Читать книгу The Complete Collection - William Wharton, Уильям Уортон - Страница 46

We’re on the Pennsylvania Turnpike when we start hearing the noise. I think we’ve stripped a gear or maybe the transmission fluid’s low. Dad insists I shift out of drive to second and then to first. The sound’s the same in all gears. He thinks it’s the universal joint. How the hell would he know? As a mechanic, he makes a great painter. But what else can it be?

‘Bill, hold her in second and we’ll limp on to the next garage.’

I keep her at a constant twenty-five for the next fifteen miles. The grinding gets louder so we’re beginning to sound like a cement mixer. Dad’s nervous as a mother cat, listening; opening a window, hanging his head out. He puts his ear onto the drive-shaft hump. He even climbs into the back, rips up the seat and jams his head in there.

I’m beginning to think we’d be better off calling a tow truck. After all, the cost would be picked up by this Scarlietti we’re delivering to.

We limp into a garage making such a racket it stops everything. It’s always fun seeing some bomb of a car crap out, and this clunker sounds as if it’s doing the death rattle.

Dad goes looking for somebody. I’m afraid to turn off the motor, but I keep it in neutral to hold down the racket. Dad comes over with a mechanic. They signal me to roll her onto the grease rack. When I put her in first and start lugging, she sounds as if the bottom’s about to drop out. We just might need to phone and tell Mr Scarlietti to kiss off this bucket of bolts. But if we do that, they’re liable to send somebody here to kiss us off.

I climb out and the mechanic pushes the hydraulic-lift button. Up she goes, an elephant in an elevator. The mechanic shakes his head.

‘Sounds like your universal’s shot to hell, all right. You fellas keep prayin’ that’s all it is.’

When the car’s up, he stops the lift and walks under. He moves along pushing his hand on different parts, shaking his head and muttering. I’m ready for the worst. Even if it isn’t anything important, this clown could rob us. He sees us in this wagon, he’s sure we’re touring millionaires.

He fetches a wrench. Doctors and mechanics like to be mysterious. He twirls off four bolts and starts struggling to pull clear the front end of the drive shaft. He works it out and lowers it to the floor; wipes his hand into the crotch of the differential and shows it to us. His hand is covered with small silver metal filings. He shakes his head but still doesn’t say anything. Then he pulls out the rest of the drive shaft, carries it over to his bench and knocks off the universal joint. It’s gored, silvered and generally chewed up. He wipes it with a grease cloth hanging from his back pocket.

‘Well, there she is. You ain’t goin’ much further with this baby.’

We both stare. It’s an amazing chunk of metal sculpture; it looks like a giant pair of kids’ jacks, joined in a ball socket.

After some palaver, it’s costing us a hundred fifty bucks. He needs to buy the joint in New Stanton. New Stanton is the name of this stop on the turnpike, but New Stanton, the town, is about ten miles away. There’s nothing else to do.

We go into the hotel beside the garage and spend half an hour trying to reach the car owner, but can’t get an answer. We have to let the mechanic know right now so he’ll have time to get the piece tonight. Dad goes out and tells him to start, we’ll have to take the chance.

The motel here’s in colonial style again, brick and white wooden columns again; there’s a restaurant attached. The mechanic says no matter what, we can’t have the car till tomorrow morning.

‘I’ll go check the prices, Bill. I think we’re in for an expensive night. You watch them take this thing apart so we can save ourself some money next time.’

I go back in the garage and sit on a used oil drum. Two mechanics about my age are undoing the rest of the bolts, cleaning and greasing the drive-shaft seat for the yoke and joint.

Dad comes back. He’s got us a room, twenty-five bucks. We sit there in the garage watching, and before I know it he starts.

First he says something about how glad he is not to be a mechanic. Sounds simple enough, but I’m already suspicious. He’s leaning against a wall and I’m still sitting on the oil drum. These young guys are in front of us working. It’s one hell of a messy job. There’s oil dripping and crud from the bottom of the car keeps falling in their eyes.

‘But at least you’re doing something important and you get good pay, Dad.’

I’m only being ornery; I could never be a mechanic, I’m not good enough. You watch a real mechanic at work and you know.

‘I’ll bet neither of these guys makes more than seven bucks an hour. If you work forty hours a week, fifty weeks a year, that’s less than fifteen thousand and you wouldn’t take home twelve after taxes and Social Security.

‘You can’t keep a family on that in America today, Bill, and there isn’t much chance of making more unless you open your own garage; then you’re a businessman.

‘And you’re always dirty, the kind of dirt you never get out of the cracks in your skin and under your nails; it gets driven into the cuticles. You’ve got banged fingers and hands all the time; and I’ll tell you, you’re dead tired at night. My dad used to come home nights filthy and absolutely bushed when he worked at G.E.’

It’s coming all right; what did I say or do to bring it on? Maybe nothing. Maybe he’s been sitting back in his mind waiting.

‘Bill, what are you going to do in France this year?’

There it is. OK.

‘Well, Dad, I’ll go down to the cabin, finish it off, then do some writing.’

‘How are you going to live? Do you have money saved up?’

I tell him about the hundred fifty.

‘That’s nothing, Bill; a hundred and fifty dollars won’t last two weeks.’

So I tell him Debby might come.

He’s quiet a long time. We concentrate watching these poor bastards cleaning out the crap that got chewed off the universal joint. He’s not happy but he doesn’t know which way to go.

‘God, Bill, a hundred and fifty dollars won’t go anywhere at all with two of you.’

‘Her Dad’s chipping in. He doesn’t like her quitting school, but he’s giving her money so she won’t starve.’

Dad’s quiet again. I’m hoping it’s finished. If I’m not getting help, I sure as hell won’t beg for it. We watch awhile but then he starts. He’s apologetic but firm, as if he’s taking a thorn out from under a fingernail.

‘Well, Bill, you’re nineteen now, an adult; so you’ll have to figure some way to earn money while you’re down there. I don’t know what to suggest. It’s hard finding work in France without papers. I really don’t see how you can make it.’

‘Well, the guy in Huez who hires for beet-picking said he’d take me on. I can make four thousand francs in two months. Along with Deb’s money, we’d have enough to live on.’

I should leave it there.

‘But I could sure use the money you sent me when I was at Santa Cruz. Hell, I’ll be working to improve myself; writing’s a respected profession.’

He looks up and stares me in the eyes.

‘Bill, it’s probably not good sitting back knowing for sure money’s coming in. We have friends who’ve lived off money from parents all their lives. It ruined them. They have a child-like dependence combined with an arrogant ignorance. They’re never members of the real world.’

So we leave it there. I don’t need to be insulted.

It’s almost six when the garage closes down. We eat dinner at outrageous prices, then head up to our room. The only thing going is cars whizzing past on the turnpike. We watch a movie called something like It’s Tuesday, This Must Be Amsterdam. It’s about traveling in Europe. Dad and I get to laughing. We need something after all the heavy stuff.

It’s past eleven when the movie’s over, and we crash. I’m pooped from all the Sturm und Drang. The lights are off and his voice comes out of nowhere.

‘Look, Bill. I hope you don’t feel bad about the money business.’

He pauses. I don’t say anything. Let him think I’m asleep. I don’t want to talk about it.

‘It worries me, Bill, you might take the easy way. There are so many pressures to “take it easy”, “cool it”, “be groovy”. I’d hate to have you be a twentieth-century dilettante. To me, that’s the enemy. I can cope with mere Communists – Russian, Chinese or Cuban – the Nazis, the Calvinists, the Baptists, the Catholics or the KKK, any ordinary group of dogmatists, but the real enemy, for me, the dangerous ones, are the leisured, advantaged dilettantes who have dominated and clogged the machinery of creativity and invention for centuries.’

I wonder if he expects me to say something. No, I’d better keep my mouth shut.

‘I’ll tell you what, Bill. The mill needs a new roof. If you and Debby take off all the old slate, repair the slats and rafters where they’re rotted, then turn the slates over and put them back, I’ll give you five hundred bucks plus materials. If you both work hard, it shouldn’t take much time, and that kind of work could be a break from writing. Inner searching can be more tiring than you think; climbing over a roof will seem like a picnic. That way you’d get through the winter and have something to start sending around to publishers.’

So this is what he’s been working up to. He knows I’m scared of heights. I’ll probably fall through that rotted, slanted roof and break my neck. I keep quiet but he still isn’t finished.

‘Another thing, Bill. I’d appreciate it if you don’t push it into everybody’s face down there how you and Debby are living together; don’t violate their idea of what’s right. OK?’

Of course I say OK. So now he knows I wasn’t asleep.

I think I’m home free, but just when I’m on the edge, he’s back at it.

‘Bill?’

I don’t answer.

‘Bill, this thing with my dad and mom has been tough. I only now realize I’ve been in a kind of shock for the last three or four months.’

I wait.

‘It’s been a long haul and it’s the sort of thing I’m not good at. If I’ve been too critical, don’t think much about it.’

I wait and hope he’s finished.

‘I feel terrible leaving Mom and Dad. But I can’t justify staying away from Mother and Jacky any longer. It’s been hard for them, too. I had to leave.’

Shit, I don’t know what to say. I keep pretending I’m asleep. I lie there quietly and listen to him lying there in the dark. He’s not sleeping; I can tell by his breathing. I lie still and listen. I think about what it is to be alive.