I turn and storm sock-footed to the truck. I scoop up my boots, hop in, and slam the door. My skin tingles as truck tires screech. By the time I calm down, I’m almost home.
“Ah!” I pound the wheel. “She didn’t deserve that! I’m sorry, George. You leave that for me to deliver, and I yell at your granddaughter. Stupid, Sam!”
I turn in to my drive. What is going on?
Two motorcycles, a beat-up Mercury, and three small tents dot my property. Near the shed, four men sit around a fire. I ease to a stop and peer out my window. Riffraff. Even by Pierce’s standards. Outcasts of society camp on my land.
“Can I help you guys?” I step out of the truck, and three of them rise and move toward me.
“You Jack, right?” says a graying black man with a voice deep as I’ve heard.
“Well, Sam. But yeah, I guess.”
“Knew it. Being in his truck and all.”
The guys touch the truckbed, turn to one another, and nod.
I clear my throat. “You here for George?”
Deep Voice shifts his weight and winces. “Mind us campin’ till the funeral? Couple of us come a long way.”
“Uh. No, that’s okay.”
Two younger men with backpacks come up from behind, pat my back. “Nice to meet you, Jack.”
Why does everyone call me that?
They turn and slump back to the campfire. From the truck, I listen to the crackle of flame and the sound of muted voices. Couple guys sleeping outside can’t hurt.
All the next day they come. The lost and the least. By evening, near thirty men litter my farmstead. Inside comfortable quarters, I feel guilty—but also safe.
Outside, there’s laughter. I crack a window and jam my ear to the opening. Doesn’t sound too sinister.
I breathe deep and venture outside.
“Get over here, Jack. Waitin’ on you to come out,” says Deep Voice.
The ring of men parts to make room for me by the bonfire.
“How did all of you know him?” I ask.
“Same way’s you.” Deep Voice looks around. “This used to be home. Feels like it still is.”
Men murmur, nod. I ease down on top of a rusty paint can.
“And me? How’d you know me?”
A voice from the other side of the fire fights through the smoke. “If George wasn’t talking about James, he was talking about James’s boy. Good to meet you, kid.”
That’s enough to launch them into a new round of Crazy George stories, and soon everyone’s laughing. I’m laughing. It does feel like home. I twitch, but nobody watches. Surrounded as I am by the one-eyed, the limping, the trembling, my twitches don’t seem to matter.
Late that night, I enter my apartment and stand in the darkness. It feels emptier. Just me doesn’t feel enough anymore.
I flick on the light and walk to the table where the map rests. I pick it up and feel a flutter inside.
What do you want from me, George?
“This trip would be crazy. You know that, don’t you?”
George doesn’t answer. The quiet feels heavy.
“Of course you were crazy, too.”
I lay the map back out on the table.
Outside a loud laugh interrupts the crickets’ rhythmic chirp.
I smile. “Crazy.”
chapter twenty-one
“TIME TO GO.”
George’s words! His death must’ve been a bad dream, but now that I’m awake everything’s okay. I roll onto my back and force open my eyelids.
“Hurry on, now.”
I rub my eyes and squint. The face comes clear and sinks my heart. Deep Voice stares, his face twelve inches from mine. Chew juice dribbles down his chin.
I dress and don’t say anything to the stranger who invaded my house and waits at the kitchen table. Don’t care why he’s there—I just know he’s not George and nothing’s right and I might as well follow him as anybody. I tuck in my shirt and follow the old man out.
Outside, men have pulled up camp.
They stretch single file down the lane. Wind rustles the leaves and creaks the windmill, but the men stand silent. Waiting.
“They wait on ya.” Deep Voice looks up at me. “Mind if I hitch a ride? This leg would slow us down.”
“No, that’s fine.” I say it confident, as if I know where I’m going.
We push through the line and someone pats my back. I don’t stop. Deep Voice and I reach the truck, and I climb in.
“Got the key?” he asks.
“Key?” I jingle the key to the pickup, but he shakes his head.
“To the cemetery.”
“Why would I have a key to a cemetery?”
“His garden, Jack. Ain’t gonna lay him anywhere else.”
“One minute!”
I dash into my cellar, comb my hair, and grab the shoe box that now holds all my George stuff.
Back outside, I jog to the truck and open the door.
“You lead.” Deep Voice lays his head against the passenger window. His two words don’t sound right. I’ve never led anything, and my fists tighten on the wheel. What if I screw up his funeral?
I start the engine and creep past the line of men—most backpacked and on foot, some on bikes, a few in cars. They look at me, purse their lips, and give a quick nod. What a procession. I reach the front of the line.
“Wait.” Deep Voice grabs my forearm. “Wait a minute.” He turns toward the windmill. I lean forward, follow his gaze, and almost vomit.
George lies in a roughly hewn box between the mill and the machine shed. His tanned, leathery skin is unnatural gray. My stomach feels like lead. Six men hoist the open casket onto their shoulders and walk toward my truck. I don’t watch—can’t. But I hear the truckbed latch, feel a large weight in the back. The truck purrs, as if it knows George’s inside, and can be happy again. I stare straight ahead and bite my lip so hard it bleeds.
“You loved him.” The man beside me smiles weakly. What business is it of his how I feel? Don’t matter now anyway.
Knuckles rap my window, and I lower the glass.
“All set in back.” The man outside reaches in and squeezes my shoulder. “Take him home.”
Seems all of Pierce lines Highway 23. Jace points and laughs, but Andy and Lars watch quietly as I twitch the truck forward with erratic jerks.
But the farther I idle down the shoulder, the less I care that I lead a line of losers. ’Cause I’m close to George Rankin, and even though I can’t stand to look at him dead and all, there’s no place I’d rather be.
I pass my old house. Mom pushes out the screen door with Lane in her arms. I roll down my window, but I have nothing to say to the woman, and I wave weakly. Mom walks onto the street, follows alongside the bed, and stares down at George. I hear her cry and sniff and it might all be for show. She quickens her steps and appears at my side. Her face holds a look I’ve not seen before.
“I’m so proud of you, Jack.”
She spins on her heels; I shake my head.
“Met George two weeks ago, and now I ain’t sure of anything.”
Deep Voice nods. “Give it time. Maybe your trip will help sort it out.”
“How do you know about that?”
He points to the open box set between us. “This here lid gives you clear orders, and you have a map. Any man with orders and a map likely heading somewhere.” He removes it from the box, flattens it over the dash. “See, you have it all planned out.” He scratches his stubble. “Odd way to get to California.”
“I don’t know what that is. George left it for me.”
It’s silent for a long time.
“If George left that to you, would you go?” I ask.
My passenger turns and looks at the body in my truck. “Hell, I’d sell all I owned. I’d sell stuff I didn’t own. But—”
“But what?”
His voice softens. “If George is sendin’ you, won’t be no pleasure trip.”
Hanging around Pierc
e ain’t no pleasure trip either.
By the time I turn in to Farkel’s drive, my mind’s settled.
I never finished a single job you gave me. I’m not screwing up this last request. I’ll make it to California, George. I promise.
We bury George in the middle of his garden. Afterward, we back down the path, gather red metal chairs into a circle, and wait as each man says a private good-bye. It takes all day. I don’t say any farewells. George’ll be with me a while longer.
Finally, I drive through the barn and close the garage doors. The men are gone, trickled back to wherever they came from. All I see are cats.
A light flickers on the farmhouse porch. Farkel steps out and gestures to me from the front steps. “Had supper?”
I follow him inside. We both sit down at the kitchen table. For half an hour neither of us speaks.
“What now?” Farkel thumbs his overalls, reaches down, scoops up and strokes a cat.
“I’m thinkin’ on taking a trip.”
In the distance, car treads squeal onto Farkel’s drive. Farkel and I exchange glances, stand, and walk outside. Cats scatter before two oncoming beams. A red roadster skids to a halt in a cloud of dust. The driver pushes out into the night and scans the farm, before seeing us and slamming the door. Dressed as she is in a black top and skirt, I can’t see much of her, but from the way she races toward us, it’s Naomi.
“I’ve spent three hours sitting on that hood in your driveway.” Naomi points to her car and then pokes her finger into my chest. “Know why? Sure you do. Everyone but me knew. I was waiting to see my grandpa.” She takes a breath. “Who my mom, uncaring wench, lied about for eighteen years! Who I watched slave outside every summer without a clue that he’s my—and you!” Another hard poke to my rib cage. “The paper says George’s home. George’s home! You didn’t even tell me where the funeral was!” She breathes. “So now I’m wearing black, in the middle of summer, and it’s practically night, and I never got to see him. Never got to see my—” She breaks into tears.
“Zeke, like you to meet Naomi.”
Farkel smiles, walks over to her, and gently leads her into the farmhouse. “Oh, the damage we do.”
He eases her onto the couch, cups her cheek in his big paw, and glances into the dining room, where I work off excess twitches.
“Let me scrounge some dinner.” He leaves Naomi quivering and lumbers toward me.
“Go to her.” Farkel whispers as he passes.
I step quietly into the center of the living room. Naomi looks small with her face buried in her hands. I should sit beside her because she hurts and that’s what normal people do. Stuffing my hands deep into my pockets, I shuffle forward and stop. She looks at me and wipes tears away with the heels of her hand. She wants me to sit beside her, I think. Or she wants to make sure I don’t.
I plop down into the La-Z-Boy across the room and watch her cry from a distance. It’s the wrong place to sit, I know.
Dinner with Farkel consists of butter, bread, more butter, baked beans, and apple pie for dessert, with a dollop of butter.
“What’s the matter? Food don’t suit?” Farkel asks.
“No”—Naomi forces a smile—“it’s good. It’s just that I’m training for my first marathon. Andrew—Coach Zimmerman—laid out my diet.”
“Two runners. And looky what I’m servin’. Let me see if I got healthy eats in the pantry.” Zeke disappears, and his muffled voice floats up from the basement. “Hey, found some butter cookies! That fit your diet?”
“Afraid not,” Naomi calls. She looks at me and smiles.
I scrape butter off my pie and take a bite. “I ain’t much of a runner. Sure don’t have my own coach.”
“He’s not my own. Andrew coaches at the high school. He’s helping me out through the summer.”
“That’s good.” I poke at the pie and force my eyes to her face. “I’m sorry. For the whole letter thing. I didn’t think to mention about today. Didn’t know what the plan was myself—stuff ’s been happening pretty fast.”
“Like?”
I think what to share, what to hold. I look at her face and wish I had another chance to sit with her on that couch.
“Well, like your grandpa is sending me to California.”
chapter twenty-two
IT’S FRIDAY—ADVENTURE EVE.
I sit and stare at the mound of clothes in front of my couch. The empty suitcase waits on the table. Been staring at this pile for half an hour. I throw up my hands, reach down, and wrap them around an armload of clothes. I stumble across the room and fall forward onto the suitcase. Clothes spill over the edges. I straighten, tuck everything in, and slam the case shut.
“That’s the easy part.” I glance over the list of George’s customers.
Visits to his clients keep my mind busy that afternoon. I rehearse gentle ways to share the news, but always it spills out the same.
“Uh, George died.”
Women start to cry and look at me like it’s my fault. I stare at my shoes, because what they think might be true. Maybe I did kill him. A better helper would take the strain off his big heart and it might still tick. I hate women’s tears. Mom’s, strangers’, all of them. I can’t bear to tell the last two clients, so I play the wimp and slip notes under their doors.
It’s late when I reach the farmhouse, but I’m not tired. I pace my apartment and wonder why I’m leaving the only place that’s ever felt like home.
I stop and stare at each windmill that hangs on my wall.
“With George gone . . .” I glance at the map on the table. “Place won’t feel like home for long.”
You’re right. It’s time to go.
Saturday comes and a glow lights up the eastern horizon. My stomach drops.
It’s leaving day.
I place my shoe box on the front seat. A barn cat leaps onto the hood and cocks its head.
“No reason to do this. None. It’s not like George gives a rip anymore.”
I kick truck tires and run my hands through my hair.“What do you think, cat? Crazy is one thing. Stupid’s another.” I shuffle up the steps of the farmhouse. Haven’t been inside George’s part since The Night. Don’t want to be here now, but I need to unplug stuff.
“Nothing’s changed,” I whisper. But everything’s changed. I walk over to his rocker, and sit down beside it.
“Why’d you leave me?” I say, and close my eyes. Inside, I panic. I feel the sudden urge to catch George. I open my eyes and lunge for the empty chair, but he’s not there. I rest my head on the seat, push back and forth.
I don’t hear him, only the creak of where he was and will never be again. I lift my head. “Crazy Old Coot.” I slap the seat and stand up. “Changed my mind. You left me alone? Well, I’m leaving this trip alone, too. Like I want to wander around California.”
Goin’ back to bed. I walk toward the door and pause at the bookshelf.
His books are huge. Thicker than the A and the M encyclopedia combined. “Bet you weigh a ton.” I grab a massive book; heft it up and down before replacing it on the shelf. I scan the titles, and step back to see the lowest row. Photo albums.
I kneel down and flip through a series of black-and-whites.
Young George. These should pass some time.
I stack ten dusty albums, rise, and lug my load toward the front door. I push out, squint and blink in someone’s high beams.
“Hello?” I say.
“I made it!” Lights speak with Naomi’s voice.“Are you packing?” She eases out of the car and leans forward on the open car door. I blink sunspots out of my eyes. She looks like a car ad from a magazine.
“Yeah. But I decided I shouldn’t.” I make no sense, so I quit.
My feet stick to the steps like they had all week, only this time there’s no crying woman. It’s worse. It’s silent and Naomi watches me, my arms full, shoulders and face twitching. She stands there all pleasant like, and there’s no figuring what she thinks.
“Are you taking the truck?” She nods toward her grandpa’s rustbucket.
“Thought I would, but I’m not sure it’s such a good idea.”
She slams her door and the barn cat scrambles inside the cab. Naomi wanders toward the truck, leans over, and caresses the lettering on the side. “‘By George.’ This old thing has been parked at our place ever since I can remember—I bet the truck’ll make it.”
She straightens, bites her lip, and throws back her hair. “I bet it could even carry two.”
I hadn’t planned on taking the cat. “Suppose it could.”
Her face brightens. She bounces up to me, stops way too close. I try to look down but my arms are full.
“Well, then, Sam Carrier.” She reaches her hand behind my neck and strokes with her fingers.
I drop all the albums right there at her feet. I want them back—they make a nice wall.
“I’ll pick these up and put them in the truck.” Naomi smiles. “I’ll throw my stuff into the back.” She kneels and gathers albums and loose pictures. “Do you need anything else from inside? We should probably get going, right?”
She said “we.”
She glances up and dawn breaks.
Naomi wants to go with me. I mouth the phrase, but it doesn’t take.
Naomi goes on gathering. Her windbreaker lies open. I tingle and twitch.
“But—”
She pauses and stares into me.
“I’ll go lock up,” I say.
I pound into the cellar. “No one. No one has the right to look like that. I’m going to California with her?” I pace and twitch and curse. “George, you asshole!”
She walks forward, and what should Sammy do? She touches my neck, and what should Sammy think? I kick a wall, and a framed windmill photo crashes to the ground. I exhale, bend over, and pick up shards of glass.
“Could have used you here right now. Could use a dad.” I place the glass in the garbage, slow, and stare at the windmill photo. “Think you’d like this girl.” My hand claws and creases the picture. “So why she’s hitchin’ herself to my twitchy tower I don’t know. I can’t speak when she’s around.”
Jerk, California Page 12
