Rovers

by RICHARD LANGE

  He spots a boy eating a hot dog and decides he wants a hot dog too.

  “I’ll get you one later,” Jesse says.

  “I’m hungry now,” he says. “Come on, good buddy.”

  Jesse looks for a vendor, but none are nearby. What he does see is a man in the row below theirs taking beer orders from his friends.

  “How many?” the man asks. “You want one? You?” His pals hand him money, and when he pulls out his wallet to cram the bills inside, Jesse notices a lot of cash already stashed there. The guy’s been drinking. He knocks his ball cap off scratching his head and nearly falls picking it up. His friends send him on his way with catcalls and good-natured shoves.

  “Wait right here,” Jesse says to Edgar.

  “Attaboy,” Edgar says. “Mustard and ketchup. You know how I like ’em.”

  Jesse follows the drunk down the stairs. The man takes the steps slowly, one at a time. When they reach the echoey concourse, he hurries to a bathroom, and Jesse enters right behind him. Men and boys piss into a long metal trough, lined up like cows at their feed. The drunk slips into an open spot and unzips his trousers. He stares at the wall above the trough, humming whatever song is playing outside. Jesse wedges in beside him and mimes taking out his prick. Then, quick as a robin plucking a worm, he reaches over and lifts the drunk’s wallet from his back pocket and sticks it into his own.

  The drunk is still pissing, still humming, when Jesse leaves the bathroom. Jesse walks some distance along the concourse before ducking into an alcove, where he pulls the money from the wallet and drops the wallet to the ground. He counts the bills while waiting in line at a concession stand. Fifty dollars, a decent score.

  The announcer reminds everyone about the upcoming Bicentennial Fireworks Spectacular, “a night of patriotic fun for the whole family.” Jesse was born in the centennial year—1876—and he’d swear more than a hundred years have passed since then. It feels to him he’s been on the roam forever. He steps up to the counter and orders a dog for Edgar and a beer for himself.

  Back in the stands the drunk is on his knees, searching for his wallet. He tosses aside empty popcorn boxes and drink cups and brushes peanut shells off his palms. “I know I had it,” he says. “You guys saw.” Jesse, coming up the steps, freezes. Not because he’s worried about the drunk fingering him, but because Edgar isn’t in his seat.

  He scans the crowd, trying to recall what his brother is wearing. Jeans and his favorite Mickey Mouse T-shirt. He’s been going on about catching a foul ball, so maybe he moved closer to the field, but there’s no sign of him on the rail either.

  He’s slipped away before, and Jesse usually finds him within a few minutes, quaking with fear, his wanderlust having faded as soon as he got out of sight of his brother. Three years ago, though, things played out differently, in a way that’s troubled Jesse ever since.

  They got separated at a county fair in Butte, Montana, and when Jesse eventually tracked Edgar down, he was walking hand in hand with a little boy toward the exit.

  “What are you doing?” Jesse asked Edgar.

  “I’m hungry,” Edgar replied.

  It had been only two weeks since he’d last fed—too soon for bloodlust.

  “Let the boy go,” Jesse said.

  “I won’t,” Edgar said and pulled the kid closer. The boy started to cry.

  “Let him go, or I’ll dust you where you stand,” Jesse said.

  Edgar hesitated, reluctant to give in, but he could see Jesse meant business. He released the boy, who dashed off, and Jesse grabbed Edgar by the neck and hustled him out to the parking lot before there was any trouble.

  Back at their motel, Jesse alternated between punching and threatening him.

  “I say when it’s time for you to feed, and I do the hunting,” he said.

  “I know,” Edgar said.

  “You don’t have the brains to do for yourself. You’ll get us both killed.”

  “I know.”

  Edgar’s never again shown an inclination to satisfy his bloodlust on his own, and Jesse’s been hoping that what happened was a one-time thing. But what if it wasn’t?

  He sprints down the concourse, calling for his brother into every restroom and pausing at every concession stand to make sure he’s not there trying to wheedle a hot dog. When he gets to the end, he turns around to make another pass, his heart kicking at his ribs, and his mouth so dry, it’s work to swallow. He wonders if Edgar’s in the parking lot, looking for the car, wonders if he remembers they swapped the Ford for a Grand Prix last night.

  He comes to a door he missed before and pushes it open to reveal a stairwell.

  “Edgar!” he shouts.

  An echo, then silence.

  “Don’t be scared, buddy. I’m not mad at you.”

  He hears a shuffle and a faint “I ain’t scared.” Edgar peers over the rail of a landing two stories up.

  “What’s going on?” Jesse says.

  “I seen a rover.”

  “You sure?”

  “He glowed black.”

  He’s talking about the dark aura surrounding rovers that only other rovers can see.

  “What did you do?”

  “What you always say to: took cover.”

  Because there are berserkers out there, rovers who wouldn’t hesitate, who would in fact relish the opportunity, to dust another rover with an eye toward cutting down on the competition for prey. It’s for this reason Jesse avoids others who’ve turned and why he’s tried to instill a fear of strangers in Edgar.

  “You did good,” he says. “Let’s get our asses out of here.”

  As Edgar starts down the stairs a commotion rattles the walls. Cheering, stomping. A home run.

  “What about my hot dog?” Edgar says.

  “I’ll get you one on the way out,” Jesse says.

  “Can I pay for it myself?”

  Jesse fishes a dollar out of his pocket and hands it to his brother.

  “A dollar’ll buy two,” Edgar says.

  “So get two,” Jesse says. He pulls open the door and leads Edgar through the crowd. If he really did see a rover, the rover likely saw him, so the quicker they leave the stadium, the better.

  Jesse isn’t quite ready to go back to the motel. He’s all wound up and could use a drink. He and Edgar drive down Central Avenue. The street is clogged with cruisers, a slow-moving procession of greasers gunning cherry hot rods and high-school kids packed into sedans and lumbering station wagons borrowed from their parents. Every window is down, every radio is on, and a sticky-sweet Top 40 cacophony floats above the revving engines and car-to-car sass. “Take the Money and Run,” “Love Machine,” “Jive Talkin’”—Edgar knows all the songs and sings along.

  They come to a bowling alley. That’ll do. Edgar likes to bowl, or try to anyway. Most of his throws end up in the gutter, but toppling even a few pins is enough to make him happy. Jesse rents shoes for him and helps him pick out a ball, then parks himself at the bar where he can keep an eye on his lane.

  The girl tending bar asks what he’ll have. He starts to order a beer but is struck dumb. The bartender is the spitting image of Claudine, beautiful, doomed Claudine, dead, oh Christ, some seventy years now. The only woman he ever loved, the only woman he’ll ever love.

  “Need a minute?” this bartender says.

  Same skin the color of red-elm heartwood, same green eyes that shine as if lit from behind, same long, black hair, only not worn loose, but plaited into two braids that hang past her shoulders.

  “I’ll have a Coors,” he manages to say.

  “Jesse! Hey, Jesse!”

  He turns to see Edgar pointing at five pins he’s downed and gives him the thumbs-up.

  The girl sets a bottle in front of him. “Is that your friend?” she says.

  “My brother,” he says. He keeps staring at Edgar so he doesn’t stare at her.

  “Why aren’t you playing too?”

  “He has more fun on his own.”

&nb
sp; “Nah. You’re afraid he’ll beat you.”

  Jesse smiles. Claudine liked to joke around too. He gathers himself and turns to face the girl.

  “Ain’t you smart,” he says.

  “And don’t you forget it.”

  “What’s your name, smarty-pants?”

  “Johona. It’s Navajo.”

  “You’re an Indian?”

  “My mom is. My dad’s Dutch.”

  Claudine kept changing her story. Sometimes she was Spanish, sometimes French, sometimes a gypsy princess.

  “How’d that happen?” Jesse asks Johona, talking about her parents.

  “My dad came over here to study Indians,” Johona says. “He’s an archeologist. You know what that is?”

  “Someone who studies old things,” Jesse says. “Ancient civilizations.”

  “You’re pretty smart yourself,” Johona says. “What’s your name?”

  “Jesse.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Jesse.”

  Johona goes off to see to other customers. Jesse watches her out of the corner of his eye, can’t stop. Claudine in tight jeans and a black tank top. She’s got an easy way with people, knows what to say to make them feel good. A nice girl. Claudine wanted to be nice, but because she was a huntress at heart, used kindness mainly as a lure.

  Jesse checks on Edgar. He’s getting ready to roll. He apes the form of the bowler next to him, but his ball still ends up in the gutter. The clatter of falling pins from the other lanes is as sharp and startling as firecrackers. It bounces off the high arched ceiling and returns twice as loud.

  Johona replaces Jesse’s empty bottle with a full one.

  “On me,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  “Where you from?”

  “Guess.”

  “Not here. Somewhere down South?”

  “West Virginia. But it’s been a while since I’ve been back.”

  “So you live in Phoenix now?”

  “Passing through. Got work in Denver.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Construction.”

  “Construction?” Johona says. “You’re as pale as a ghost. Give me your hand.”

  She runs her thumbs over Jesse’s palm, his fingers. He remembers Claudine’s touch and breaks a little inside.

  “You aren’t a construction worker,” she says.

  “What am I then?” Jesse says.

  “You’re a bank robber.”

  “You get a lot of bank robbers in here?”

  “No, but we get a hell of a lot of construction workers. I’m on the lookout for something more exciting.”

  “Exciting can go different ways.”

  “At this point, I’m up for anything.”

  Two drunks at the end of the bar call for another round. Jesse forces himself to get up when Johona goes off to serve them. He could stay here all night, watching her and seeing Claudine, but what’s the point? She’s not Claudine. Claudine’s dead. He joins Edgar, who’s sitting at the scorekeeper’s desk and drawing stick figures on the acetone sheet, grinning to see them projected overhead.

  “Ready to get your ass whupped?” Jesse says. He picks up a ball, hefts it.

  “You ain’t no good,” Edgar says. “You ain’t no better’n me.”

  They start a game. Every once in a while Jesse looks toward the bar and catches a glimpse of Johona, and every time it makes him smile. Even better, once or twice he catches her looking at him, and she’s smiling too.

  6

  T​HE ONLY THING ON THE TELEVISION IS A WAR STORY WITH John Wayne. Sometimes Jesse’ll talk like him joshing me but not tonight. He’s been quiet since we got back from bowling. I ask him does he want to play Crazy Eights or Nickle Nock. Watch your show, he says, I’m thinking.

  I lay there petting Abby and thinking too. I think about Mama. I’m having trouble remembering her again. I can see her shape but where her face should be is like rippling water. Same with Daddy and J.P. and Peggy and Aunt Beulah. They’re fading away.

  Mama used to say all we got is family. Which means I got nothing now. Nothing but Jesse and him barely. He tells me I’ll grow into being alone. But that’s him not me. We ain’t all alike. There’s good men and bad men. Brave men and cowards. Some are on the run from the past and some want to keep it with them.

  I can’t help it I’m crying. Abby climbs on my chest and licks my face. What’s the matter? Jesse says. I don’t want to tell but it busts out of me. I’m missing Mama. You want to look at the pictures? Jesse says. He goes to his grip and takes out the album and I sit with him on the bed.

  He points to the first picture. This is Mama and this is Daddy, he says. On their wedding day, I say. They went to Mr. Borden’s studio directly from church to get a photograph made and Mama said to Mr. Borden, I better look pretty in it or we ain’t paying. I got the same eyes as her the same nose. Jesse always says whenever I forget her I can look in a mirror. Jesse favors Daddy. Not so tall but seeming bigger. Crow-black hair and eyes. A girl’s pouty lips. He’s got a smile like Daddy’s too. One you don’t see much but when you do makes you smile too. I think he looks like Elvis Presley. He says I need glasses.

  The next picture’s the whole family. Mama Daddy Jesse when he was seven sister Peg when she was five brother J.P. when he was three and me just born. Jesse says, You remember what we called you? You all called me Butterbean, I say. ’Cause you looked just like one, Jesse says. I say, You know what they should’ve called you? What? Jesse says. Turd, I say, ’cause that’s what you look like.

  Jesse turns the pages. Daddy kissing a shovel at the mine. Peg in her coffin after a fever took her. All us on a trip to the ocean. I say to Jesse, You’re fourteen here and I’m seven. See, Jesse says, you remember. I say, I like this picture of Mama where she’s smiling. I run my finger over her face. You’re my special child, she told me, the one’ll be with me forever. The one’ll take care of me when I’m old. I will, Mama, I said, don’t you worry. And I did. I was the one took care of her after J.P. moved to Norfolk to work at the shipyard and after Jesse went away. He run off one night and we didn’t see him again for thirty years.

  ’Cause you turned, I say to him. It wasn’t safe no more for him in Monongah. He had to hit the road. He had to light out for the territory. I asked him was he an outlaw in those days. He said, Buddy I was whatever I had to be. Claudine the girl who turned him the one he run off with got dusted somewhere along the way and he’s been sad ever since.

  In Monongah the world kept turning as Mama would say. Daddy got blown up in the explosion at the mine. J.P. broke his neck falling off a destroyer he was building. Aunt Beulah ate a bad mushroom and her liver quit. In the end only me and Mama was left. When she got sick she sent for Jesse. Turned out she knew all along where to write him. I asked why she was calling him home. I said, I can keep looking after you. I don’t doubt that hon, she said, but who’s gonna look after you?

  It snowed the day she died and for a week after. The gravedigger said he got blisters on blisters planting her in the frozen ground. Jesse bought her a new dress to be buried in and a casket with white silk lining. I didn’t tell nobody he was back. Only me and Cousin Ray knew. Jesse said he’d give Ray the house for holding the funeral and keeping his mouth shut. If you give him the house where’m I gonna live? I asked Jesse. He told me not to worry.

  The next night he sat me at the kitchen table and said he was leaving again but this time taking me with him. I asked where we was going. Out West, he said. Where the buffalo roam. I asked him could I get a horse because I didn’t know nothing then. I hadn’t been anywhere or seen anything. That’s why he was able to trick me like he did.

  He made a cut on his arm and told me to drink the blood that come up. Said it was a ceremony we had to do before we left. Like when you was baptized, he said. Mama made pancakes when I got baptized. That’s what I was thinking while I did what he asked: Maybe I’ll get pancakes. I put my mouth to the cut and drank the blood never guessing my ow
n brother was fucking me.

  Because that’s how the Little Devil snuck inside. He hid in a bubble and I swallowed him down with the blood. A week later he started whispering in a voice so soft I first thought it was my own mind. Every day he got louder until finally he was howling so I couldn’t hear myself think and thrashing about like a salted slug. Feed Me You Sonofabitch You Cocksucker You Fool. And I been grappling with him ever since.

  I feel better after looking at the pictures. I can see Mama again hear her laughing at my foolishness. I tell Jesse we should get a camera. What for? he asks. I tell him to make pictures to remember things. There’s nothing worth remembering, he says. All right, I say, how about a CB radio? He puts the album back in his grip. We don’t have any use for a CB radio either, he says. Firecrackers then, I say, for Fourth of July. How about that? That’s all I need, he says, for you to blow your fingers off.

  I try not to hold against him what he did to me. I understand it’s the only way we could stay together and I understand that’s what Mama wanted. But if I knew in the kitchen in Monongah what I know now that I’d be at the beck and call of a blood-sucking monster till the ocean dries up and the sun falls out of the sky I’da taken that knife and cut Jesse’s heart out right there. That’s a sin even to think but a small one considering.

  7

  June 27, 1976, Near Truckee, California

  OVER THE LAST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS THE SCAB OF CIVILIZATION has been torn away and the rot that festers beneath revealed to me. I learned there are monsters that pass as men and that the night nurtures unspeakable crimes, and my own hands have been stained with blood. You’ll think I’ve gone crazy as you read what I’m about to set down—I’m having trouble believing it myself—but Wanda, baby, every word is true.

  I spent yesterday morning parked on Virginia, Reno’s main drag, a street lined with casinos and souvenir shops. Hungover tourists glanced at the poster and the photos of Benny, but none took me seriously. Neither did the street preacher who thrust his sweaty Bible into the air, laid a hand on my shoulder, and bellowed a prayer before asking for a donation.