Twilight of the Drifter

by Shelly Frome

  Moving away, Josh called over his shoulder, “Some hot coffee, sandwiches and a blanket or two wouldn’t do you any harm.”

  “Oh yeah?” she called back. “And some fake doc or somebody else—forget about it. You hear me? Just furr-get it!”

  Hurrying, sliding here and there on the slush gathering on the sides of the road, he ignored the horns beeping at him and the drivers rolling down their windows and yelling at him to get out of the way. He didn’t even consider Tracy’s threats. No second thoughts whatsoever.

  In practically no time, he was back at the shelter. He slipped by the volunteer, too busy pecking away at her keyboard to notice. A jog to the right, down the long hallway into the dorm, he snatched up his few possessions including his thermos. Without missing a beat, he moved past the oversized room that doubled as cafeteria, meeting hall, game room and what-have-you into the recesses of the kitchen. There he retrieved hot coffee from the ever-ready pot, packets of cream and sugar and pre-made sandwiches out of the fridge, and grabbed a few apples and a box of mixed doughnuts for good measure.

  Not even bothering to fasten his bulging backpack, he returned to the hallway and nipped into the storeroom already loaded with donated Christmas supplies for those who insisted on sleeping out in the woods as far from rules, regulations and the system they could get. Adding to his kit, he snatched a couple of woolen blankets and a woman’s parka size small, slipped by the volunteer again, struggled with the front door and cut across the yard. But before he could turn the corner, he ran smack into Scooter.

  “No time, Scooter,” said Josh, continuing on his way back toward the boxcar.

  Undaunted, Scooter straggled behind him. “I knew you couldn’t take it. We’re two of a kind.”

  “Sure we are. I’ll see you, Scooter.”

  Wearing only worn sneakers to go with his soiled raincoat and baggy pants, Scooter tried keeping up but slipped on the slush and grabbed at Josh’s shoulder to keep from falling.

  Spinning around, pushing Scooter away, Josh said, “Look, I don’t know you. I’m sorry, but I only put up with you to be civil.”

  Josh was off again, moving faster, but still couldn’t shake Scooter off.

  “Hey,” Scooter called after him, getting more and more breathless in the chilly dampness and sprays of snow. “I did it. Swiped the keys to her car like I said. She kicked me out, called me hopeless. Like you, right? Both in the same boat like you said.”

  Yards ahead of him, Josh yelled back, “I told you nothing.”

  “Yeah, but you didn’t disagree. Only one way out, dude. We heist her wheels and get thrown in jail. No worries, spend the winter warm as toast. No washing dishes and other outside crap work. No job search and goddamn rehabilitation. No nothin’!”

  Realizing there was no easy way he was going to get Scooter off his back, Josh wheeled around, almost dropping the dangling blankets and parka, and without thinking said, “Great. Give me an hour or so. That’s when Tracy’ll be leaving. Sure to notice her car’s gone. You know where the abandoned rail is?”

  Standing stock-still, practically dumbfounded, Skipper nodded.

  “You drive by, honk a couple of times and wait. Either I come out to meet you or I don’t.”

  With that, Josh broke into a lope, as if he were in shape like all the times he jogged around Venice Beach. The orders to Scooter, a throwback to the days handling trucking logistics: taking in account the routes, weather and conditions—“best if you set out at this time, make your delivery at this point.” He used a flat tone to his voice then, giving instructions inside his office. There was a liveliness to his voice now, having no idea what he was doing, just worried about a runaway’s possible concussion. For all he knew, Scooter might still be standing there, scratching his bald spot.

  For a moment the snow showers petered out, as if they too weren’t sure what they were up to. The sky brightened a tad to a streak of pearl gray as Josh approached the leftward bend of the rail. He half expected to see her still framed between the open boxcar doors. But there was no sign of her.

  Blankets, jacket and all, he jacked himself up and over onto the splintered floor-slats, creating a weird shadow, causing a shriek in the far corner.

  “Get away from me!”

  As he dropped the blankets and stuff, Josh said, “Easy, it’s only me.”

  The girl crouched down and fumbled with a Swiss army knife. Managing to flip out the bigger blade, she said, “Well I got news. That still doesn’t cut it, Jack. So you came back alone, so what? What is your angle, man?”

  The street-wise act aside, he could tell she was more spooked than ever. More antsy and fatigued even though she was longer clutching her head. Unable to keep crouching, she dropped to one knee and shivered.

  “Look,” Josh said, “why don’t we just take it in increments, okay?”

  “What’s that?”

  “Little steps. You don’t trust me-- fine. We’ll take it real slow.”

  In the next few minutes, as if dealing with a wild child, he began by working one of the blankets across the flooring along with the thermos. Then the creamers, sugar, stirrers, doughnuts and a sandwich. Hardest of all was getting the parka over to her and convincing her to put it on. For her part, it became a matter of juggling the knife from hand to hand, keeping an eye out in case he made any sudden moves, then relaxing her guard each time he retreated.

  Finally, that phase of the game ended. Josh sat down, his back against the wall, the frozen door-opening directly in front of him. He grabbed one of the sandwiches and a doughnut and washed it down with a small carton of orange juice he’d glommed.

  In the ensuing silence, broken only by the sounds of traffic whisking close by, the girl settled down, sat like Josh with her back against the far wall, balled-up her tattered windbreaker and tossed it aside and zipped-up the parka. Still looking the worse for wear but at least not on the brink of passing out, she asked where he’d swiped the stuff.

  He told her it came from a shelter, donated and intended for runaways like the two of them.

  But she didn’t buy the notion he was at all in her league judging from the funny way he talked, never mind the scraggly way he looked. She also noticed he kept glancing away from the dirty drawings and messages scrawled all over the grungy walls. In the darkening boxcar, as the damp chill continued to permeate every niche, she started in again. “Okay, let’s have it. What is with you? What’re you tryin’ to pull?”

  Smiling in spite of himself, and for no particular reason, he laid it out for her short and sweet. There was a fiancé, there was an argument. She caught him watching the DVD of the movie Crazy Heart, playing along with the title song, slipping into yet another funk. She grabbed the remote, shut the movie off and wanted it all mapped out then and there leading up to and including retirement. Sick and tired of “all this childish wanderlust,” she asked for a sworn affidavit that he would stick to the realities and nothing but the realities “so help you.”

  “What’s ‘wanderlust’?” said the girl, pulling the parka tighter against her scrawny frame.

  By this point it was starting to seem ridiculous. If, taking into account his lame notion, Scooter got cold feet and didn’t come by with Tracy’s car, if the girl still didn’t trust him, Megan his ex was absolutely right. Everyone was absolutely right. What in God’s name was he doing?

  Nevertheless, just as the girl’s eyes began to droop, he snatched out his blues harp. “This is wanderlust, kid, pure and simple.”

  Cupping the harp, he bent the low notes, drawing and wailing on the riff for “We are helpless, helpless, helpless . . .” until she sprang to her feet, held her ears and screamed, “Don’t do that! Don’t make it cry!”

  “What do you mean? What is it?”

  “Don’t know, don’t remember,” she said grabbing her head. “So why don’t you beat it? Go do whatever you do.”

  “What are you, kidding?”

  “No!” Totally beside herself, she clutched her
head harder with both hands. “Okay, you’re a big teddy bear who went off half-cocked and hit the skids. So you did your good deed for the day. So why don’t you get lost?”

  As if supplying the answer, sleet began to kick in, pelting the outer walls and spraying through the gaping doorway onto the boxcar floor. .

  Moving into the shadows, hovering over her, Josh said, “Okay, that does it, kid. Like it or not, you’ve got to get out of here.”

  “Nothin’ doin’. The intern said—”

  “What intern?”

  “Who cares? He told me right off about staying awake and for how long and—”

  “Getting pneumonia to boot?”

  “Of course not. But maybe the cold will keep me awake, dummy. Maybe it’ll . . . it’ll . . .”

  As she began shivering again, her teeth literally chattering, Josh checked his watch. The hour was up and the notion continued to flit through his mind that Scooter might very well come by. If he’d been able to handle the gear shifts and back out without smashing into something, and then kept Tracy’s car from skidding off the road. If babbling, brainless Scooter had actually been serious.

  And if the girl’s faltering protests meant she was beginning to realize the damp bitter cold of the boxcar and being on her own was no answer. But then what? Once again he asked himself what on earth did he think he was doing?

  4.

  Before Josh had a chance to reason things out, Scooter actually did come by and began honking like mad. Abandoning the freezing boxcar and leaving most everything behind, Josh and the girl made for the flashing headlights--the girl holding onto his arm, half running, half dragging her feet.

  Completely thrown, Scooter turned and gaped at the huddled figure in the back seat while Josh crowded in beside him, switched on the heater, spun the blower to high and slammed the passenger door. In turn, the girl left her door slightly ajar, gripping the handle, testing it, making sure the ratty-looking guy behind the wheel wasn’t securing the locks and trapping her inside.

  “Hey,” Scooter said, “what gives? What’s the friggin’ deal here?”

  “Give me a minute,” said Josh. “I need a minute.”

  “Yeah,” the girl chimed in, “what’s the deal, teddy bear? You been conning me? You in cahoots with the few-words guy? Sold me down the river?”

  As the banter continued to overlap out of control, Josh couldn’t get a word in edgewise. Couldn’t even ask, “What ‘few-words guy?’” as Scooter got more and more hyper, his voice squawking at a higher pitch drowning out whatever the girl had to say.

  “You crazy or somethin’? There’s ain’t no room for no street kid. A little car theft and the slammer is all. Not making off with some jail-bait and a friggin’ federal felony or something.”

  “You better believe it, man,” the girl said, cutting in, leaning forward, gripping the car door handle even tighter. “I’ll take my chances hitchin’ any day.”

  Finally topping both of them, Josh swiveled around and told the girl they were putting her on the next bus and sending her home.

  “Oh, great idea, whoop-ti-doo. I can’t go home, Jack! For your information, I jumped outta the truck the second the guy started getting funny with me. Then saw I was nowheres near Carbondale, found a payphone and called collect. But the creep my mom’s shacking up with said they shipped me off to my Looney-tunes aunt not ‘cause they needed to hunt for jobs like they said. But ‘cause they wanted me out of their hair period!”

  As the girl got all choked-up, Scooter tugged at Josh’s Levi jacket and said, “Who gives a hoot in hell? We ditch her. Get nabbed, thrown into a holding cell, get fed and settled. I know these cops. But if they spot us sitting here with this juvie, will you friggin’ think what they’re gonna do?”

  “Drive,” said Josh.

  “You bet. But not saddled with her.”

  “Just drive, will you?”

  “Right, oh sure. Where?”

  “To the bus station, like I said. There’s one close by, I could swear.”

  “Hold on,” said the girl. “I just told you—”

  “It’s all right. We’ll figure something.”

  “Hell we will,” said Scooter. “Don’t you hear what I’m tellin’ you?”

  “Just do it!”

  Scooter veered into the traffic, windshield wipers flicking away. The girl hung onto the overhead strap as her door clunked shut, the car swerved and Scooter complained about the way the car handled on the slushy road along with everything else about the way his life was going.

  Heading west, with Scooter adding the touchy breaks to his ever-growing list of complaints and Josh giving dubious directions, Josh finally came up with a solution. To humor Scooter, he would make a call to the volunteer at the shelter the second he was inside the station, catch her right before she left for the day and tell her where he’d spotted Scooter tooling around with Tracy’s car.

  As clueless as ever, Scooter kept quizzing him, begging for reassurance. “We’re still buddies, right? Going to be cellmates?”

  Scooter kept this line of questioning up through all the wrong turns until Josh spotted the terminal and told him to pull over across the street. Kept it up even while Josh helped the stumbling girl out of the car and they both made their way in the sleet and past the fogged-up glass doors. Unable to fathom any of this, Scooter called out, “What’s the juvie have to do with it? What’s she have to do with anything? Will somebody talk to me? How do these things happen?”

  Inside the station, totally out of it now, the girl slumped onto a bench and waited for Josh to make his anonymous call and return with two one-way tickets bought with a few of the last bills he’d tucked away in his wallet.

  Moments later, seated next to her, he let it slip that, for the time being, the best he could do was Uncle Billy’s dive on Beale Street. There she could hole up till her head cleared and got some rest. And Josh parlayed the money his uncle owed him to buy a little time, come to his senses and figure out a next move.

  In response, all she could do was wrap the parka more tightly around her, too groggy and fatigued to mouth-off anymore or fight back. She had no idea where Beale Street was, let alone what he was talking about or what he had in mind.

  By the same token, Josh had no idea what had recently taken place only a ninety minute drive southeast of Memphis in the backwoods of Mississippi. No inkling that the girl was privy to the murder and somewhere in the back of her mind could identify the perpetrator. No possible clue that any of it related to other crimes from out of the past that had even greater implications. For all Josh knew, he was temporarily looking out for a troubled kid while recouping some wages. Which, at the moment, seemed more productive than working his way up from a scrap heap in West Paducah while mulling over his wayward dreams. But at the same time, he couldn’t help harboring a slew of second thoughts about this latest fork in the road.

  5.

  In the drizzle, fog and waning light, Roy leaned on the long-handled shovel and listened to the creek water lapping close by. Not that it would help any, but only because it was an old, familiar, calming sound. Then he glanced back over at the two overgrown grave sites, Bubba’s muddy resting place and all the holes he’d dug out through the molding leaves and underbrush this past hour. Then he went over the order of things one last time.

  He saw Bubba’s jowly face looking over his shoulder every now and then, mocking him as they worked their way through the briars, twisted saplings and tangles and finally down the bank to the creek’s edge. Bubba goaded Roy, saying Roy’s time was up as they crossed over. The shallow icy current provided the coon dog with a bit of fun but all of it gnawed at Roy as he juggled the shovel and rifle at the same time. All the while, Bubba jabbered away, saying for Roy not to try nothing ‘cause there was a witness.

  Then they went up the little slope to the very spot; Bubba’s belly shook with that wheezy laugh of his, pointing to the fresh-dug mound and rotting handles sticking up like a marker. Roy saying, �
��All right, where did you move them?” Bubba answering, “You mean the cigar box and that ol’ shotgun wrapped in oilcloth? Hell, like I told you, that’s the whole point, includin’ the serial number registered in your name.”

  More jabbering as Bubba kept on reminding him that the map to the “re-buried treasure” would be his soon as he forked over the first down payment in hard ready cash. “Far from this here burial site,” Bubba called out to no one in particular. “Below them rotting wheelbarrow handles. Way down deep to China. Two lost souls on the highway of love.”

  More wheezy laughter and then, goading Roy some more, Bubba dropped his voice and said, “Come on, Roy, let’s cut the tap dance, seeing that our good buddy wouldn’t want to lose it all over this. And seeing you got the comfy huntin’ lodge and allowance you squirreled away all these years while I scratch around and pretty near starve. I’d say it was high time I was getting my due. Yessir, I’m talking happy holidays startin’ right here and now.”

  Pulling out what was left of a flat half pint from his hip pocket, Bubba shouted, “To the preservation of us all! I’ll drink to that!”

  A long silence was broken when Roy shook his head and Bubba stepped back in disbelief. Shouting even louder, Bubba yelled out, “Is that it? To hell with the rebel yell, you say?”

  Cocking his head, Bubba yelled it out again and again, making Roy tense up some and setting off the coonhound’s menacing growl.

  “Hey now, don’t try me,” said Bubba, no longer fooling around, his jowly face hardening.

  “I ain’t buyin’ it,” said Roy, cool and cold as can be.

  “Say that again.”

  “You heard me. Just wanted it spelled out, is all.”

  Bubba shoved the dog away which only made matters worse as the coonhound bared his teeth and started salivating.

  And that’s where Bubba lost it altogether, screaming, “The hell you say!” The coonhound made a howling yelp as Bubba kicked its head with his work boots and pulled a bone-handled hunting knife from under his coat. The way Bubba pointed the blade at Roy’s throat and began jabbing at him, Roy didn’t know if Bubba meant to shake him up, gut him and the dog both, or what. Then Bubba went berserk, just like Rowdy Childers at the refrigeration plant who shot the boss who’d laid him off. The second the blade grazed Roy’s jaw, Roy swiveled the rifle and dropped Bubba in his tracks.