Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 44

In the morning, we’re soaked. The tent’s sagged so it’s on top of us. We crawl from under like worms slithering in the grass.

The sky is blue and warm with large drifting clouds, but the grass and trees are water heavy; drops sprinkle every time we move.

Dad stretches and almost falls over. It’s past nine-thirty; those reds sure sent us off. There are huge water puddles on our tent where it sagged the most. We carefully pull out the tent pegs, ease down the tent poles, then try to roll the biggest puddles off without soaking the blanket more. We each take an end of the blanket, wring, then spread it on the car roof. The car’s already so hot the blanket steams.

At the other end of the lay-by there’s a rest room we didn’t see before. We head there, wash, scrub our teeth and work on getting our eyes unglued. We’re still wobbly. Our clothes are wet and wrinkled, so we come back and pull clean clothes from the suitcase. Aunt Joan washed for us just before we left and the clothes smell clean, dry and Californian.

When we come out of the rest room, the tent’s half dry but the blanket will take time. We roll up the tent and stash it. Dad’s carefully making a neat roll of each rope. We spread the blanket over the tent in the trunk.

Dad takes our wet clothes and puts them on hangers from his suitcase. He slips these hangers over little hooks on the inside of the car by the back windows. We’re beginning to look as if we might be bushy reps making our yearly tour for a lingerie company.

It’s ten-thirty before we get rolling. Dad takes the wheel. I put on the Dylan tape but keep the volume down. I’m still sleepy, so I recline the chair and close my eyes. It’s amazing how much better you hear with your eyes closed.

We resist two Pizza Huts and eat on the other side of Vandalia, Illinois. It’s a diner in a Quonset hut. We have fried chicken and dumplings. There’s also little lumps like French-fried mothballs.

It’s half a chicken each and I switch a leg for Dad’s breast. He’ll eat any part of a chicken, including the heart, liver, lights and the pope’s nose. I only really like white meat. In our house, the whole mob, except Dad, are white-meat eaters. The rest of us scramble for scraps while he gorges himself on thighs.

We finish at three, then head off toward Indianapolis. I want to check out the Indy 500 track but Dad isn’t enthusiastic about getting all tied up in city traffic. I’m driving now, but he’s boss.

We’re about ten miles past the Indiana border when we see a bunch of cars pulled over on the verge. People are jumping out of cars and some are running. The grass divider between the east and west lanes is crowded. There’s been an accident on the westbound lane. I’m so shook I pull over and stop. It’s the worst accident I’ve ever seen and it’s just happened. The front wheel of an upside-down car is still spinning. There’s only the one car and it’s slammed against an embankment where the highway cut through a small hill.

A whole family is spread along the road. The father is farthest forward, farthest west. He’s about Dad’s age, husky with a little pot like Dad’s. He must’ve slid over forty yards on the asphalt and is half sanded away. He’s not bleeding much but you can see the bones in his shoulder and arms. His shirt’s torn off and his pants are in rags with the belt pulled down over the top of his butt; he’s bare-foot and his toes are worn off. He looks more like somebody from a motorcycle than a car accident. Two men are on their knees beside him but he’s not moving.

There’s a woman about his age and she’s bent against the dirt embankment with one leg twisted the wrong way under her. She’s on her back and one arm is half ripped off. She’s covered with blood and still bleeding. Three people are trying to stop the blood. From the way she’s twisted, her back must be broken.

Trailing behind, going east, are three little kids and a dog. The dog is up on two legs spinning in circles, like that dog we hit, only this one’s not barking or growling, just spinning and whining.

One of the kids is a skinny little boy, maybe Jacky’s age. His guts are spilled over the road in circles as if he stood up and they all poured out. The guts look plastic in the sunlight. He’s wearing shorts with a striped shirt and is covered with blood. He’s spread out on his back so you can see the edges of his ribs where they’ve been cracked in. His eyes are open and somebody covers him while I’m watching.

There’s a little girl and she doesn’t look hurt much. There’s no blood. People are standing around, but she isn’t moving. I get closer and there’s a deep dent in the side of her head just above her right eye.

Farthest east is a tiny kid still standing up. He can’t be four years old. Just about all his skin is scraped off. He’s red, raw and bleeding. He’s crying and yelling for his mother. People are kneeling around him, trying to hold him, staunching blood in the worst places.

I turn away and vomit up that chicken, dumplings and mothballs. Dad’s white and running around checking if anybody’s called an ambulance. On the ground, I see I’m not the only one who’s lost his cookies. Dad comes back.

‘Are you all right, Billy?’

I nod my head. He’s all hyped up.

‘I’m not sure anybody’s called an ambulance. Let’s head down the road till we find a place with a phone. That little one might make it if they get him to a hospital fast.’

I see somebody’s taking the kid with them in a car but I don’t say anything. I just want to get away. They’ll need an ambulance anyway, even if it’s only to settle for sure all those people really are dead. I climb in the passenger seat and stare out of the window. How can such a rotten mess be happening under such a beautiful sky?

Dad’s driving like a crazy. Now he has a mission, there’s no stopping him. He pushes this crate to almost ninety. In about three miles, we come to a group of stores. He skids to a stop, jumps out, runs into a liquor store. I wait in the car. Three minutes later he comes out.

‘Somebody’s already called and they’re on the way. I told them I thought there were five people critically injured, probably fatal.’

He climbs in the car. He sits and doesn’t start the engine. I look at him; he’s white and breathing shallowly. He looks awful, pale, face all over shining wet.

We start hearing a siren. It’s barreling out of the east and goes past us with that heehhoouuughhh sound a siren makes when you’re sitting still. A minute later, another one screams by. Dad watches till they disappear. He turns on the motor.

‘Well, Bill, I guess there’s nothing more we can do.’

He puts her in gear and waits till the highway is empty end to end before he pulls out. Now he’s driving all of thirty-five miles an hour; but I’m not fighting. I’m considering walking the rest of the way.

We stop at the next gas station and tank up. There’s a small snack place there, so we go in for a cup of coffee. My stomach’s so empty now the back’s hitting the front. I buy a piece of blueberry pie. I’m beginning to feel better, but Dad’s still white.

‘Billy, would you drive for a while?’

I nod.

‘And take it easy, please, I’ve about had it.’

He takes out a bottle of Valium from the glove compartment and pops one.

‘Boy, Bill, I can feel the blood pumping through my heart like a hydraulic press.’

I keep it at fifty-five and the old man lies back in the seat the way I left it. He isn’t watching the road at all, just lying back staring at the headlining. It’s the first time he hasn’t had his eyes glued on the road. It’s spooky, as if he’s given up running things.

‘What do you think happened, Bill? There wasn’t any other car. It’s the middle of the day; I can’t see the guy falling asleep. I checked the tires; there wasn’t any blowout. What the hell could’ve gone wrong so this guy ruins everything, his wife, his children, even his dog? What the hell did he do wrong?’

He gives a big sigh and I look over at him. There are tears in his eyes. He really is about ready to crack, but he’s not finished.

‘Maybe his kids were bugging him and he leaned back to give them a whack and lost control. God, I hope not, that’d be an awful thought to have at the last minute. Maybe the steering wheel cracked or the brakes gave out. So many things can go wrong, no matter how careful you are.

‘I only hope he never had a chance to look back and see it all, wife twisted like a pretzel against the dirt, his son gutted, his daughter poleaxed and his baby standing there like a walking piece of hamburger on the road crying, surrounded by strangers. It’s enough to make you hope there isn’t any life after death. How the hell could you live any kind of life, anywhere, doing anything, if you had to live with that?’

Oh, God, I wish he’d only shut up. I’ll be upchucking that blueberry pie and coffee if he keeps on with this.

‘And damn it, Bill, there’s no way to get out of driving. It scares the hell out of me. I hate getting into one of these metal boxes and I’m glad every time I step out alive. I know I’m too tense when I drive but I keep seeing that kind of thing, only it’s us. It’s us, publicly dying on hot, or wet, or icy asphalt with strangers pawing over what’s left.’

Jesus, you think he’s the iron man, getting things done, carrying through; then he collapses. I’ve slowed down to forty-five! I juice her back to sixty. He doesn’t even notice; only stares some more at that headlining.

‘It’s just destiny, Dad. Accidents are a question of bad luck. You can only do so much. There’s no sense sweating it; you can worry yourself straight past any fun in life.’

He doesn’t move. Maybe he isn’t listening. It’s getting dark so I switch on the lights. It’s not that late but some big black clouds have blown up between us and the sun. I’m hoping we can make it to the other side of Indianapolis and find a motel. I’m pooped. We slept last night but it wasn’t real sleep. I was only unconscious; some part of me was fighting rain, thunder, lightning and trucks.

Then he starts in again.

‘I used to feel that way, Bill; it’s part of being young. It’s also a question of recklessness. I looked up the word “reck” once to see if there really was such a word. It means worry or care. As people get older they get more “reck”. Bad experiences, accidents, near misses – seeing things like we just saw – pile up, accumulate in the brain. A person becomes more “recky” every year; continuity, survival, gets bigger and bigger.

‘Also, the brain itself is changing. Certain kinds of mental and physical skills begin declining as early as seventeen.

‘I’ve watched myself becoming less sure, Bill, less capable of making decisions. When I’m driving, I feel caught between the reckless, the twenty-year-old, and the inept, the fifty- or sixty-year-old, who might not have the skills to cope with an emergency. And I can’t help projecting my limitations onto others, like you, Bill. I can’t be comfortable when you drive in ways I couldn’t handle.’

It goes dark fast and then the first big raindrops start. The road here outside Indianapolis is packed with giant semi-trailer trucks. I pass one about every quarter mile. Thank God Dad’s all cranked up on the decline and fall of the human animal. He’d be a raving lunatic helping me get around these big bastards.

When I turn on the windshield wiper, there’s only a humming sound. I look at the dash to check I’ve pushed the right switch. I joggle it on and off a few times.

Man, this is going to be fun with the dark, the rain, the trucks and the voice of doom beside me. He leans forward, leaving the chair back. He fiddles with the switch; it’s kaput all right. I’m sure glad this bucket of bolts isn’t mine; I’d need to work full time just keeping it running.

The rain is coming down in sheets now; I aim on the taillight of the truck in front of me; it’s the only thing I can actually see. I can’t pick up the white lines or the edge of the road. I’ve only got the two red lights repeated about a hundred times by each water splash on the windshield; and I’m afraid to stop.

‘Can you see at all, Bill? I can’t see a thing. Maybe we’d better pull over!’

‘I can see OK, Dad; I’ll just stay behind this truck. Long’s I see those taillights we’re all right.’

He’s quiet. I know he doesn’t want to go on but what the hell else can we do? There’s no real shoulder on this road and it’s beginning to go under water already.

‘Look, Dad, you keep watch for a turnoff. If you see one, yell.’

He rolls the window down two inches on his side so he can see out. The rain comes pouring in and swishes around the inside of the car. Even with the window open he can’t see; and with that big truck in front of us, there’s no way to pick up signs till they’re almost behind us.

I’m tailing my truck at less than fifty feet; if I get farther behind I lose him. I’m going to get wet anyway so I roll down my window. It pours in like a boat sinking in a catastrophe movie; in one minute I’m soaking wet. I hang my head out to see if it’s any better, but the rain whips in my eyes so it’s worse than with the smeared windshield. I pull in my head and roll up the window.

I catch some blinking lights coming up behind. I hold on to the wheel and hope for the best. It’s another semi who’s impatient with this big Lincoln tailgating one of his buddies. He steams by, and I lose whatever vision I had. The semi is throwing up dirty water and mud faster than clean water is coming down. I hold the wheel tight, keep up my speed and wait till I can see the taillights again. Our whole car gets a tug in the semi’s slipstream. I’m doing forty-five and he must be doing sixty. It’s almost a half minute of absolute blind driving, the windshield tinted brown mud, before I pick up the taillight again.

But I’m getting the hang of it. If he puts on his brakes, the brake lights come on and I put on mine. The problem is I’m getting hypnotized by those two lights. They shimmer on the road and on the windshield; no hypnotist could think up a better gimmick.

Just then, Dad hollers; more like yelps. There’s an exit coming in one mile. I put on the direction signal and ease to the right. I hope to hell I can pick up the turnoff. It’s pouring horse and elephant piss now. The roof of this crate’s howling with sound.

Dad sees the turnoff arrow just in time and I turn. There are no lights behind so I slow to fifteen. There’s a dim marking along the edge of the exit road; we curve off and down to a stop. There’s a sign across the road. I kick up the highs and roll out till we read ‘BROWNVILLE FIVE MILES’. I swing hard right and start that way.

It’s a high-crown, narrow road, and the white line’s almost invisible. I ride the crown; if anybody comes speeding along without headlights, we’ve had it.

We cruise into town looking out of blurry windows for a motel sign. I’m hoping the cops or sheriffs or whatever they use for law here are inside. They’d never appreciate this Lincoln with no wipers nosing blind up and down the main street. We’re about to give up when we spot a sign, ‘HOTEL’, at the other edge of town. God, I hope there’s a room; spending the night wrapped in a wet blanket for two doesn’t exactly turn me on.

This place is brick with a colonial porch. There are coach lamps with yellow bulbs on both sides of the door. Dad jumps out and dashes through the rain. He can’t get any wetter than he is, but people run hunched over in the rain as a natural thing. I know if they have a room he’ll take it even at fifty dollars a night.

In about five minutes he comes out; he opens the door and smiles in.

‘I’ve got us a great room. The manager’s convinced I’m a bank robber just off the job and we’ve got the trunk filled with gold bullion, so let’s live up the part; at least put your shoes on.’

He’s hyped again. Maybe he’s only glad to be alive, with a warm bath and dryness waiting inside. I give him the keys. He opens the trunk and struggles out his suitcase with my duffel bag. He hauls our bags onto the porch while I back the car into a parking area behind.

I walk slowly through that warm rain. I’m smiling as if it’s the most natural thing in the world to walk through teeming rain in the night. There are hydrangea bushes off the edge of the porch and I lean over to sniff the flowers, no smell. Dad’s rocking back and forth squishing in his shoes. But he’s laughing.

‘Come on, Bill, you don’t have to overdo it. I’m sure this pussy’s already alerted the sheriffs in three counties.’

We sashay into the lobby, dripping genuine Indiana or Ohio rain-water all over maroon rugs. We carry our own bags up to the room and it looks beautiful, two gigantic double beds.

We take turns wringing clothes and taking showers. I’m completely out of dry things, so I borrow a shirt and trousers from Dad. I even borrow a pair of his jockey shorts and tennis shoes. Going down we look halfway presentable; I’m loose in his clothes and my feet are cramped in his size 8 sneakers, but we’re clean.

Would you believe it, the manager comes over and casually introduces a gentleman who’s wearing a half-Stetson white hat. It really is, it’s the marshal for the town. He must have jumped up from dinner to come see the masked bandits without their masks. He starts polite conversation about where we’re coming from and where we’re going to; and, of course, about the car. Even if we’d gotten out of that car clean-shaven and in tuxes, this hotel manager would’ve called his friend the marshal.

Dad looks him in the eye and asks if there’s a Colonel Sanders in town. A sheer stroke of genius. The marshal shakes his head, all sorry about that. Just for the hell of it I ask if there’s a Taco Bell, another mob franchise. He shakes his head and smiles again. He could be half catching on.

‘But there’s a Pizza Hut, fellas; just on the other side of town, toward 80.’

He nods and smiles. He leads us onto the porch and points the only direction the place could be; it’s dark every other way. Just gives an idea how hard that rain was coming down when we went past a Pizza Hut without stopping.

We bow and bend, thanking the marshal as he tips his hat to us; Spade Cooley saluting his horse.

We board the Philadelphia Express and float our way blind to the Pizza Hut. It’s like coming home. We order a giant cheese pizza and a pitcher of beer each. We’re going all out. The pitchers are glass with curved glass handles like gigantic mugs, only with spouts. We drink our beer straight from the pitchers as if they’re beer steins. We wipe out the pizzas and an Italian salad. I can’t say I ever enjoyed food more in my life.

There are two cute waitresses having a ball watching us drink from pitchers. If I were with any other guy except my father, I’m sure we could talk them into coming to the hotel with us; give that manager something to worry about.