Marvel and a Wonder (30 page)

Back in the cab of the black pickup, he pulled out of the gravel parking lot and drove up and down the adjacent side streets, looking for something, circling once, then again, and then finding it—pulling the truck and trailer up in front of a grass-lined park. The children—it being a Saturday—stood at a cautious distance at first, then leaving their posts at the swings, the slide, the merry-go-round, they came over to where Rick held the lead rope, walking the animal, then giving it some slack, the kids gawking, sitting there in the grass or leaning up against a boxwood tree, the horse rearing up a little, Rick shortening the line, watching it trot smartly in a wide figure eight. Seeing it move, it was clear the horse was a racer, and a high-bred one at that, the animal switching to a steady canter in perfect effortless motion; Rick could not help but whistle, certain old man Bolan had no idea what he’d bought.

A thought sprung like a loose coil directly into the center of his mind, a thought he was partly ashamed to admit because of its stupidity, its grandeur, and its simplicity: what if he sold it himself? He smiled a little, shaking the thought off, and turned to watch the animal canter again. What if? What if he drove on to Memphis instead and sold it there? Or back up to Kentucky? It was worth forty, fifty grand easy. Maybe not. Maybe only ten or twenty. But think of the things he could do with twenty grand. He could start over. Move out to Wyoming. Buy a small spread of land. Rick made a few soft noises, the horse’s white ears perking up, as he extended his calloused palm toward the animal’s muzzle.

* * *

Stopping at a rest area, the grandfather glanced down and saw the bloody spot on his shirt had grown in size. He sought out the restroom, stumbled inside, and stood before a row of dirty mirrors. His left shoulder was throbbing, the pain reaching out across his arm and chest like japonica vine. Slowly, he unbuttoned the shirt, slipped it off, and set it down on the grimy sink. The paper tissue was pink now, smeared with blood. He lifted the reused medical tape and winced a little upon seeing it—the wound white and raw, pus-filled. It was oozing something, and what it was, Jim did not know. He tried to sop it up with toilet paper, then slowly he reaffixed the bandage, but the pain was too great, reaching all the way up to the side of his head. It was infected, and the infection had already begun to spread. Hands shaking, he fumbled through his jean pockets and found the last of the Percocet, slipping the two pills on his tongue, buttoning the shirt up, ambling out of the rest facility, pausing once near a pair of pop machines before his legs began to quit on him.

The boy was waiting near the truck, whistling. He saw his grandfather stalling, eyes looking foggy, mouth slipping open, and rushed toward him. He got one arm under the old man’s right shoulder and shifted his grandfather’s weight against his own, walking together like somnambulists, step by step, back to the caustic, human odor of the truck.

“I ain’t got much,” the grandfather said as the boy helped to buckle him in. “I ain’t got much. Lord, let us have this one thing. Just this one thing.”

* * *

Back at the motel room, Rick was surprised to find that the girl had slipped off the handcuffs and was now sitting on the floor, sobbing, the telephone receiver lying in her lap. She was inconsolable. When she peered up at him, she let out a howl, her narrow shoulders trembling. Rick stood, hat in hand, unsure if he should shout at her or offer to help her to her feet. He did neither, just simply stood there, wondering how in the world a nearly grown woman could cry so much. Where did they come from, all these goddamn tears? He tapped the brim of his hat against his thigh, clearing his throat. She was kicking at the floor, having a regular tantrum, when he finally leaned over and put an awkward hand on her shoulder. She brushed it off, slurred some invectives, and kept up her crybaby antics.

“We got to hit the road. I guess you can cry just as good in the truck,” he muttered, trying to make a joke of it, but she only snarled some other curse his way.

Once more inside the black pickup, he locked her right hand to the passenger-side door, tightening it more than he knew he ought to. The girl fussed, complaining right away, “My hand’s turning fucking purple,” to which Rick replied: “That’s your fault now, ain’t it?”

Out along the expressway, passing the few skyscrapers, the bridge, the river, peeling out south and east, finding the exit, slowing the vehicle down, the girl glancing out the window suspiciously, watching as the modern-looking highway quickly spun out into a series of small houses, some A-framed, some squared off, the paint looking worn, dull in the afternoon light, broken windows like black eyes. Rick circled around the neighborhood, the girl sitting up now, asking, “Where are we?” Rick silent for some time before answering, “East Nashville.”

The neighborhood was blighted; squat-looking shotgun houses, sinking front porches, yards full of scrub, cardboard boxes, automotive parts, raw, rotting garbage. Birds—crows, a gang of them—surveyed the streets from the telephone wires, huddled like vultures. Corner boys, only ten or eleven years old, called out the names of the dope they were peddling. The Nashville sun—hot, cutting through the air like a saw blade—gave the general impression that life here was not so very bad, only savage.

“What the fuck are we doing?” the girl asked, and Rick refused to answer. He slowed the pickup in front of one of the dilapidated shotgun houses. The structure appeared to be made out of old paper, not one of the corners straight.

“What the fuck?” she asked again as he switched off the vehicle.

“We’re doing some business,” he said distractedly, eyes appraising the empty streets, the boarded-up houses. “Wait here and don’t make a fucking peep.” He grabbed her wrist again, checked to make sure she was locked there tight, then climbed out, slamming the door behind him.

Almost immediately, a corner boy, this one a little older than the others, somewhere around twelve years of age, caught sight of him and hurried his way, calling out some name or number Rick did not recognize. He tried to brush the kid off, but the guy was a natural-born entrepreneur, and seeing that Rick was not interested in narcotics, he quickly changed his tactics.

“I got tires.”

“Tires?”

“Tires. For your car.”

“I got all the tires I need.”

“Not if someone shoots them out.”

Rick smiled. “Is that a threat? Are you threatening me?”

“No. I just got good tires is all.”

“Well, I’m not interested, kid.”

“What about a gun?”

“A gun? What kind of gun?”

“I don’t know. A pistol. I don’t know the name of it.”

“No thanks.”

“You can’t afford it?”

“I can afford it.”

“You don’t look like it.”

“Thanks, but I’m gonna pass. I appreciate your spirit, though. You know these folks who live here?”

“Them people there are crazy. They the only white people on this street,” the boy said before strutting off to join his crew back on the corner.

* * *

From the passenger seat, the girl watched Rick climb the three cement steps, knock on the door, and disappear inside. Already, she was struggling against the metal cuff, forcing her weight against the door, but the handle was too strong and that asshole had made the cuff too tight. She kicked the dashboard, screaming to herself, pounding her fists against her lap. She tried to force the gearshift into neutral—why, she did not know—but it would not budge. She thought of honking the horn, then glanced around and decided that, from the looks of the place, no one here was going to help her. So she waited, cursing herself for her own stupidity, for having run off with Brian, for calling her grandpa and asking for cash, for not departing from the motel room when she had had the chance.

She reached down into her purse, fumbled around inside it, searching for anything at this moment that would help, and then paused, staring at her set of keys. There were three of them on a ring. She held them in her palm, feeling the dull edges, the sharp points, imagining how she might use them as a weapon, how, if the opportunity arose, she might poke him in the eye or try to jab him in the face. She folded the keys in her hand, deciding the best thing she could do now was to wait, to wait and be ready; for whatever she did, she would have to do it quick and without thinking. She held the keys for a few moments before realizing she did not have the courage to try anything like that. She shoved them back in her purse and started searching around the dashboard for something else that could save her. And then, almost as quickly, she realized there was nothing. She did not even bother to cry. She felt, for the first time in her life, that she had been given what she deserved.

About three minutes later, something strange happened. A weird light flashed from inside the dirty-looking house, then it flashed again, just a muffled pop, then a third one, erupting in the blank afternoon. The boys on the corner glanced up, with the trepidation of prey animals, then sprang off, disappearing from their stoops. Almost as quickly, Rick was making his way out of the house, the door behind him hanging open. He was cradling an armful of cash against his chest, holding his pistol in the other, walking rapidly up to the vehicle. He tore the driver’s-side door open, pulled himself inside, and started up the truck, the wheels spinning as he threw it into gear.

“Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit,” was all he could mutter, glancing in the rearview mirror, seeing the horse trailer flashing there, then turning to peer into the driver’s-side mirror. “Shit.”

The girl knew better than to ask.

Rick took a quick peek in the side mirror once again, shoved the grimy-looking money in the various pockets his jacket offered, and spun the truck through the East Nashville streets. He looked over at the girl, as if he had only now realized she was there, and said, “Shut the fuck up. Not a word. Not a single fucking sound from you.”

“Your ear is bleeding,” she responded, staring at the right side of his face.

He held his hand to his ear, grasping at it with his unsteady fingers, shaking his head. “That’s not me,” he said, eyes on the road.

* * *

The boy said, sitting behind the steering wheel: “Do you remember that time when I got lost? When I was five?”

“—”

“The time we all went to the state fair?”

“—”

“I was just thinking about it.”

“—”

“I was scared because I thought you left me. We were all in the 4-H tent and I walked off and when I looked up I didn’t know anyone. Do you remember that, Gramps?”

“—”

“We were all there. Mom and Grandma and me and you. We all went together. That was right after Mom came back. The second time she came back.”

“—”

“She came back with black hair. She’d been in San Francisco. When she came back, you didn’t say anything for an hour. Me and Grandma thought you were gonna start hollering and we were all sitting there in the kitchen waiting for you to say something. Do you remember that? My mom brought me back a necklace with a shark tooth and I put it on. And then you looked at her and said,
What did you do to your hair?
And then Mom leaned over and put your hand on her head and you touched it, like you had never seen black hair before.”

“—”

“I think she’d been gone for a long time but I don’t remember how long it was. She’d call sometimes. I remember talking to her on the phone. I’d stand by the kitchen window and stretch the cord all out and ask her if she had gotten the sun yet. And she’d say,
Yes sir, thanks for sending it to me,
and then she’d ask me about my day.”

“—”

“So she came home and a few days later we all went to the fair, and we went inside the 4-H tent and then I got lost. I went off by myself and when I looked up I saw I didn’t know anybody and there was all the animals, the calves and ponies and rabbits, and they were all in their cages and for some reason they looked scary to me, and then I walked out of the tent and the fair was really big and there was a ton of people and I didn’t know what to do, so I tried to find you, and I knew you had on your white hat so I tried to find somebody with a hat like yours. And I walked up to this man and he had a white hat but he turned and he had a brown mustache, and that was when I was scared of people with mustaches, so I ran off again.”

“—”

“I don’t know why but I was always getting lost.”

“—”

“Even when I’d go to the grocery store with Grandma. She had that piece of blue yarn she’d tie on my belt loop. Do you remember that, Gramps?”

“—”

“And she’d tie it to her hand. Right around her wrist. So I couldn’t wander off. But there was too many people at the fair to do that. Do you remember all that?”

“—”

“I don’t know why I did it. Why I was always wandering off.”

“—”

“I don’t know why.”

“—”

“I guess I thought I might be able to find my dad watching me. That’s what I used to think. That he was following me around all the time. And that one time at the mall, in Indianapolis when I got lost, I thought I saw him. I thought he was following us around, watching us. But he was just some stranger. I guess I was weird back then, wasn’t I?”

“—”

“That day at the fair I was scared. They had that ride there, the Zipper, the one that spins you up and down, and it was all painted silver and blue and it was so high and I thought it looked like a crucifix, and I remember asking you about it and you said it was just a ride, and then you bought us all funnel cake and I didn’t finish mine but Mom did and you said how I wasn’t anything like my mother because she had the worst sweet tooth out of anyone you knew, and we were sitting there and I looked at Mom and she was so young and pretty, and once at Sunday school the teacher asked if she was my sister, and when I got older I figured out how old she must have been when she had me, and we were all sitting in front of the Zipper, and it was so tall and loud that it made me sick, and Grandma walked me over to a garbage can and there were flies all around it and inside were a bunch of paper plates and food and I vomited, and you said,
No more junk food for you,
and that’s when we all walked toward the 4-H tent. My mom was holding my hand, and there were all these faces, old-people faces with cowboy hats and glasses and everybody dressed nice, and there were all these white faces everywhere, and then we were walking to the 4-H tent and Mom was holding my hand and we were looking at the rabbits, because she said she used to raise them in grade school and had once won a blue ribbon, and that’s when I looked up and thought I saw my dad. He wasn’t my dad but he looked the way I thought he would look and so I walked off after him.”