Memory Boy (5 page)

But it was summer, July 5, and warm for a change. We sailed on. I commanded the handlebars and my father the sail. The dark suburbs unwound behind us in a steady but thinning stream.

Deep into the night, near three
A.M.
, I was sleepy at the wheel until I saw, closing from the north, a Romulan attack vessel. I jerked fully alert, but the hallucination kept coming. It had a massive, pointed iron mask and running lights that swept side to side and low to the ground. From the heavy rumble I realized that it was a truck.

Not just one truck: it was the leader of a convoy coming into the city. A huge steel nose, half battering ram and half plow, jutted up front. Iron wings rode just off the concrete, and sparked down at times like an electric welder with irregular power. All that iron was to knock away debris or roadblocks thrown up by bandits. The trucks also wore metal wheel skirts that reached nearly to the pavement, these to prevent anyone from shooting out the tires. The lead truck swung a spotlight on us, and I could see the glint of a gun barrel in its light. But we were breaking no law, and the convoy rumbled on in a tumbling whirlwind of dust. Maybe its drivers thought the
Ali Princess
was a hallucination.

Along about four in the morning we reached open fields. The wind blew stronger and steadier here, and the
Princess
picked up speed. My mother (I made sure she was strapped in) was asleep in the cargo bay; Sarah was a dark lump of luggage. The freeway ran straight north now, and my father had to hold the boom hard to the right side in the stronger wind. The wheels hissed and kicked up dust like a garden hose spraying whitewater. To keep his balance and get maximum wind, my father hung out horizontally—barely inches above the pavement. I caught my breath; concrete was not water, and he should at least be wearing a helmet and skateboarding elbows. But then again, he was doing fine. The image of him hanging out there was better than any photo I'd seen in any of his old sailing magazines. I wished that my mother and Sarah were awake to see him. I wished that I could just tell him how cool he looked right now, but I had all I could do to keep the front wheel steady.

Toward dawn the wind faded as if chased by the light. The gray sky leaked blue, then yellow, then pink, then an orange that looked fluorescent, or else like a huge cone of molten lava pushing up from the fields and trees. Then the big moment: the rim of the sun broke above the horizon line like a giant asteroid rising, not falling—and when it hit the giant, pale lake of the sky, ripples of intense color spread in slow-motion waves. Like rainbows, the extra color at sunrise and sunset had a scientific explanation. Sulfur dioxide, the main gas emitted by the volcanoes, combined with oxygen and water to form sulfuric acid gas, which then condensed into fine droplets, or aerosols, which then hung in the air and made haze. Still, it was damn beautiful.

“Huh? What?” Sarah said with alarm. She started awake, blinking, confused; then her eyes widened as she saw the sunrise.

“Pretty, yes?” I said softly.

“Wow,” she murmured in her little-girl voice.

My mother was stirring too. She smiled at the sunrise, then turned quickly to me. “You want me to take the driver's seat for a while? I could steer.”

My fingers ached from clenching the wheel, and I suddenly was tired in a major way. “Sure,” I answered. Carefully, by inching along on opposite sides of the main frame, we changed positions. In the rear, my father remained at his post. He was ghostly gray from dust, an ancient sailor from another time.

“You need a break, Dad?” I asked him.

“No, I'm good. The wind's flattening out. Doesn't take so much work now.”

Our speed had dropped considerably, but we still rolled along at a good leg-kick, skateboarding pace. “Why don't you get some shut-eye, Miles?” he said. His voice sounded momentarily like it used to. In the good old days.

I didn't have to be asked twice. Sarah, without complaint, actually took a bicycle seat so I could stretch out in the luggage bay. My mother's little wireless television/radio came on at low volume. Like most adults, she obsessed on the news—especially nowadays. News was like a drug for adults. They had to have it. But what good did it do? Especially when it was all bad. Luckily the whirring pavement beneath me muted the radio's sound, and as the concrete rushed on in a never-ending stream, I felt my eyelids drooping.

I woke to the sound of panting. The light was brighter now, a brilliant dry fog that stung my eyeballs. For a second I didn't know where I was.

“Wind's shifted,” my father said.

“This is hard,” Sarah groaned, pedaling and making a big show of being totally exhausted. I took a moment to savor the sight of my sister actually doing some work, then fished out my map.

“We're just north of Little Falls. We're on Highway 10 now,” my mother said.

“How much longer do we have to pedal?” Sarah asked.

The answer was a sudden
slap-whacka, whacka!

“Chain off!” I said, springing into action. “Pull over. Nice and slow.”

My father spilled the sail as my mother steered us neatly onto the shoulder. When we'd stopped, they glanced at each other: It must have been a marriage moment, as I called them—something about working together.

“Good, because I have to pee anyway, plus I'm hungry,” Sarah said.

“You kids' timing was always amazing,” my mother replied. She looked ahead up the highway to a cluster of buildings including a tall golden arches sign. “On our trips up north you always woke up about here—just before we stopped for gas and McDonald's.”

“It's probably closed and boarded up—like everything else,” Sarah said, looking toward the far-off yellow arches.

We climbed off and slapped dust from our clothes. There was a grove of short, shaggy pine trees, someone's Christmas tree plantation, just off the expressway.
My cabin was deep in the pines. I didn't want anybody sneaking up on me. I kept all my important stuff hidden. You can't trust nobody these days
.

“Let's push the
Princess
in here, out of sight, then walk,” I said.

After we secured the
Princess
out of sight, which necessitated dropping the mast, we waited as my mother put on “the vest.” It was a backpack sewn under a smock, from when she had us kids. Now the maternity blouse held all our money, papers, shot records, etc. As my mother shifted it over her belly, Sarah rolled her eyes (she thought it was embarrassing). My father thought it was funny. I thought it was clever, even brave of her. With the vest in place, she looked perfectly, naturally, pregnant.

“Nothing, not a word from anyone,” she warned us.

“Did we say anything?” I asked.

“No, but you were about to.”

We trudged along the shoulder toward the golden arches. In the parking lot were several farm tractors, dust free, plus a convoy of six tractor trailers.

“Here we are,” my mother said, “back to civilization. So to speak.”

We quickened our pace. I was hungry too.

As we approached the parking lot, a large man with a shaved head and a tattered NWO T-shirt swung out of the nearest cab and stood on the running board. Clearly an unemployed pro wrestler, now he carried a major-looking assault rifle.

“Good morning!” my mother said cheerfully.

“It's just us, the Swiss Family Robinson,” Sarah said softly. I have to admit that, on rare occasions, she has a sense of humor. And she's really not dumb, just pathetic most of the time.

“Do not approach the trucks,” the guard said, stiffening his back. He wore mirrored sunglasses. What a cliché, I thought. But that rifle was impressive.

“Just heading to the restaurant,” my mother said pleasantly. “It is open, yes?”

“Why wouldn't it be?” the guard growled.

My mother flashed him a smile. “Have a great day,” she said. Under her breath she added, “That guy has clearly taken too many body slams.”

Inside, the place was full of farmer types and businessmen. There was a major pause as they gave us the twice-over. We smiled. My mother waddled to the counter. Slowly their conversation resumed, but I kept looking around. It was odd to see a full restaurant of people drinking coffee and eating eggs and pancakes like it was back in the 1990s.

“Order me a number three, okay?” Sarah said as she headed to the bathroom. Several men followed her with their eyes. Behind the counter the greaseheads wore the usual short-sleeved stupid uniforms with shiny name tags that said
SHERRI
and
JUSTIN
and
DAVE
—
ASST. MANAGER
. Everybody had the usual perky smiles. Above the counter were the usual mug shots of burgers and drinks, though I noticed that the prices were blank.

“Maybe the sky's not falling after all,” my mother said to my father as she looked around the place.

He said something back that made her laugh.

My parents (probably all parents) have coded language they've developed, and I can usually interpret it, but today I was too hungry to bother. It was just nice to see them together, talking. When we finished ordering, the cashier (Sherri) looked up brightly and said to my mother, “That will be ninety-two fifty.”

“Excuse me?” my mother asked.

The clerk repeated the price.

“Are you kidding?” My mother laughed. “Almost a hundred bucks for breakfast at McDonald's?”

The clerk shrugged. Her smile slipped, and conversation died as people turned to stare.

My mother glanced about at the full restaurant, then back to the clerk. “So tell me, is everyone in this town rich? How do all these people afford such prices?”

“Well, actually they don't,” Sherri murmured.

“What do you mean?”

“Ah, they live here.”

There was absolute silence in the restaurant. Sherri looked behind for help.

“Just pay,” I whispered to my mother.

“You mean you have two sets of prices?” my mother pressed.

Dave the Assistant Manager stepped forward. “That's right, folks. One for local people. One for strangers.”

At the word
strangers
, the silence got even quieter.

“Miles is right,” my father said softly to my mother. “Just pay, and we'll be on our way.”

My mother bit her lower lip and slapped down five twenty-dollar bills.

“Here or to go?” the clerk asked. Her cheerful face was back.

“Here!” my mother said. “If we're going to pay over ninety dollars for breakfast, at least we deserve a damn table.”

We ate, and made sure we used plenty of syrup and catsup. My mother continued to fume over the prices, but the rest of us ate. And ate. It was like we'd never had fast food before. We were sweaty by the time we finished pancakes and eggs, juice and milk and coffees. A man in the next booth watched us eat. He had a kindly, round face and a seed-corn cap tilted to one side.

“You folks must have been hungry.” He smiled.

“You got that right,” my mother said.

“Passing through?”

“That's right,” she answered.

“That's good,” he said; his kindly smile slipped a bit.

My mother raised one dark eyebrow; she didn't reply.

“What I mean is, we got more and more people think they got to get out of the cities,” the man said. “They think if they get themselves to a small town, other people will take care of them.” Men around him nodded.

“Nope, that wouldn't be us,” my mother said, her voice picking up the edges of his speech, finding his own rhythms and bouncing them back. “We're headed north … on vacation. Right, gang?”

We all nodded pleasantly, then bent low to wipe our mouths.

Outside, my father let out a long breath.

“That was scary,” Sarah said, looking over her shoulder.

“We'd best keep moving,” my father said, looking up at the sky. The light was grayer now, and the air felt cooler. I looked over my shoulder and saw white, round faces staring at us through the windows of McDonald's. The truck convoy guard stood motionless as we passed. I could feel his eyeballs moving sideways behind his mirrors.

Back at the pine plantation I took some time to get the chain back on and inspect the running gear. I didn't like the way the pumice had worn down the teeth on the main sprocket. The sharp points were rounded off a full eighth inch. I considered oiling the chain but decided against it; the oil was picking up grit, and the grit was grinding down the metal points. I had two spare chains and a spare sprocket, but still, the amount of wear worried me.

“Everything okay, motorhead?” Sarah asked. It was her way of apologizing for being occasionally pathetic. There was a chance she might turn into a decent teenager someday.

“Ten four. We're good to go.” I hoisted the mainmast and locked it in place.

“Maybe in a previous life you were a trucker,” Sarah said.