. "I'll be a suckegg mule. No keys."

"Hey, you got this thing wired?" grinned the other.

"Whatta you guys want?" Cotton asked.

"Don't fuss now," one said. "Lessee what else." He bent over the bed. "What the?" They both looked, then stood back grinning at the line of boys across the pickup, at their sober, stubborn faces as traffic passed. "If this ain't something to see in the night. Six milkdrinkers in a wired car and fancy hats with a half a pillow and a buffalo head with a bullethole in it."

"Whatta you want?" Cotton demanded.

One local scratched his head. "I dunno now."

"Me neither," said the other.

"Tell you what," said the first. "Less let the law know in Flag what we got here. They'd be obliged to hear about a wired car. Then they'd owe us a favor."

"You right," agreed the other. "You truly do have talent."

"Like to see something else?" Teft asked.

"Purely would."

Teft stood next to the cab. The door was open. Taking one step he was out of sight for five seconds. They heard a click. When he reappeared he laid the barrel of the rifle across the flanged top of the truck bed.

"You got a popgun," said one sideburn.

"Smile when you say that, stranger," Teft said.

"You wouldn't have the hair."

Teft took another step, backward, and turning, raised the .22, aimed, and fired. There was a high-pitched explosion after the rifle crack, then a lugubrious sigh, and the Plymouth settled perceptibly to the right. He had punctured one of the racing slicks.
They put him aboard the plane at Kennedy like a prisoner. His father pulled strings and boarded with him and guarded him till they detached the loading ramp from the aircraft. There were eighteen other boys aboard for the flight to Phoenix, and a dozen more were due to board when they landed at O'Hare in Chicago. No one was supposed to deplane. Teft did, though. Service personnel caught him after a merry chase round and round the terminal and half walked, half carried him aboard again. The continuation to Phoenix was non-stop, and Teft made it a memorable flight for crew and passengers. After he tried to open an emergency exit at 35,000 feet, the first officer belted him into his seat, arms and all. Over Kansas the stewardesses allowed him to go to the john. On the way aft he flipped open an overhead hatch and ripped out an oxygen mask by the roots, providing an excuse for several grandmotherly females, who were convinced this would decompress the cabin and give them the bends, to have nervous breakdowns. In the john he locked the door and refused to come out. Before the first officer could force the "Occupied" lock with a screwdriver, Teft jammed the Kleenex and toilet paper and soap and towels down the head and ran water into the washbowl till the john floor was flooded. The crew belted him into a window seat and posted a stewardess. But as New Mexico appeared below him, he ceased to struggle and hunched forward, gazing open-mouthed. Lawrence Teft, III, was from Mamaroneck, New York. He had seen country like this in Westerns, but he had never believed the illimitable redrock land was real.

None of them could comprehend it. Behind the barrier of the pickup the Bedwetters stood at attention like tin soldiers. Before the two locals could react, Teft ejected, chambered a second round, clicked the bolt home, laid the barrel of the rifle over the top of the bed again, leaned, sighted on them.

"I got the hair," Teft said, too loudly. "And I got another BB in here. And you start for Flag or I'll hang it in your ear. This close I can't miss. So start walking or one of you country & western hippies can wear earrings."

The sideburns stared at him.

"You hear me, hippies?" Teft shouted. "I said move—move it!"

"Partner, you gonna pay for this," said one.

But they did start, their boots crunching gravel, their figures enlarged by the sweep of headlights and diminished as darkness cut them down to size. When they were a hundred yards away, Cotton pushed the button.