Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 32

‘Hey, Dad; wake up! Come on, Dad!’

Christ, maybe he’s dead. He’s breathing; man, is he ever breathing; sounds like the death rattle.

‘Come on, Dad, let’s go. It’s eight o’clock already.’

That’s real time, Pacific time. We still haven’t crossed into Mountain time. He moans and rolls over. Maybe he isn’t dead. With all the crap he’s been through, he could easily have a heart attack or stroke. I look at him close; he seems OK.

I take a shower, bumping around and rattling things, making’s much noise as I can. This isn’t like him at all; he’s usually up hassling the whole family every morning. I come out drying myself.

‘Hey, Dad; let’s go. Time to get up.’

It’s like he’s stoned. Now I’m beginning to really get worried. What would I do if he dies out here in the middle of nowhere? I sit down on the edge of the bed and shake him.

‘Hey, Dad. You OK?’

He moans, and opens his eyes. They don’t focus and he rolls away from me.

‘Come on, Dad! Let’s go, huh? It’s almost eight-thirty!’

Finally, he swings his legs and sits on the side of the bed. He hangs there completely drag-assed. But he’s awake, he’s alive.

After a shower he’s fine. We’ll take right off and have breakfast on the road. That way, we get in some cool morning driving time. God, I wish he’d let me drive; we’re wasting this bomb crawling at fifty-five. He drives as if he’s being punished. He sits hunched over the wheel, sulking, surrounded by open roads, trees and high empty skies; not even looking; just tensed up, expecting the worst.

With a power tool like this, you can lean back and let the damned thing drive itself. The great drivers all say you should relax, get a feel for the road. It’s criminal running a supercharged motor at these speeds.

Before we get in again, I ask once more.

‘I’m sorry, Bill.’

‘Why not? I’ve got my license.’

‘Don’t, Bill. We can’t afford to take those kinds of risks; it’s not worth it.’

So we start rolling. I look out the side window at the scenery going by. If I watch his driving, I’ll go crazy. He has fast reactions, and they’re not too fast, but there’s something about it makes me nervous. He’s so dead serious; if you get involved with his driving, you tense up yourself. It’s no fun.

My dad’s good at the small things. People usually think artists are easygoing, loose people. Well, that’s not him. He’s tight as a witch’s cunt. Like getting Bryce and Zion confused. He was so convinced. We went past a great spot I knew was the place he wanted all the time, but he had his mind set and there’s nothing to do; he has some kind of tunnel vision.

Maybe he’s getting senile. That seems to be what getting old is; you aim yourself more.

Both Mom and Dad act old lately.

Mom’s so quiet and doesn’t want anything exciting or new. Even if I fart or burp at the table she makes a whole scene. They don’t roll with the punch, adapt to the new life.

And, Christ, it was grim saying goodbye to Gramps. Dad was his usual self then, too; bearing down, eating it. And Grandma’s such a pain. I don’t think she’s ever done anything for anybody without expecting something back. Life’s one king-size Monopoly game to her.

Dad’s got the radio on again. All we get is cowboy music and static. There’s nothing good between towns and we’re mostly in the middle of nowhere. We should stop and buy a cassette of real music, the Stones or Dylan or the Doors, something reasonable.

I’ve still got a hundred and fifty bucks on the money belt, but I’d hate spending any on a stupid cassette. I’ll need every cent and I don’t want to beg for money. He still hasn’t said anything. He knows I’m not going back to school but he hasn’t mentioned it, yet.

Oh, God! Now we’re going to pass a truck. This is the wildest, watching him pass a truck. He won’t budge till the view’s clear to the horizon. Hell, there’s nothing behind us for at least a mile.

He’s checking the side mirror for the tenth time. Here we go! We’re out there, cruising slowly along the side of a big semi. This guy’s totally freaked, looking down at us as we go past two miles an hour faster than he’s going. He must think we only have three cylinders firing. If Dad’d floor this thing, we’d be around clear in three seconds. No, we’re taking the leisure trip, maybe saving on gas. I’ve got to relax.