by Jack Cady
A roadside cafe hunkered among tall trees. It didn’t even have a neon sign. Real old-fashioned.
“I heard of this place all my life,” Jesse said as he climbed from the Linc. “This here is the only outhouse in the world with a guest registry.” He headed toward the rear of the cafe.
I tailed along, and Jesse, he was right. It was a palatial privvy built like a little cottage. The men’s side was a three-holer. There was enough room for a standup desk. On the desk was one of those old-fashioned business ledgers like you used to see in banks.
“They’re supposed to have a slew of these inside,” Jesse said about the register as he flipped pages. “All the way back to the early days.”
Some spirit of politeness seemed to take over when you picked up that register. There was hardly any bad talk. I read a few entries:
ON THIS SITE, MAY 16TH, 1971,
JAMES JOHN JOHNSON (JOHN-JOHN)
CUSSED HELL OUT OF HIS TRUCK.
I CAME, I SAW, I KINDA LIKED IT.
—BILL SAMUELS, TULSA
THIS PLACE DOES KNOW SQUAT.
—PAULEY SMITH, OGDEN
THIS SOUTH DAKOTA AIN’T SO BAD,
BUT I SURE GOT THE BLUES,
I’M WORKING IN TACOMA,
’CAUSE MY KIDS ALL NEED NEW SHOES.
—SAD GEORGE
Brother Jesse flipped through the pages. “I’m even told,” he said, “that Teddy Roosevelt crapped here. This is a fine old place.” He sort of hummed as he flipped. “Uh, huh,” he said, “The Dog done made his pee spot.” He pointed to a page:
ROAD DOG
RUN AND RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN
YOU CAN’T CATCH ME, I’M THE GINGERBREAD MAN.
Jesse just grinned. “He’s sorta upping the ante, ain’t he. You reckon this is getting serious?” Jesse acted like he knew what he was talking about, but I sure didn’t.
II
We didn’t know, as we headed home, that Jesse’s graveyard business was about to take off. That wouldn’t change him, though. He’d almost always had a hundred dollars in his jeans anyway, and was usually a happy man. What changed him was Road Dog and Miss Molly.
The trouble started a while after we crossed the Montana line. Jesse ran ahead in the Lincoln, and I tagged behind in my Desoto. We drove highway 2 into a western sunset. It was one of those magic summers where rain sweeps in from British Columbia just regular enough to keep things growing. Rabbits get fat and foolish, and foxes put on weight. Rattlesnakes come out of ditches to cross the sun-hot road. It’s not sporting to run over their middles. You have to take them in the head. Redwings perch on fenceposts, and magpies flash black and white from the berm where they scavenge road kills.
We saw a hell of a wreck just after Wolf Point. A guy in an old Kaiser came over the back of a rise and ran under a tanker truck that burned. Smoke rose black as a plume of crows, and we saw it five miles away. By the time we got there the truck driver stood in the middle of the road all white and shaking. The guy in the Kaiser sat behind the wheel. It was fearful to see how fast fire can work, and just terrifying to see bones hanging over a steering wheel. I remember thinking the guy no doubt died before any fire started, and we were feeling more than he was.
That didn’t help. I said a prayer under my breath. The truck driver wasn’t to blame, but he took it hard as a Presbyterian. Jesse tried to comfort him without much luck. The road melted and stank and began to burn. Nobody was drinking, but it was certain-sure we were all more sober than we’d ever been in our lives. Two deputies showed up. Cars drifted in easy, because of the smoke. In a couple of hours there were probably twenty cars lined up on either side of the wreck.
“He must have been asleep or drunk,” Jesse said about the driver of the Kaiser. “How in hell can a man run under a tanker truck?”
When the cops reopened the road, night hovered over the plains. Nobody cared to run much over sixty, even beneath a bright moon. It seemed like a night to be superstitious; a night when there was a deer or pronghorn out there just ready to jump into your headlights. It wasn’t a good night to drink, or shoot pool, or mess around in strange bars. It was a time for being home with your woman, if you had one.
On most nights ghosts do not show up beside the metal crosses, and they sure don’t show up in owl light. Ghosts stand out on the darkest, moonless nights, and only then when bars are closed and the only thing open is the road.
I never gave it a thought. I chased Jesse’s taillights, which on that Lincoln were broad up-and-down slashes in the dark. Chip sat beside me, sad and solemn. I rubbed his ears to perk him, but he just laid down and snuffled. Chip was sensitive. He knew I felt bad over that wreck.
The first ghost showed up on the left berm and fizzled before the headlights. It was a lady ghost, and a pretty old one judging from her long white hair and long white dress. She flicked on and off in just a flash, so maybe it was a road dream. Chip was so depressed he didn’t even notice, and Jesse didn’t either. His steering and his brakes didn’t wave to me.
Everything stayed straight for another ten miles, then a whole peck of ghosts stood on the right berm. A bundle of crosses shone all silvery-white in the headlights. The ghosts melted into each other. You couldn’t tell how many, but you could tell they were expectant. They looked like people lined up for a picture show. Jesse never gave a sign he saw them. I told myself to get straight. We hadn’t had much sleep in the past two nights, and did some drinking the night before. We’d rolled near two thousand miles.
Admonishing seemed to work. Another twenty minutes passed, maybe thirty, and nothing happened. Wind chased through the open windows of the Desoto, and the radio gave mostly static. I kicked off my boots because that helps you stay awake; the bottoms of the feet being sensitive. Then a single ghost showed up on the right hand berm, and boy-howdy.
Why anybody would laugh while being dead has got to be a puzzle. This ghost was tall with Indian hair like Jesse’s, and I could swear he looked like Jesse, the spitting image. This ghost was jolly. He clapped his hands and danced. Then he gave me the old road sign for ‘roll ’em’; his hand circling in the air as he danced. The headlights penetrated him, showed tall grass solid at the roadside, and instead of legs he stood on a column of mist. Still, he was dancing.
It wasn’t road dreams. It was hallucination. The nighttime road just fills with things seen or partly seen. When too much scary stuff happens, it’s time to pull her over.
I couldn’t do it, though. Suppose I pulled over, and suppose it wasn’t hallucination? I recall thinking that a man don’t ordinarily care for preachers until he needs one. It seemed like me and Jesse were riding through the Book of Revelations. I dropped my speed, then flicked my lights a couple times. Jesse paid it no attention, and then Chip got peculiar.
He didn’t bark, he chirped. He stood up on the front seat, looking out the back window, and his paws trembled. He shivered, chirped, shivered, and went chirp, chirp, chirp. Headlights in back of us were closing fast.
I’ve been closed on plenty of times by guys looking for a ditch. Headlights have jumped out of night and fog and mist when nobody should be pushing forty. I’ve been overtaken by drunks and suiciders. No set of headlights ever came as fast as the ones that began to wink in the mirrors. This highway 2 is a quick, quick road, but it’s not the salt flats of Utah. The crazy man behind me was trying to set a new land speed record.
Never confuse an idiot. I stayed off the brakes and coasted, taking off speed and signaling my way onto the berm. The racer could have my share of the road. I didn’t want any part of that boy’s troubles. Jesse kept pulling away as I slowed. It seemed like he didn’t even see the lights. Chip chirped, then sort of rolled down on the floorboards and cried.
For ninety seconds I feared being dead. For one second I figured it already happened. Wind banged the Desoto sideways. Wind whooped, the way it does in winter. The headlights blew past. What showed was the curve of a Hudson fender—the kind of curve you’d recognize if yo
u’d been dead a million years—and what showed was the little squinchy shapes of a Hudson’s taillights; and what showed was the slanty door post like a nail running kitty corner; and what showed was slivers of reflection from cracked glass on the rider’s side; and what sounded was the drumbeat of a straight eight engine wanging like a locomotive gone wild; the thrump, bumpa, thrum of a crankshaft whipping in its bed. The slaunch-forward form of Miss Molly wailed, and showers of sparks blew from the tailpipe as Miss Molly rocketed.
Chip was not the only one howling. My voice rose high as the howl of Miss Molly. We all sang it out together, while Jesse cruised three, maybe four miles ahead. It wasn’t two minutes before Miss Molly swept past that Linc like it was foundationed in cement. Sparks showered like the 4th of July, and Jesse’s brake lights looked pale beside the fireworks. The Linc staggered against wind as Jesse headed for the berm. Wind smashed against my Desoto.
Miss Molly’s taillights danced as she did a jig up the road, and then they winked into darkness as Miss Molly topped a rise, or disappeared. The night went darker than dark. A cloud scudded out of nowhere and blocked the moon.
Alongside the road the dancing ghost showed up in my headlights, and I could swear it was Jesse. He laughed like at a good joke, but he gave the old road sign for ‘slow it down’; his hand palm down like he’s patting an invisible pup. It seemed sound advice, and I blamed near liked him. After Miss Molly, a happy ghost seemed downright companionable.
“Shitfire,” said Jesse, and that’s all he said for the first five minutes after I pulled in behind him. I climbed from the Desoto and walked to the Linc. Old Potato dog sprawled on the seat in a dead faint, and Jesse rubbed his ears trying to warm him back to consciousness. Jesse sat over the wheel like a man who has just met Jesus. His hand touched gentle on Potato’s ears, and his voice sounded reverent. Brother Jesse’s conversion wasn’t going to last, but at the time it was just beautiful. He had the lights of salvation in his eyes, and his skinny shoulders weren’t shaking too much. “I miss my c’har,” he muttered finally, and blinked. He wasn’t going to cry if he could help. “She’s trying to tell me something,” he whispered. “Let’s find a bar. Miss Molly’s in car heaven, certain sure.”
We pulled away, found a bar, and parked. We drank some beer and slept across the car seats. Nobody wanted to go back on that road.
═
When we woke to a morning hot and clear, Potato’s fur had turned white. It didn’t seem to bother him much, but for the rest of his life he was a lot more thoughtful.
“Looks like mashed Potato,” Jesse said, but he wasn’t talking a whole lot. We drove home like a couple of old ladies. Guys came scorching past, cussing at our granny-speed. We figured they could get mad and stay mad, or get mad and get over it. We made it back to Jesse’s place about 2 in the afternoon.
A couple of things happened quick. Jesse parked beside his house trailer, and the front end fell out of the Lincoln. The right side went down, thump, and the right front tire sagged. Jesse turned even whiter than me, and I was bloodless. We had posted over a hundred miles an hour in that thing. Somehow, when we crawled around underneath inspecting it, we missed something. My shoulders and legs shook so hard I could barely get out of the Desoto. Chip was polite. He just yelped with happiness about being home, but he didn’t trot across my lap as we climbed from the car.
Nobody could trust their legs. Jesse climbed out of the Linc and leaned against it. You could see him chewing over all the possibilities, then arriving at the only one that made sense. Some hammer mechanic bolted that front end together with no lock nut, no cotter pin, no lock washer, no lock-nothin’. He just wrenched down a plain old nut, and the nut worked loose.
“Miss Molly knew,” Jesse whispered. “That’s what she was trying to tell.” He felt a lot better the minute he said it. Color came back to his face. He peered around the corner of the house trailer, looking toward Miss Molly’s grave.
Mike Tarbush was over there with his ’48 Roadmaster. Matt Simons stood beside him, and Matt’s ’56 Dodge sat beside the Roadmaster looking smug; which that model Dodge always did.
“I figger,” Brother Jesse whispered, “that we should keep shut about last night. Word would just get around that we were alkies.” He pulled himself together, arranged his face like a horse trying to grin, and walked toward the Roadmaster.
Mike Tarbush was a man in mourning. He sat on the fat trunk of that Buick and gazed off toward the mountains. Mike wore extra-large of everything, and still looked stout. He sported a thick red mustache to make up for his bald head. From time to time he bragged about his criminal record which amounted to three days in jail for assaulting a pool table. He threw it through a bar window.
Now his mustache drooped, and Mike seemed small inside his clothes. The hood of the Roadmaster gaped open. Under that hood things couldn’t be worse. The poor thing had thrown a rod into the next county.
Jesse looked under the hood and tsked. “I know what you’re going through,” he said to Mike. He kind of petted the Roadmaster. “I always figured Betty Lou would last a century. What happened?”
There’s no call to tell about a grown man blubbering, and especially not one who can heave pool tables. Mike finally got straight enough to tell the story.
“We was chasing The Dog,” he said. “At least I think so. Three nights ago over to Kalispell. This Golden Hawk blew past me sittin’.” Mike watched the distant mountains like he’d seen a miracle, or else like he was expecting one to happen. “That sonovabitch shore can drive,” he whispered in disbelief. “Blown out by a dam’ Studebaker.”
“But a very swift Studebaker,” Matt Simons said. Matt is as small as Mike is large, and Matt is educated. Even so, he’s set his share of fenceposts. He looks like an algebra teacher, but not as delicate.
“Betty Lou went on up past her flat spot,” Mike whispered. “She was tryin’. We had ninety on the clock, and The Dog left us sitting.” He patted the Roadmaster. “I reckon she died of a broken heart.”
“We got three kinds of funerals,” Jesse said, and he was sympathetic. “We got the no-frills type, the regular-type, and the extra-special. The extra-special comes with flowers.” He said it with a straight face, and Mike took it that way. He bought the extra-special, and that was sixty-five dollars.
Mike put up a nice marker:
1948–1961
ROADMASTER TWO-DOOR—BETTY LOU
GONE TO GLORY WHILE CHASING THE DOG
SHE WAS THE BEST FRIEND OF MIKE TARBUSH
═
Brother Jesse worked on the Lincoln until the front end tracked rock solid. He named it Sue Ellen, but not Miss Sue Ellen, there being no way to know if Miss Molly was jealous. When we examined Miss Molly’s grave the soil seemed rumpled. Wildflowers, that Jesse sowed on the grave, bloomed in midsummer. I couldn’t get it out of my head that Miss Molly was still alive, and maybe Jesse couldn’t either.
Jesse explained about the Lincoln’s name. “Sue Ellen is a lady I knew in Pocatello. I expect she misses me.” He said it hopeful, like he didn’t really believe it.
It looked to me like Jesse was brooding. Night usually found him in town, but sometimes he disappeared. When he was around he drove real calm and always got home before midnight. The wildness hadn’t come out of Jesse, but he had it on a tight rein. He claimed he dreamed of Miss Molly. Jesse was working something out.
And so was I, awake or dreaming. Thoughts of the Road Dog filled my nights, and so did thoughts of the dancing ghost. As summer deepened, restlessness took me wailing under moonlight. The road unreeled before my headlights like a magic line that pointed to places under a warm sun where ladies laughed and fell in love. Something went wrong, though. During that summer the ladies stopped being dreams and became only imagination. When I told Jesse, he claimed I was just growing up. I wished for once Jesse was wrong. I wished for a lot of things, and one of the wishes came true. It was Mike Tarbush, not me, who got in the next tangle with Miss Molly.
Mike rode in from Billings where he’d been car shopping. He showed up at Jesse’s place on Sunday afternoon. Montana lay restful. Birds hunkered on wires, or called from high grass. Highway 2 ran watery with sunlight, deserted as a road ever could be. When Mike rolled a ’56 Merc up beside the Linc it looked like old home week at a Ford dealership.
“I got to look at something,” Mike said when he climbed from the Mercury. He sort of plodded over to Miss Molly’s grave and hovered. Light breezes blew the wildflowers sideways. Mike looked like a bear trying to shake confusion from its head. He walked to the Roadmaster’s grave. New grass sprouted reddish-green. “I was sober,” Mike said. “Most Saturday nights, maybe I ain’t, but I was sober as a deputy.”
For a while nobody said anything. Potato sat glowing and white and thoughtful. Chip slept in the sun beside one of the tabbies. Then Chip woke up. He turned around three times and dashed to hide under the bulldozer.
“Now tell me I ain’t crazy,” Mike said. He perched on the front fender of the Merc, which was blue and white and adventuresome. “Name of Judith,” he said about the Merc. “A real lady.” He swabbed sweat from his bald head. “I got blown out by Betty Lou and Miss Molly. That sound reasonable?” He swabbed some more sweat, and looked at the graves which stood like little speed bumps on the prairie. “Nope,” he answered himself, “that don’t sound reasonable a-tall.”
“Something’s wrong with your Mercury,” Jesse said, real quiet. “You got a bad tire, or a hydraulic line about to blow, or something screwy in the steering.”
He made Mike swear not to breathe a word. Then he told about Miss Molly and about the front end of the Lincoln. When the story got over, Mike looked like a halfback hit by a twelve man line.
“Don’t drive another inch,” Jesse said. “Not until we find what’s wrong.”
