“Life gets complicated, Pepper Flake,” Trucks finally said. “Nobody was ever telling me to take good paths. I didn’t even know they existed. And nobody ever promised to stick around or ice my wounds or sew my cuts. Could I have made myself into something more than a boxer? Made cash in any other way but with hooks and headshots? I guess. But I was raised in those homes too. I know that long walk. I know that hard bed. I know those shared dressers and made-and-lost bonds and people picking on you. And listen, you need to know the way it crushed me when they took you.”
Trucks looked up at the ceiling. Something had caught his eye. A bird had flown at an angle between the slanted rafters. It looked like a plover.
Then he said, “Sometimes people just go. My parents abandoned me to a shelter outside Milwaukee. I never knew why. I wondered. And I’m sure you wonder things, too, like about your mama. And I’ll tell you about her someday. I’ll give you all the hard answers. But what I want you to know right now is that some people are born with a wild wind inside them that carries them to distant places. I guess it’s because they’re sad about who they are. They’re sad about what they don’t have. They’re sad about all those empty, broken places. And maybe they go off somewhere that the voice doesn’t carry, and we’ll never hear anything from them again. No return. No receipt. Like they’re trapped in the bottle of themselves with a glued-down cork. And they just don’t…they don’t know how to make a life out of two hands and a heart. But that’s all I’ve ever had. Look at these, you know? I’ve got cuts and bruises and scar tissue for miles. But now I’ve got you again, and our horizon’s lit up. Just think of it that way, Pepper Flake. We’ll just go and go and go and rip through that big powdery sky together. And there won’t be no you or me. There will always be you and me. Us. No matter what. And don’t forget that. Even if I yell or you yell or we knock each other back into sense. This is what we have. This is what we do. We go and we go together.”
Trucks’s throat was dry. His palms sweaty. He opened and closed his left hand, the one he’d broken three times. Twice on hooks, once on an uppercut. He looked for the plover in the rafters.
Claudia slid off one of the big gloves and took his hand. The touch jolted him. She pulled back, looked at his roughed-up face, and reached out again. She clasped his hand and leaned her head on his shoulder. Trucks cried then. He did it silently. And the crying was slight, nearly imperceptible, so she wouldn’t hear. He didn’t know what his little girl might make of it.
Trucks pulled Claudia into an empty aisle before they got to the checkout. He looked around—no staff in sight. He put a finger to his lips, unzipped her coat, and stuffed all their items inside except for one toothbrush. Then he zipped up her coat, gave Claudia the toothbrush, and led her to the register, where the tired clerk smiled and checked them out, saying nothing.
Once outside, Trucks dropped to a knee and emptied the items from Claudia’s coat into a plastic bag the clerk had given them for the toothbrush. Then he zipped Claudia’s coat to her chin and buttoned her throat flaps. Pulled her hood on. Said, “That’s not normally something I’d do back there, but we’re in need right now. Stealing isn’t exactly stealing when you’re in need like us. Understand?”
“I don’t know,” Claudia said.
“I can explain it better later,” Trucks said. “Let’s just call it ‘need borrowing’ for now. Deal?”
“But—”
“Deal?”
“Okay.”
Trucks stood.
“Hey, look,” he said.
They looked at the horizon. The sun rose in waves of blues and pinks and reds. Like it was coming out of a birth of paint. They were quiet for minutes. The chilling South Dakota wind whipped on. Then Trucks took her hand, and they got to walking.
BREAKFAST AT THE KOOL FUEL CAFE
Trucks had seen the Kool Fuel gas station when the old rancher dropped them off in the Hallowell parking lot. What he’d noticed, really, was a beige mechanical pony sitting outside on a dark pole. It faced the barren field beside the gas station. Looked like it had been itching for so many years to blaze across the plains. He knew it might be tough to catch another ride for a while, so he could entertain Claudia with the pony while he tried to hitch.
They walked inside the gas station. Trucks grabbed two small paper cups next to the soda machine. They took off their coats and sat at one of the glued-to-the-wall tables near the open case of rolling hot dogs and sausages. Donuts under glass. Coffee pots and sugar packets and dried spills from hours before. Trucks set the paper cups on the table. Claudia picked up the cups and put them over her eyes like binoculars.
“I can’t see anything out there, cappy captain,” she said.
“Maybe they’re not in focus. Did you turn the focus knob?”
“Yeah.”
“Hm. Strange. It must be all that thick fog rolling over the plains.”
Claudia put the cups top-down on the table.
“Other side,” Trucks said.
She turned the cups over. “What’s it matter?”
“Germs,” he said.
Trucks took the sachet out of his pocket.
“Hands,” he said.
“Again?”
Trucks nodded. “Take those off.”
Claudia took off her gloves. Trucks handed her an antibacterial wipe.
“That smell,” she said.
“Get cleaned up.”
Claudia slowly rubbed the damp wipe over her hands. Trucks raised an eyebrow. Claudia made a face and scrubbed fast like she was trying to start a fire. Trucks wanted to stay stern, but he couldn’t help laughing. Claudia giggled and tossed the used wipe on the table. Trucks picked it up and cleaned his hands. Then he opened their plastic sack and pulled out a can of beans, a package of shredded cheese, and a skinny metal can opener. He opened the can of beans and dumped half into one of the cups, half in the other.
“Open that bag of cheese, and dump some in each of the cups,” he said.
Claudia picked up the bag, bit into the corner, and jerked her head to rip it open. She poured too much cheese in one of the cups.
“Try to keep it even, knucklehead.”
“I am trying, bruiseity brains.”
Trucks knocked on his head. “Still working, at least.” Although his head hadn’t stopped aching from the fight.
Claudia added more cheese, and Trucks went over to the counter and grabbed two plastic spoons. He came back and put them on the table and sat down.
Claudia grabbed a spoon and tried to dig in right away. Trucks held his spoon out to her.
“To the road,” he said.
Claudia clicked her spoon against his.
“To the road,” she said.
Halfway through her cup, Trucks stood and put on his coat.
“I’ll be right out that window, okay? See over there at the end of the building?”
Claudia looked sad.
“I’m not going anywhere far. I’m not leaving, promise. I’m just going to the end of the building, right outside. Sit here. Don’t go anywhere. Don’t talk to anyone. If anyone tries to talk to you, tell them to go away. Say something like, ‘My dad’s right there. He’s got a gun, and he’ll blow your ugly face off.’” Trucks smiled.
“Sounds kinda mean.”
“Just a joke.”
“Yeah.”
“Should we make it nicer?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll figure out something nicer when I get back. And then we’re gonna try out our new toothbrushes in the bathroom.”
Claudia made a face.
Trucks walked away, reached the door, paused with his hand on the glass, then came back.
“Hey you,” he said.
“Hey you,” she said.
Claudia looked up at him, her face at an angle. She looked like her mother just then. Trucks leaned down and hugged her tight. Some of the beans spilled over the side of the cup in her hands. Trucks grabbed a napkin and wiped the table. He p
icked up all the trash. Then he went through the front door and pitched the garbage in a barrel between the gas pumps before walking to the end of the building.
Claudia set her cup down when she was finished eating. She rattled her spoon around inside the cup. Then she rested her chin on her fists and stared at the blank wall ahead. Outside, Trucks pulled his coat tighter to fend off the cold. He was down on his knees in the snow, furiously scrubbing the beige mechanical horse with antibacterial wipes.
THE QUARTER PONY RIDES
It was late morning. Trucks stood at the edge of the gas station parking lot where the exit met the highway. Claudia was in the distance behind him sitting on the beige mechanical pony. Its stand was painted navy blue and said “Ride the Champ” in faded newsprint lettering. The paint was chipping. The horse was chipping. Somehow the beige hadn’t gotten too bleached out over all those years in the sun.
Trucks thought about Claudia, what a good girl she was. She had to be sick of that pony by now. Each time the ride ended, Claudia called out for him, and Trucks walked back from the road and popped in another quarter. After a while, he didn’t have any quarters left, but he asked her to stay there on the lifeless pony anyway. It was better like that. She was protected from the cold wind as long as she kept against the building.
For Trucks, the time went like this:
Thumb out. Car passed. Driver ignored him.
Thumb out. Car passed. Driver ignored him.
Thumb out. Car passed. Driver pointed ahead, mouthed sorry, drove on.
He often looked over his shoulder at Claudia. It had been six months since he had to be responsible for her. Now she was sitting backward on the pony. Earlier she’d gotten down and looked at its belly. He saw her rubbing the underside of the pony and speaking to it. He couldn’t make out the words because of the harsh wind, but he could see her mouth moving. Occasionally he heard a fraction of her soft voice.
Trucks had put their supply sack on the ground near the pony to keep his hands free. Whenever someone pulled up to a gas pump, Trucks would walk over and ask for a ride. People seemed afraid of his bruised face. Uptight about the black-and-purple markings and one of the dried cuts at the edge of his eye. Some held the fuel pump spout between themselves and Trucks as he approached. Pointing it at him like a gun. They all took defensive postures. He’d be kind. They’d say no for various reasons. Had to get to work. Going the other direction. Just heading down the road a few exits. Didn’t believe in picking up hitchers. Things like that. When he told them about his daughter and pointed her out on the pony, they’d dart their eyes between him and her. He could tell they thought it was one of those sympathy scams. Like they’d get a ways down the road and he’d take them by the throat while she stuck a knife to their ribs.
Trucks felt desperate. The highway was empty and gray and cold. Cars weren’t passing much on this barren stretch.
Had it been an hour? Trucks turned from the road and walked over to Claudia. She was off the pony now and had her face against the gas station window.
“Anything interesting?” Trucks asked.
“Not really.” She kept looking through the window.
“You warm enough?”
“I’m fine.”
“You having fun watching the store?” Trucks glanced at the road.
“I saw a guy buy your tickets.”
“My tickets?”
“The tickets you let me scratch with pennies.”
“Oh.”
For a time Trucks wasn’t making any money, and he’d tried to change his luck with scratch-off tickets. But it brought him nothing, and over the years he went broke again and again. Too many hours at the gym and too many overdue notices. His life had consisted of late payments and nonpayments. Some “concerned” citizen had seen the low way he was living with Claudia in that dump of a rowhouse down by the tracks. Probably somebody he’d wronged. Somebody who had it in for him. So that somebody called the state. Then the state showed up. Claudia was taken from him again and again. Put in a home. Returned. Put in a different home. Returned. Soon the state had had enough, citing his past indiscretions of street fighting, his long arrest record, his inability to pay the bills, to keep a job, to quit taking beatings for cash and find “healthy, gainful employment.” That’s what they’d called it in their letters. Six months ago they took Claudia and said it’d be for good. It tore up Trucks. But he used the anger and sorrow to fuel a plan. He took every available fight in the city, regardless of weight class, and accepted even the smallest fight purses. Trucks barely ate. He dropped twenty pounds. But over the months he paid off his overdue bills and claims and interest. And still the state denied his custody requests. Said the appeals process would go on and on, and Trucks was afraid if he didn’t do something soon he’d lose his girl. He’d been on the outs with the state from the get-go and only saw one option—to fight the only way he knew how. All knuckle and bone and grit and heart. So he got connected with the late-night dishwasher at the Horatio Horsfall Children’s Home through a local bookie in Klakanouse. The dishwasher would do his best to find out how Claudia was doing and relay the info. And when the time came, the dishwasher snuck him in, and Trucks got his girl back. He was left with thirty dollars, and that speck of money had to carry him and Claudia halfway across the country to Nevada, where he was told the casino boxing market was solid. And sometimes he thought maybe he could start a different kind of life that was better for his girl. Be a trainer. A cutman. A coach. Anything but what he was. That he could walk away from the ring and the beatings. The late-night stitches and pulsing knuckles. He told himself this.
“I thought I could snag a ride alone, but I’m gonna need your help on this one,” Trucks said to Claudia.
She pried herself from the window and looked at him. “Told ya.”
“You did.”
“So what do I do?”
“It’s gonna be pretty chilly out there. You’ll need to have your big-girl pants on.”
Claudia pulled out the waistband of her pajama bottoms, then let it go so it snapped against her stomach. She laughed.
“Good. Now pop that hood on.”
Claudia put her hood on.
Trucks got down on a knee and secured the hood. Then he picked up the Hallowell sack in his left hand, the one he’d broken so many times, and opened his right arm for Claudia to swoop in. “I’ll lift you up and carry you out to the shoulder of the road. Keep your face turned into me. Remember, if we get a ride, don’t say anything about who we are or where we’re from. Let me do the talking. If they ask any questions, look to me first before you answer. Never say your real name. Never talk about Klakanouse. We’re not from Wisconsin. We’ve never been there. Okay?”
Claudia looked at Trucks, then all around. She fidgeted with the strings of her coat. “Okay,” she said. “But where are we from?”
“Good question.” Trucks thought a moment. “Let’s say Georgia. It sounds nice. I bet it’s warm there now.”
“Georgia.” Claudia tried it on.
Then she walked into his open arm. Trucks picked her up and stood, feeling the weight of her. Trucks could half see into the store and half see himself reflected in the glass with Claudia in his arms, the brute plains behind him.
He breathed in deep, turned, and walked past the fuel pumps. The wind picked up even more after that. He paused at the edge of the highway. There was plenty of room for somebody to stop. A nearly deserted road. Shouldn’t be a problem.
“Hanging tight?” Trucks asked. He liked feeling the weight of his girl. She had her cheek against his shoulder. She nodded into his body.
“Think warm thoughts. This is what they call bitter cold, Pepper Flake.”
Claudia mumbled into his coat. He could feel the buzz of her breath against him.
HEADING FOR KADOKA
“It’s really against my nature, but I saw your little girl,” the woman said. She had on a silk blouse, tight black pants, white pumps, and pearl earrings. She wore a
gold necklace that sparkled against the occasional rays of the peeking sun. The woman was driving twenty miles an hour over the speed limit. They were back on I-90, still heading west. Trucks and Claudia were sitting in the backseat of the woman’s nice sedan, their sack of supplies between them.
“We’re grateful you did.” Trucks patted Claudia’s leg.
The woman tapped the steering wheel.
“We’re from Georgia,” Claudia offered.
Trucks gave her a look.
“Oh?” the woman said. “I toured the university in Athens once. Pretty little college town. Have you been?”
Trucks didn’t know Georgia at all. Maybe he should have suggested a state he’d been to.
“Yeah, a few times. A pretty little college town, like you said. But we’re small-town folks. We live on the other side of the state.”
“I’m a small-town girl myself,” the woman said. “From Kadoka, where I’m headed. But I’ve been living in Sioux Falls for about fifteen years now. Kadoka’s tiny in comparison, nothing much to do.”
“Why are you going there?” Claudia asked.
Trucks squeezed her arm. She was breaking his rules.
“I’ve been running back and forth to see my sister,” the woman said, looking at Claudia in the rearview. Then she looked at Trucks and said, “She’s been sick for a while. I’m practically paying rent at a hotel up there. She has a small efficiency that barely suits one, so I get my own room to give her privacy and, honestly, just to have a breather and my own space.”
“I’m sorry about your sister,” Trucks said.
“Thanks. I’m just hoping she’ll pull through.”
“So it’s serious?”
“Follick’s Disease. It has to do with low blood cell counts and the inability to regenerate cells. It’s depressing to talk about, you know?”
“I’m sorry,” Trucks said.
“Thanks.” The woman looked in the rearview at Trucks. “So, speaking of traumas, I was curious about your face. May I ask what happened?”
Trucks felt his forehead and temple. The wounds still tender to the touch.
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