The next day the ocean was still not outside. The salt smell that he recognized, now, by its absence, was still absent. The day was hot in a way different from the summer heat of the shore.
They drove all day. By nightfall the land had flattened and another Quali-Tel took them in. This one smelled of pine oil too. Here, the outer people flowed in dark waves across the ceiling, hardly bothering to lean down and reach for him. Almost not at all. He was asleep within an hour.
By the third day they drove through land that was sometimes flat, sometimes not, they passed over cities that spread on all sides of the expressway and vanished into gray haze.
Back in the country, hills popped up on the horizon. They left the expressway at 1:38 by the boy’s wristwatch. Soon the car rode narrow roads among strange small mountains. Mother didn't say where they were going. He didn't ask. She looked worried, he didn't want to add.
Later, the rattle in the engine was worse.
The sign by the side road said “Bluffton” and had some numbers below that. 671. Mother pointed the car down the hill toward the river they'd crisscrossed for the past fifty miles. The boy tensed. That bridge. There were things there, things in the shadows, things across the river and in the woods, he knew, not just outers, but others.
It was okay, though. They were going through, not stopping.
The knocking in the engine grew louder. The front end of the car blossomed into streaming steam.
“Keep going, mother,” he said.
She tried. Steam streamed past, the windshield became spittled with rust-red drops that flowed upward. The knocking stopped and the steam billowed slowly upward. In the last few rolling feet, the woman pointed the car blindly toward the side of the road.
They sat in silence, mother and boy. He didn't move, didn't look back toward the old iron bridge. “Better have a look, huh?” his mother said and uncurled her fingers from the wheel.
When she popped the hood, steam wrapped them then cleared. The engine smelled of hot rubber and wet oil, everything was damp with condensing steam and crusted with black age and road dirt. It ticked heat. To him it looked stubborn, impossible.
On one side of the street where they had come to rest, a row of two and three story wood-frame houses led downhill toward a town. On the hill above the houses, were more houses. Finally, trees and slope became a rocky cliff that rose over everything.
On the other side, the road sloped to a tree-lined bank that dropped to the river. Across the stream, another bluff rose. The bluff was steeper on the far side of the river.
The boy took it all in.
Things moved among the trees, under the rocks, within the forested floor of earth. The boy took that in, too. His mother did not. Here, things hid, peered, whispered.
“No traffic at least,” mother said. “Ever see a town with no traffic at, what?”
“Four-forty,” he said without looking.
“Four-forty in the afternoon? No people. No anything, period.”
He shook his head.
She looked back into the engine. “I don't know, hon. It's not working.”
He nodded. The engine quivered, ticked, exhaled. A tail uncurled from beneath a pipe, a narrow mouth yawned near the radiator, its tongue slurped dried moths. Mother didn’t notice.
She looked both ways then at him. “We walk downtown and see what’s what. Want to do that?”
He looked and didn’t nod.
“I think…” she looked around again, “I think the car'll be alright here. We're almost off the road. It'll be okay until somebody can come look.”
He nodded.
She took her bag from the back, her jacket, and they headed toward town.
Here it was: school was over, summer was now official. In the shade by the trees, near the big rocks, in this little town a million miles from the ocean, piles of dirty snow remained; a bit of winter endured. Snow in May. Imagine! Where the heck were they?
They walked two blocks to the intersection. To their left, the town stretched out long-wise. Wasn't much. There were people. That was a relief. They hadn't driven into some movie story with them the only people left in all the world. This was just a very quiet little town. Bluffton. Bluffton, Somewhere. Somewhere far from the ocean.
To the right, the roadway sloped toward the river. The sidewalk was raised. There were a few shops in a row along a covered wooden boardwalk. Nice. The last building in the row of shops, and separate from them, was a restaurant. The sign said “American House—Eats.”
Then the block ended. Beyond was an open space and past that, a barn surrounded by a parking lot. “Compass Players,” the sign at the barn said. Beyond, was the river, across the river, trees, the far cliff.
“Don't see a gas station or garage. But there has to be. Really just has to. Right?” She squeezed his hand a little.
He couldn't say.
Snugged in their booth, the American House—Eats felt okay. Except for the Whatever it was in the kitchen, the boy didn't see anything wrong with the place. The people were mostly just people. He peeked under the table. His feet. His mothers. That was all.
As they waited, mother wrote numbers on the back of an envelope. Since daddy, she’d lived in arithmetic. After a few minutes she sighed and folded the envelope into her checkbook. She looked at her son. “I just don't know how much the car'll be, fixing it. So there's no point in worrying, is there!
He had waited, patient, time passing.
She smiled. “We're going to be okay. No, we are okay.”
The woman who brought the food was tall and old, her hair was gray and black in streaks and she'd pulled it into a tail that hung below her neck. She wore a white cap and a pink plaid uniform, pants and shirt. Her hands were muscles, veins, and knucklebones. She smiled and told them there they were.
“Here you are,” she said. She brought soup for two.
“Oh, I'm sorry,” mother said. “I was having the chowder. And just me...”
The woman smiled at the boy. “You're not sorry, honey. Not as much as if you'd had the chowder.” She winked at the boy. “I make it and I wouldn't eat it. No sir, wouldn't feed Midwest chowder to nobody with Jersey plates. And anyway, burger and spud fries is no meal for a boy growing. He needs balance, ain't?”
The boy looked. The soup was thick, the scent, rich. It was the source of the something-else in the air.
Mother went gape-mouthed and squinty. “How do you know? Jersey?”
“You're the couple,” she called them a couple and the boy hung his head, “with the broke down car up on Slaughterhouse, ain't you?” she said.
Mother gulped. “Yes.”
“Well, I figured anybody from back east – I’m from Philly, by the way,” she wiped and stuck out her hand to be shaken, “name is Esther – would NOT want a clam stewed this close to the Mississippi.” She gave her hand to the boy.
He took it. It was dry, hard and strong.
“Same for bagels.” She made a face. “Never ate a bagel west of Harrisburg, PA, myself.” Then a big smile. “Pies we do good!” She looked at the boy. “I'm going to recommend the apple. It's good, hot, and conservative. Mostly local product, ‘cept the cinnamon. You'll like it.”
Mother readied up to shake her head no. Numbers blinked behind her eyes, clicked the roof of her mouth.
“Forget it. Like they say in Philly, 'first taste's on the house!'“ Esther's laugh ended in a little snore. “You'll like that vegi-table soup, hon, it's got the morel in it. Morel's a local 'shroom. Leslie's own patch. You'll love it. I'll let you to your food, now.” She turned away and half turned back. “Oh, you want me to have Einar look at your car? Can't leave a ve-hicle in the middle of the street half a day and a night. Not even in Bluffton.”
Mother nodded.
The old woman winked at the boy again. “That's wise. Vinnie Erikson'll be in here in a bit, looking for you. Vinnie's the town cop. His dad's county sheriff so the boy gets serious about it all.”
Then
she was gone.
“Well,” mother said, “this is very interesting. Isn't it?” She smiled at the boy. “Eat,” she said.
The burger was good, the fries real. The ketchup was in an unmarked bottle and spicy; it was delicious and felt good in the mouth.
The soup? Oh, gosh, the soup was something. No matter what he'd been told, he slurped, vaporizing the broth so it made the most of the flavors that burst in and filled his mouth. When he got to the ‘shrooms,’ a thick layer in the bottom of the bowl, he chewed the coarse-cut things. They melted and slipped down his throat leaving taste as far as they went.
When he’d finished, he was embarrassed for himself. He’d been so intent he hadn't noticed Mother was slurping too. And he was embarrassed for her, slurping like that. Finally, she came up for air and looked at her son. “This is a real nice place, isn't it, hon?”
He was smiling, he could feel it in her look at him. He nodded.
“You like it?”
He nodded again.
“Huh,” she said, “can’t get you to eat soup at home,” and she was back to slurping.
The American House filled with other diners.
The oldest man in the world came in and sat in the booth by the door where they had almost sat. Blind and alone, the old man talked; talked and listened. Above him, on the other side of the pressed tin ceiling, the outers gathered. Every now and then, the boy heard one mutter.
A tall man and his daughter entered and took a table in the center of the room.
An old couple followed and took the booth behind them. They spoke a foreign language, their voices quiet but energetic. They rocked the seat against his mother's back.
Mother smiled. “Swedish. Or Scandinavian!” she mouthed the words.
A dark woman entered and the boy caught a scent of earth, sweat, and growing things. Those and other things. Her hair was almost hidden by a scarf with swirling colors but the boy could see it was dark and tied back. She had long legs and her cotton print skirt covered them to her ankles. On top she wore a black sleeveless tee-shirt.
She flopped two shopping bags onto the counter, leaned one elbow on the Formica, put one foot on the counter rail and waited until Esther came to speak with her.
Mother had finished her soup and half her salad when the front door cracked open and a small man with a grease-smeared face slipped in side-wise. His eyes hooked them instantly and he was shaking his head before he got to their booth.
“Pump’s shot,” he said.
“What,” Mother said, “Who?”
“Einar.” he said. His voice sounded like a scratched record. He wore a stink of gasoline and sweat and chewed without chewing anything.
“What?” mother said.
“Einar! From up what used to be the Amoco! Einar! Esther said you needed help. You do. Damn water pump's shot.” Like a magician, he demonstrated, one greasy hand moving over another. His fingers curled, made parts and pieces as he described the horror of the pump. He finished with, “and yer fan belt's got this much play.” He showed with his thumb and index finger. “Like I say, pump's shot and there we are, where I started.” He shook his head again then decided not to say what he was going to say. “Pump shouldn’ta been on the damn road, shot to shit like it is,” is what he opted for.
Esther approached wiping her hands, smiling.
“This is Einar,” she said. “He's from at the Formerly Amoco.”
“Formerly Amoco” Einar said.
Mother nodded. “We've met. I'm Ruth. Ruth Bear, but that's my married name.”
Einar chewed faster, shook his head. “Don't need to know your complications to put in a damn water pump, just whether you can pay.”
“Cripes, Einar,” Esther said, “I don't mind knowing the Mrs.”
“Ms. Roy,” mother said.
“Don’t mind knowing Mizz Roy is no longer a married woman!”
The boy stared at Einar. He was something else. He wasn't a bad thing, not one of the outer people, but he was something and not quite people.
“Now your car? I towed her outside, here,” Einar said. Figured you'd want her off Slaughterhouse. Yard trucks come through some time of night, early morning.”
“Yes,” mother said. “Thank you. I wouldn't want trouble from Officer Ellington.” She smiled.
“Erikson! Vinnie Erikson. And nope you wouldn't.” Einar said. “Wanna step out and I can show you, then? Let you know how much she's gonna run you, me gettin' her on the road again, there?”
“Can't you let me know here? I mean, looking at her, I won't know what I'm looking at.”
“For cripes sakes, Einar,” Esther said snapping her towel at the man, “quote the local rate. She's no 'terrorist.'“ Esther laughed. “What Bunch calls tourists. Terrorists!” she said.
“Esther, I tell you how you make your pies, I guess? I come by overseeing your service? What to charge? Let me be! I got rates and I got rates. And I gotta show her the engine when we talk rates, for cripes sake!”
The boy sat back in the seat. Mother looked at him. “Be okay for a bit, won't you?”
He nodded.
“I'll be right outside?”
He nodded.
“We'll take care of him,” Esther said. “Pie?” she said.
Well the pie! Excellent! Esther brought it to the boy while his mother and Einar and stared into the engine cavity.
The boy gently excavated slice after slice of apple from beneath the crust. He let the sweet tart fruit roll round in his mouth. He sucked cinnamon syrup, let it drain down his throat before biting slowly through each thick, tart, sweet, resisting piece of apple. He chewed each piece twenty-two slow times before he swallowed. Seventeen minutes and thirty-two seconds for one piece of pie. By his watch.
Most other customers minded their business.
The girl with her father: she stared. When they'd finished eating, the man paid and left. The girl stayed. She slumped in her chair and pressed her nose into a book, a big one, old, heavy. Every minute or so, she peered over the cover at the boy. He couldn’t make out the title. Her red hair was cut short. Butchered, the boy’s dad would have said. It stuck straight up, places, in tufts; in other spots, it lay down in clumps. A mess, his mother would have called her.
The boy nibbled the last of his pie, scrapped up the crumbs with his fork, then ran his fingers through what remained and sucked them clean. When he looked up, the red-haired girl stood next to him. She was taller than he realized, probably taller than he was.
“I know where stuff is,” she announced. “What can you do?”
He stared at her. Then he stared past her into the kitchen. Shadows flickered on the ceiling. Esther moved quickly stirring something into a pot, chopping something off where he couldn’t see, ladling soup into bowls. In the room with her the dark haired lady with the shopping bags stood leaning against the half-closed door.
The boy shrugged.
“I'm Leslie,” she announced. I'm 12 and I'm a witch.” She shook her head. “Going to be,” she added. She waited.
The boy’s mouth hung open a little. He looked like a doofus. He knew that much.
“Nothing, huh? So that's your story?” she got closer to his nose.
The boy stared.
“Don't know your name? Well, huh! There was once when I couldn't keep my birth date in my head—September twenty-nine, by the way which means I am NOT a Virgo—I had trouble with my address a couple times, we moved so much. But, damn if there was EVER a time I didn't know my Goddamn name.”
The boy wrinkled his nose. Every second he didn't say anything it got harder to imagine ever speaking again.
“Roy,” his voice was dust. He swallowed to wet his pipe and said it again. “Roy.”
“Means 'king' you know, Roy does.”
He nodded.
“And the story is?”
“I'm from the ocean?”
She stuck out a dirty paw. Her fingernails? Don't mention them. Dirt started there, continued up her wr
ist. On her arm the ground in patina formed swirlys that had been sweated through, dried and re-formed over and over, over the course of the day, several days.
“Well Ocean Roy I’m Leslie and I’ve seen the ocean. Big. Wet. Green. Right? Squirmy, too, if I remember. As said, I'm a witch—almost—and I find things.” She squinted, “what was it you said you do?”
He shook her hand. After he had, he knew he was going to tell. He had told his daddy—twice. After that, he had told his mother once. Once only. Afterward, he kept his mouth shut forever. Until now. Now, he leaned toward Leslie. She got the idea and leaned toward him. She smelled funny but it didn't matter.
He whispered four words in her ear.
Roy had seen monsters for-almost-ever. His first was a long green hissy thing that had wrinkled suddenly from under his crib, flicked around his mother's ankles then shimmied up her leg. He watched. It was fast and Mother didn't notice. Roy laughed. The monster was funny, sang a slithering song. Mother wiped his mouth where he drooled and they laughed together.
“Pashy,” he said, trying to say something that seemed right. “PASHY!”
From the time he could walk, creatures squatted in darkness wherever he was or flapped overhead making shadows and throwing chills. He pointed and mother would look. She’d smile and smile and after a while, she stopped looking. Later she stopped smiling.
He didn't.
Daddy was his first outer person. He didn’t know that at first. Daddy was bristly. His claws scratched when he picked up Roy to hug him or move him. He smelled like burning coal. After a while Roy cried whenever daddy came near. A while after that, daddy yelled every time he looked at him. He said loud things to mother.
This was before Roy could talk. It stayed with him, though. It stayed after there were words that meant things. It lived in the words after he knew that monsters were scary, when he knew they oozed, and quivered, slipped around corners or grew under things, out of sight, when he learned that what he saw were beasts of claw, tooth, hair, wing, fin, fur, beak, bristle, vein, bones, chitin, drool, breath, stench and wrath and not all of them were harmless.
Just North of Nowhere Page 10
