Читать книгу Lucky Strike - Nancy Zafris - Страница 10

Harry’s face was painted with sunlight and shade as he lay in the sand under a piñon tree. Beth continued to watch him while her mom rummaged inside the Rambler to find something to eat. The piñon tree, gray and stunted, was no bigger than a climbing limb of their backyard maple (meaning their backyard back there, a million miles away), and its branches shielded Harry’s face about as well as the fingers of a hand. Before falling backward into a sound sleep he had accepted two cups of water but had not downed them with any kind of urgent thirst. He kept pausing to talk, the cup held by his mouth. Eventually her mom had pushed the cup to his lips practically forcing the water upon him. He waved away a third cup as if it were medicine. He said, “That’s an interesting piece of equipment, isn’t it?” to Charlie, who sat in the dirt worshiping the Geiger counter before him, and then Harry’s head lolled back and he was gone before Charlie’s question about what’s this part for? could reach him.

Beth thought of him already as Harry and not Mr. Lindstrom or him or that man. Maybe because Harry was someone who forgot to put his pants on, who had to be taught to drink, who had an excitable way of talking that most men didn’t, and who could fall asleep so contentedly he did not register the light baking his eyes. The way that Charlie’s hands hovered around the Geiger counter instead of diving in and exploring like he so clearly wanted to do meant that Harry was still Mr. Lindstrom to him. Giving Charlie permission wasn’t up to her, but if she’d been interested in Geiger counters she’d already have been experimenting with it by now.

The sun on Harry’s face was painful to witness. Beth had experienced for herself what the sun could do. She and Charlie almost first thing had unpacked the magnifying glass and set a strip of paper on fire. It took maybe ten seconds. As much as possible she stayed in the shade. She was nervous now about her skin, which she viewed as a sheet of paper that might go up in flames, and she thought of her grandma and her white nearly transparent skin. A corner spot by the canyon wall managed to stay protected no matter where the sun moved. That was where she tended to stay when she wasn’t working for Charlie, doing the slave labor for his experiments. She leaned against the cool flat rock. She dropped one of Charlie’s marbles on top of the other. She did that over and over until her brain began to play tricks on her. Her mind was jumping in the hot bronze emptiness of the desert’s palm, it was jumping like a jumping bean from nothing to nothing, and the only thing keeping her occupied was writing book reports on the complete works of Lois Lenski: Strawberry Girl, Coal Camp Girl, Houseboat Girl. She was already way ahead of schedule and almost to the end of her supply and pretty soon she’d have to write reports on make-believe books or write the books herself and then report on them.

Charlie couldn’t be bothered with books. He had his compass and his chemistry set and he was working on a topographical map, and of course, most importantly, he had his own sister to use for all his calculations of heights and distances, shamefully exploiting her so his map could be as precise as possible. He may have been the inventor of the bethometer measuring system, one bethometer equaling one of her strides, her height equaling two bethometers, but she was the guinea pig who enacted his theory in all its dangerous glory, thereby proving its worthiness. Her legs were tied off for complete accuracy. In case she thought the bethometer system silly, Charlie reminded her about twelve inches being the foot of the king of England. He sent her tied up over the rocks, twice, and up the outcroppings, twice, while she counted off her hobbled strides. Three times if the counts didn’t match. Beth Waterman, Human Surveying Tool. This would probably be the first book she wrote after her Lois Lenski supply ran out, and in it she would detail the many desert adventures she’d been having, starting with her death-defying climbs in the name of science and ending with—at the moment, ending with a man taking a nap.

She couldn’t stand it any longer. She found the straw boater, crawled over, and dropped it over Harry’s face.

Her mom called and Charlie went over and they started discussing the upcoming meal as if it could be something out of a restaurant, as if it could come with dessert, which was what she wanted more than anything. Up until now she hadn’t asked a lot of questions. She knew the main answer, Charlie’s Adventure, to the main unasked question, but she didn’t know any of the smaller answers to the smaller questions, for example, what exactly are we doing? What are we doing tomorrow? Maybe that had been a mistake, not asking questions. Her mom was starting to remind her of someone on a trampoline who wouldn’t get off.

In the brown silence Beth was always hearing voices. A whisper between Charlie and her mother echoed back to her in a near scream. The air blocked nothing; everything traveled through it undiminished. And the rock walls sent the words back amplified. It was not such a big deal after all that Indians had such great hearing. If she lived out here, she’d have great hearing, too. She could guess, for example, that the engine she found herself listening to was miles away though it sounded directly upon them. She could guess big truck coming, many cylinders. The motor churned to a pitch, then rewound itself and wrenched and churned again.

When the truck doors opened and slammed shut, it became real. Her mother had already turned from the cooking and was standing alertly. Her hair was tied back but the strands that always escaped were hanging down her face. Before she could push them back, two men walked into the camp, hands on their hats as if to remove them. “Hello,” one of them said. “Sorry for the interruption.” They bowed their heads, fingers dipped into the felt creases, but the hats stayed on. “Hello there. Good afternoon.”

“Hello,” her mother said plainly. A big metal spoon in her hand was hanging by her side but her grip was tight and the spoon arched upward. The men were probably amused, thinking, This lady figures she’s holding a weapon.

“Saw Harry’s truck out there, supplies on the road. Everything okay? That is Harry’s truck.”

Her mother nodded toward Harry, still lying asleep under the piñon tree with the straw boater over his face. The two men chuckled through their noses and gave each other a raised eyebrow.

“Don’t want to interrupt his nap, but his truck’s blocking our way,” the one man said.

Her mother didn’t say anything, just stood there with her spoon.

“So how do you know Harry?” the man asked.

“I don’t,” her mother said. “I just met him.” Her hands started toward her hair but stopped, and Beth knew the strands hanging in her mother’s face were driving her crazy. “He introduced himself to me,” her mother said pointedly.

“And went directly to his naptime. Sounds like Harry, doesn’t it?” The men’s clothes were nice but dirty. They were precisely donned. The pants were pushed into high work boots. The shirts were tucked in and the belts looked buckled too tight, above their belly buttons. The underarms of the shirts revealed lapping salt patterns like the white dustings around the waterhole she and Charlie had found (the unappetizing waterhole that was waiting for them when their own supply ran out. Soon). And the men wore unzipped khaki vests with lots of pockets. One of the men dug into his vest pocket as he went over to Harry. He lifted the boater, felt Harry’s cheeks with his fingers, and shook his head. “Dry and crepey. Right, oh right, sorry, ma’am, I’m slow to catch on.” Whatever was in his vest pocket he put in his mouth as he stood up. “Didn’t mean to be rude. I’m Paul Morrison, and this is my partner, Ralph Graver. We run the mining camp down the road. Well, six miles down the road—if you take the road. A whole afternoon’s outing, in other words.”

The man who was Ralph Graver laughed.

“What’s so funny?” her mother said.

“It’s that thing out there they call a road. I see it did Harry in again. I call it Bataan’s Missing Link.” Paul Morrison’s hand sliced like a swimming fish toward the desert. “Or three miles if you shoot through there.”

“You mean walk.”

“Burros. Walk. Yes, ma’am.”

“I don’t think she gets your jokes,” Ralph Graver said.

“Probably not,” Paul Morrison said. The belts above their navels made their abdomens swell a little, almost as if they were women. “I shouldn’t joke about Bataan. Lost a friend there.”

“You did not.”

“I did. Ralph, I did.” The man who was Paul Morrison walked over and gave his partner some of the gummy stuff from his vest pocket and when they moved apart, a third man was standing there, right behind them, as if he were the finale of their magic curtain trick. Beth realized right away the magically appearing man was an Indian.

Well, things were looking up. An Indian. She loved Indians.

“Looks like Harry’s gone and given himself heatstroke,” Ralph Graver told the Indian.

“My God, he did that before,” Paul Morrison said.

“Last year just about this time, wasn’t it, Joe?”

Joe the Indian nodded. Beth watched as the Indian’s eyes somehow focused on her mother though his line of vision was pointed elsewhere. The two men were also taking her in. They tried glancing elsewhere to disguise their stare, but a stare was what it was. Her mother’s hand started toward her hair again but stopped. She probably didn’t want the men to think she was trying to look nice for them.

“Check Harry’s front seat. Bet his canteen is full. He filled up at our camp. Bet he didn’t take a single swig. Thinks he’s a camel.”

“Harry and his seasonal heatstroke.”

“Lots of polygs do. Ever since Hole in the Rock they think they’re camels.” Paul Morrison shook his head again, then spat out a black thread.

“Or Navajos. Harry might be trying to out-Navajo you, Joe. Look out.”

By way of acknowledgment, Joe’s eyes closed and opened slowly. Suddenly Ralph Graver scratched hard at his eyebrows as if he were a cat.

“And I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” Paul Morrison said to her mother.

“Jean Waterman.”

“How do you do.”

“How do you do.”

“And that would be Mrs. Jean Waterman.”

“Yes.”

“And would Mr. Waterman be around?”

“Mr. Waterman is deceased.”

“I’m sorry. Truly sorry, ma’am—Mrs. Waterman.”

“Thank you, but it’s been many years.”

“But you’re so young, forgive me for intruding.”

“Well, sometimes fate doesn’t take that into account.”

“I don’t imagine.” Paul Morrison checked behind him, nodded toward Joe, who had not moved a hair, then put his hands on his hips. His glance caught Beth a fraction before she had removed her stare from the Indian. She was hoping he hadn’t caught her, but she knew he had.

All her attention had been on Joe. She couldn’t help it. After all her books, he was the first Indian she’d seen in person, except for the ones posing by their resplendent colorful tepees next to trading-post luncheonettes and filling stations. He was a Navajo, too. She liked Navajos. She looked at Joe and believed he was standing there listening to the things the white man couldn’t hear.

“Little girl, did you know Ohio is Indian for Good morning?” Paul Morrison asked her. “Joe knows all right. He knows you came in from Ohio.”

Her mother’s eyebrows rose.

Paul Morrison nodded toward the Rambler. “The license plates. You’re pretty far from home.”

Beth still couldn’t pry her eyes off Joe. She knew he was keeping track of her even though his gaze was off to the side. Despite the heat, he wore a long-sleeved shirt—a red shirt, although the actual colors varied from orange to clay to something almost yellowish. In the end everything red had been sunned out of it, yet it remained a red shirt. Why was it still red? Exactly. Read her next book report to find out. She’d been wanting more than anything to add some philosophy to her reports.

“So you’re here alone. You have children. Two of them.” Paul Morrison filled in the bits of information as her mother failed to. “A boy and a girl.” He took a preparatory breath. Instead of speaking, his face went through a variety of expressions. He winced, then nodded with his eyes opening wide. “Okay,” he said. “I’ve seen this, too.”

Her mother stood calmly. They had probably guessed already she was stubborn.

“That mother and her three boys, last year? Ralph, remember? You were the one found them.”

“Jonas,” his partner corrected.

“Jonas found them? How come you’re the one with all the nightmares?” They both chuckled. “They were a little farther up here.” His hand flagged toward a direction.

Her mother didn’t respond.

“We warned them just like we’re doing you. Didn’t listen to us. They died.”

“Gotta correct you, Paul. The oldest boy lived, I believe.”

“You’re right. Thank you, Ralph. Of course what good is his life now, his whole family gone, an orphan in one of those orphanages.”

“Well, at least you warned them,” her mother said. “You can’t blame yourself.”

“Okay. Well, you’ve caught on to me pretty quick.” He turned to his partner for acknowledgment.

“I guess she does get you,” Ralph Graver agreed. “But it’s a little lie that illustrates a bigger truth.”

“That’s well put, Ralph.”

“Thank you.”

“But I have seen all kinda things happen, ma’am. Maybe this particular thing didn’t happen quite this way—”

“Or not at all,” her mother said.

“—Or not at all. Maybe not at all, but the idea see is true. It could happen, especially the way things are going and getting out of control. Which I’m sure you have noticed. It’s dangerous see in all kinda ways and that part’s true.” Paul Morrison turned serious. “And people do get into trouble. There’s been a murder or two.”

“That’s true,” Ralph Graver said. “That’s the God’s truth.”

“Yes, it’s true,” Paul Morrison said.

Her mother shrugged. It was settled.

“But it’s mainly the elements that will get you. You’re not the type to be out here. I hate to speak so boldly but there it is. You’re a lovely lady, you’re refined and high class, and I don’t mean to ridicule you when I say that you’re a faucet turner. And I mean, those high heels look nice—well, they do look nice, don’t they, Ralph?”

Even Beth knew that her mother was supposed to ask what a faucet turner was, but she didn’t.

“Very nice,” Ralph said.

“Now where’s your water, may I ask? Can’t live without water. You learn that stuff pretty quick. Don’t know where Harry’s been taking his lessons.”

“We found a waterhole,” her mother said.

Paul Morrison grimaced. “That’ll do you in an emergency, but you don’t want all that alkaline on a daily basis.”

Beth looked at Charlie. He had taken note. Alkaline.

“We’ll get it from town and tote it in,” her mother said.

“Believe me, with that plan you will die. I’m being serious now. The board springs aren’t looking too good on your Rambler. Can’t believe you made it this far without a truck. Well, it took its toll. I’d say you have one trip left in that wagon and I would use it for a fast exit. What would you say, Ralph?”

“I’d say the same thing.”

“Eventually,” her mother said.

“Eventually what?”

“Eventually we’ll make a fast exit. But not right away.”

Paul Morrison glanced back at his partner. Though a slight shake of the head was all he displayed, Beth could read all kinds of topsy-turvy activity going on inside him. He turned back to her mother with an I-give-up shake of the head. “We’ll set you up with a little water buffalo—a little tank, see, we’ll fill it with water for you. Can’t promise about no murder. Men might kill themselves fighting over you.”

“Thank you for the water.”

The men went back to the road. Beth followed Charlie out there and they watched Paul Morrison clamber into Harry’s truck and gun it off the road. They picked up the supplies Harry had strewn about and loaded them back into Harry’s truck. Paul Morrison asked Joe to find a paper bag and tape it over the Rambler’s carburetor. “Dust,” he explained to Charlie. “How old are you, young man?”

“Twelve.”

“Twelve. You sure? You don’t look twelve.”

“I’m twelve,” Charlie said.

“Did your mom tell you to say twelve?”

“No. I told myself.”

“You told yourself to say twelve which means you told yourself to say this number instead of the correct number, which means how old are you really?”

“He was born in 1942, that’s why he’s twelve,” Beth said.

“And how old are you?” the man asked.

“Ten,” Beth said.

“Well, okay, you could pass for ten. Your mom making you do this?”

“No.”

“This is what you want to do?”

“Yes.”

“What about school?”

“We have permission,” Charlie said.

“Permission from what?”

“Permission from the school.”

Paul Morrison let out an exasperated sigh. He went back to the campsite and knelt down by Harry and shook him. “Come on, Harry, you need to wake up.” He shook again until Harry roused. Then he held out the canteen and told him to drink.

“It’s hot as tea!” Harry’s eyes were wild.

“How would you know what tea tastes like?” Paul Morrison said.

“I know what hot tastes like.”

“That’s because it’s been sitting in your truck in the sun. Take better care, Harry. What the heck are you doing, anyway?”

“It’s nothing,” Harry said. “Just my way of telling myself summer’s coming on.” To Paul Morrison’s harsh gaze, he said, “I’ll drink more.”

“You need the doctor? We’re heading into town.”

“What’s Randolph going to do except give me a blanket?” Harry said.

“You need a blanket?”

“Yeah, that would be all right.”

Paul Morrison glanced at Joe, who left the campsite and came back with a blanket. “Heatstroke,” Paul Morrison muttered. “You of all people. We’re all sitting here sweating, Harry, I want you to know that. We’re sweating and you’re shivering.”

“I’ll be all right.”

“You going to be more careful?”

“Thank you. Yes, I will.”

“And look who you’re imposing upon.” Paul Morrison turned to her mother. “I’ll take him into town if you want, ma’am.”

“He’ll be fine. We can handle him.”

“I’d say you’re lucky, Harry. You’re imposing mightily on a young mother and her two children.”

“I’ll give them a good deal on a Geiger counter.”

“Oh criminy, Harry.” Paul Morrison stood up and tugged his belt even higher. “Let’s go.”

Her mother didn’t say anything as they left. The men weren’t talking either or Beth would have easily overheard. The truck engine started up and painfully bucked into gear.

“Charlie, that was an Indian,” Beth said.

“I know.”

“Was his name really Joe?”

“I think that was another one of their jokes,” her mother said.

“What’s so funny about Joe?”

Her mother shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said.