by Dale Herd
Jack lay down on his side. He was really, really tired. His foot really ached.
He wondered who it was that had lived in this house. The woods were thick right at the doorstep. It wasn’t what was called a shotgun shack, one room with two doors, the front and back, so small that you could shoot a shotgun straight through it and not hit anything inside. There was still a faint dusty smell of kerosene, or was it coal oil? It had three rooms, the kitchen, the larger room, and a small room that must have been where they all slept. Since it had a kitchen, probably there were women and children who lived here as well as men.
A night bird called from somewhere, and then another and, closing his eyes, there weren’t any mosquitoes, and in the morning when Jack woke he saw he hadn’t turned at all. He was still on his left side, his legs bent under him, but they were so cramped he had to pound his thighs with his fists before he could straighten them out. Then he found he couldn’t get his jeans on.
He took his pocketknife out and cut slits along the inseams, then slid his legs in.
He put his boots on and ate an apple and studied the map, seeing the road would take him almost into Meridian before veering off past the big highway into Jackson. He measured the distance he had come, it was already over a hundred miles, and then drank the last of his water and went outside with the bicycle and the duffel, finding a piece of shingle on the ground.
He broke it with his hands and went back inside, looking for a coat hanger or a bit of wire.
There wasn’t anything in the front room, and as he walked back into the kitchen he saw a gray-and-black rattlesnake silently moving along the base of the kicked-in cabinets under the sink. It wasn’t big, maybe a foot and a half in length, but thick and ugly.
Jack watched it for a moment.
It was going up into the cabinets.
He turned and went back outside. It wasn’t rational, but he didn’t want to fix the pedal now and, strapping the duffel onto the handlebars, he took the bike and pushed on out toward the road, going down the dirt track, watching carefully ahead into the grass at the side of the ruts. There hadn’t been any water in back in the well. The rusted pump handle hadn’t worked. He’d dropped a rock inside the well, but only a stone sound came back. The snake was only trying to do what he had to do: get more water.
This idea of bicycling the back roads to Arkansas was really dumb. If it were cooler, it wouldn’t be. Well, it wasn’t cooler. He’d wanted to see the South. He was seeing it, all right, going about it as stupidly as he possibly could.
Calm down, he told himself. Just calm down.
Back on the bike, the air still warm, the sky everywhere a soft blue, his legs warming up, he felt a lot better, his foot not hurting that much. He took out an apple and began to eat it, but within a few miles heat lines began to rise off the asphalt, hovering in the distance, and the sky began turning white.
It was already hill country now, and he began walking the bike up each hill, then getting on and coasting the down slopes, the front wheel of the bike going into a wobble that threatened to wreck the bearings, not seeing anything, just feeling the heat and his own sweat, hearing the tires making the swishing sound.
He knew if he stopped his legs would cramp, but he had one apple left and he could eat it and for a while he’d be okay.
If the bicycle itself lasted.
Well, let it wreck itself, he thought. To keep on with the bicycle would be even dumber. He knew he couldn’t take much more. He’d go until he heard a car coming, then he was going to quit and start hitchhiking again. He didn’t care who was coming down the road.
Then he heard a car coming and pulled over and got off and waited. He couldn’t see anything at first then saw a black car coming down around the curve of trees.
As it approached it slowed and went past, and then slowed again and began to stop, the taillights coming on, pulling over just below the next hill, dust coming up and powdering the car as it finally stopped and sat there, the engine pinging.
Heat lines shimmied off the hood.
Jack waited, holding on to the bike.
Behind the heat lines a large man in a white shirt and black slacks got out and stood by the door and called something out.
The man was hatless, and Jack called back, “Can’t hear you.”
He started wheeling the bike down toward the man. Half-shielded by the car door, there was something wrong about the man as he stood there waiting.
“What did you say?” Jack called, closer to the car now, the engine still making that pinging sound.
“Don’t make me say it again,” the man said, moving out from behind the car door.
“Say what again?”
“Ten bucks, boy.”
“Ten bucks?” Jack said, pushing the bike closer, seeing the man clearly now, a large man with gray hair combed sideways over a sweaty head, one brown eye that cast inward toward the nose, a silver crucifix dangling on a chain around a sweaty, double-chinned neck.
“Is that what you said? I thought you said something else.”
The man hesitated, “I said . . . I said I want to suck your cock.”
“You want to suck my cock?”
“Twenty dollars. I’ll give you twenty dollars.”
“Sure,” Jack said, dropping the bike, doubling up his fists, moving fast toward the car. “You can suck it after I bust your goddamn, cross-eyed face!”
The man’s eyes blinked and his face twisted and he turned and bolted, hurrying himself to get back in the car, hitting into the door, the door not closing, grinding the starter after the engine caught, crashing the gears, the door closing, a stream of dirty blue smoke spreading from under the bumper as the car U-turned and sped off back the way it came.
Jack watched it go.
Cicadas were whirring from everywhere in the woods.
It was weird that he hadn’t noticed them before.
Jesus Christ, Jack thought, it’s so goddamn hot. This fucking heat is going to kill me.
Walking back to the bike, he picked it up.
The droning mixed with the heat was starting to make him feel sick.
Slowly, he got back on the bike, starting to pedal up the long, gradual slope of the hill, every several seconds thinking, How much farther can I go, and, halfway up, had to get off and walk, unable to pump any longer.
He took out the apple, eating all of it, sucking on the seeds to keep moisture in his mouth, thinking I’ll sit and rest, but there was no shade anywhere save off in the tangled thickets under the thousands of motionless trees.
Cicadas were whirring from everywhere.
No way was he going in there.
No other cars passed him at all, either coming or going.
All that existed was heat, the road, the thousands of trees, the thickets, the cicadas, the seeds in his mouth gone dry. He spat them out and just walked in the layers of heat, his body drenched in sweat.
He would need water soon.
He reached the top of the slope and got back on the bike and began coasting downhill, not braking, letting the bike go, the front wheel starting into its wobble, threatening to fly off as he hit the flat where he began furiously pedaling again to reach as much speed as he could to gain height onto this next hill coming up before getting off and walking again.
Funny how it was water you wanted. Nothing else.
He attacked three hills before he quit.
Going down this last long dry grade in the now crackling heat, the trees rushing by, he knew his legs were finished. There was no way he could turn around. He’d gone too far to go back. He’d just push the bike off to the side and just keep walking, but then it was easier to let the bike carry the duffel. What did he need the duffel for anyway? What was it carrying? Two T-shirts, a jacket, some socks, underwear, the map, the empty water bottle, some raisins?
The raisins. He’d forgotten about the raisins.
Jack stopped and took the duffel off, unclipping the snap from the brass eyelet, the meta
l singeing his fingers. He found the raisins and unwrapped them, the raisins half-melted together.
He heard another car coming and, looking up, saw a narrow red clay road going up into the woods and then a black-and-orange pickup truck appearing through some trees and then vanishing again, the engine growing louder all the time.
After a moment it came out along the road and turned onto the highway.
He stuck his thumb out.
It went by, dusty-looking, three white men inside.
He ate the raisins and picked up the bike again, strapping the duffel back on.
Jack walked along, wheeling the bike.
Around the curve was another hill.
Okay, he thought, this is it, the very last one. I’ll do it. Walk up, coast the slope, then dump the bike. No one will pick me up if I have the bike.
Goddamn, Jack thought, I’m goddamn burning to death!
There were millions of cicadas sawing away as he walked. He didn’t remember hearing them before. Of course he’d heard them before, heard that one long constant, unrelenting, endless drone. It was the heat. The goddamn heat was screwing up his head. His skin was burning. Now that he was listening he thought there were so many of them that the trees would begin lifting off the ground. He wiped his face. What was that thought? That their wings would lift up the trees?
Whose thoughts are these? he thought. Are these even your own thoughts? These aren’t even your own thoughts. Just dump the bike.
Why don’t you?
Jack kept moving, sweat dripping off his face, pacing slowly along the trees, not looking at anything.
Just before the crest of the hill, where the trees came in over the road, he saw another diamondback, this one run over just before it had reached the centerline, dead, crushed just behind the head, blood puddled out on the asphalt.
He stopped and looked, the unrelenting droning of the cicadas going on.
The rattler was over four feet long, thick as a forearm, all gray and black, deadly looking, bits of mangled pinkish flesh sticking out from under the thin layer of yellowish top skin over the pattern of diamonds.
That pickup must have got him. That orange-and-black pickup. He’s on this side of the road. He must have just come out of the woods. Two bottle flies were walking in the blood by the head, their bodies iridescent green. The snake’s eyes were brightly dark under the hood. The blood was still wet.
Jack was afraid to touch him.
The ride you didn’t get, he thought.
What makes you think it’s a him?
Good Christ, he thought, listen to yourself.
You need water, he thought. You really, really need water.
Jack turned and began pushing the bike again. It hurt now to step on his right foot. His mouth was chalky, his tongue fat and stuck against the roof of his mouth. He never should have kept those seeds. Maybe it was the raisins. He really wanted to drink. He’d drink anything that was wet. It didn’t have to be water.
Listen to that, he thought. You’ve got to get some water.
He reached the crest and got on the bicycle, looking far down the slope, seeing that even in this heat how beautiful the woods looked, the dark road curving out of view around the trees on the right, and then he pushed off only to find he couldn’t put any kind of pressure on his foot.
He began pedaling with his left leg only, holding his right leg out free from the turning crank.
The slope was gradual in descent, and he slowly picked up speed, and though hot, there was wind, the flow of it over his face and neck a relief, the speed picking up, and then down and around the long curve he went, almost leaning over, the road plunging now into a long straight toward the floor of what was a little valley with the front wheel gone into its furious wobble and the treed landscape rushing by, and suddenly he felt good and thought, Hell, one more hill. I can do that. I’ll do just one more.
The flat was like the bottom curve of a large round bowl and, though the woods ran close on the left, on the right lay a long yellowing field of waist-high weeds and grasses that ran half a hundred yards back to a small, empty-looking, bare boarded house with a shaded front porch up on blocks set back against a hillside heavy with trees.
Two small black children came running out from the house and, just as Jack reached the flat, began racing through the tall weeds toward the road. They were waving their arms, yelling as they came, two little whips of a black boy and girl, their shirts a royal blue, their shouts lost in the wind.
Going as fast as he’d ever gone, the front wheel shaking, taking him almost out of control, flying past the kids, Jack began pedaling again, not feeling any pain at all, pushing himself even harder. Let’s see how far you can go, he thought. You can go farther, maybe you’re not done at all.
Going past the end of the field, heading up the grade, the bike already slowing, the front wheel no longer wobbling, Jack continued hard, gaining more distance, then his left leg seized up, a knifing pain burning down his thigh right through the knee and into his foot. He tried to pedal once more, and again the pain seared through him, and he totally and completely quit. He just couldn’t do it. That was it. He was completely done. It was over.
The bike slowed, Jack letting it, and then slowly stopped, the droning of the cicadas just maniacal, sweat pouring off him.
Looking back around, he saw the children standing halfway up the slope to the road, silently looking at him.
Okay, he thought, and slowly got off, and turned with the bike and walked back toward them, thinking maybe they have some water in the house. If I can get some water and take a rest I can go on with the bike.
The children were motionless as Jack approached, the boy standing in the weeds slightly in front of the girl, both thin as string, skin so pure a black that in the direct sunlight it had a gunmetal, bluish sheen, with close-cropped heads that seemed too large for their bodies.
“Hello,” Jack said.
They didn’t answer, their large dark eyes completely watching him.
“Do you know where I can get a drink of water?”
Suddenly the boy dipped his head, turned, and then both of them began running flat out through the tall grasses back toward the house.
Jack watched them go, both moving fast across the field.
Just a stride ahead of the girl, the boy reached the house and was up the steps and inside, the little girl following.
The dirt track from the road up to the house looked as if only people walking had made it. Jack didn’t know what to do. The narrow porch fronting the house was dark and empty.
He stood still, holding on to the bike.
Save for the cicadas, everything was silent. Then a woman came out onto the porch. She was a very big black woman, as big as a big man, in a brilliant maroon housedress, a red bandanna capping her head. She stopped at the top of the steps and stared out at Jack. Then the little boy stepped out, his arm raised and pointing, excitedly talking, looking back into the shadowed doorway.
Then more women came out: one, two, three, four of them, each nearly as large as the big woman, each deeply black, each wearing a different colored bandanna tied about her head, each in a differently colored floral-print dress: turquoise, purple, green, yellow . . .
Then the big woman waved, motioning Jack to come to them, all the women staring out at him.
Jack got back on the bike and pushed off, coasting back down the road to the dirt track, then turned in and bumped down the slope and let go, letting the bike fall into the weeds, unstrapping the duffel from the handlebars.
He counted five women as he walked with the duffel toward the house, along with the little boy and now the little girl appearing again. Then three other women came out on the porch: the first two small and thin, the third one tall and light-skinned, each dressed in bright floral-print housedresses, each in a head scarf of a brilliant blue or red or black, all eight of them standing there with the children, watching as he approached up the path.
The big w
oman wore tennis shoes; all the others were barefoot. The thinnest one had her hands on the little girl’s shoulders, an older woman. The big woman had the boy, holding his narrow arm by the bicep, the boy gone silent now, his eyes wide as he watched Jack.
Jack reached the steps and stopped, tiny dark spots floating across his eyes.
He and the big woman looked at each other for a moment. She had a strong, broad face with smooth, rounded-looking cheekbones, a wide, flat nose, and almost black, impossible to read eyes.
Jack suddenly felt dizzy.
“Hello,” she said.
“Hello,” Jack answered, glancing at the boy, then back at her. “Could I trouble you for a drink of water?
“I’m very thirsty.”
“Of course, child,” the big woman said. “C’mon up here,” and she turned to the woman that held the little girl and said, “Momma.”
This woman turned and went inside the doorway.
“May the children look at your bicycle?”
The boy’s eyes were moving on Jack’s eyes, the big woman still holding him close.
“Sure,” Jack said, wiping his face, trying to clear his vision. “They can have it.”
The little boy’s eyes went wider, his face turning to the big woman for confirmation.
‘“They can have it?’”
“It’s yours,” he said to the boy. “Yours and your sister’s.”
“Oh, hallelujah!” the big woman said, letting the boy go, and down the steps he flew, his sister right behind him, racing out past Jack, the little girl yelling, “Me first. Me first!”
“Oh, praise Jesus!” the big woman said, “Oh, thank you, Jesus!
“You mean it?” she said, looking down at Jack.
“Absolutely,” Jack said. “I’m finished. I can’t pedal it any farther.”
“Oh, Jesus be praised!” she said, and suddenly all the other women began echoing her. “Oh, Jesus be praised! Oh, Jesus be praised!” Each saying over and over, “Oh, thank you, Jesus! Oh, Jesus be praised! Oh, dear sweet Jesus! Oh, thank you, Jesus . . .”
