by Joe Meno
The boy, for the first time in the last two hours, broke his gaze from the road and quickly glanced over at his grandfather. “Gramps?”
“Hm.”
“Why didn’t you call the state troopers?”
“Because it’s ours. And we know who we’re looking for. We know who we’re looking for and what we’re looking for, and they don’t. And they ain’t got a reason to care about that horse in the first place. If we were to call them, they’d ask whose horse it was and we’d never be able to explain it. Not to their liking. Then it’d be gone either way. So we got to find her ourselves if we want her back. The ones who took her, they ain’t smart. They already made a heap of mistakes. The ones they selling her to, they’re probably a little smarter. But not much. I know their kind. All we got to do is be as smart as them, which isn’t much.”
“But you got shot.”
The grandfather made a low sound that ended with a kind of whistle.
“Does it hurt?” the boy asked. “Now, I mean.”
“Not much. Some.”
“You ever been shot before?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
“I’ve been stabbed before but never shot.”
“You been stabbed? By who?”
The old man shielded his eyes from the sun and glanced away, not bothering to answer the question at first, and then finally, drawing in a breath, he muttered, “It was back in Korea. But that’s a long story.”
“Oh.”
“Watch your speed now,” the grandfather said. “No reason to have a run-in with the law if we don’t need it. And keep an eye on that fuel gauge. It likes to lie. I’m going to shut my eyes for a minute or two.”
The boy allowed himself a second to glance over at his grandfather again; his courage flagged and his eyes shot back to the tarry road.
“Sir?”
“Yeah?”
“I thought you were . . . I thought you were dead.”
“Huh?”
“Last night. I mean . . . this morning . . . I thought you were going to die.”
The grandfather gathered his weakening voice, tugged down on the brim of his hat, and said softly, smiling now, “Ain’t I though?”
* * *
The girl was watching him and pretending not to watch. She was going to go rabbit on him, he was sure of it. Rick West peeked at her out of the corner of his eye, then hung up the public telephone located in the parking lot of a rundown car wash. The portable phone in the truck was shit out of state, something with the frequencies or provider or what else Rick wasn’t sure. He turned and saw the girl trying to be coy, acting like she was busy, though the whole time he knew she was waiting to make a break for it. She was sitting in the cab of the truck, her feet up on the dash, retouching her toenails with bright green polish, the color of which bespoke to Rick an unwell mind. It looked like the color of the sky after a meteor had streaked through it, fluorescent and otherworldly, and it made him consider that the girl herself was like one of those satellites, doom-stricken though still sort of brilliant. He opened the driver’s-side door, climbed in, and started up the truck.
“We’re making a little detour,” he announced.
The girl snapped her bubble gum and asked where.
“Kentucky. We got to go pick something up for your granddad.”
“The hell I am.”
“The hell you are.”
“You’re seriously kidding yourself if you think I’m going to buttfuck, dumbshit Kentucky. I’m taking off the first chance I get.”
“That is your problem exactly, young lady,” Rick said with a smile, putting the truck into gear. “You try as hard as you can to get caught. If you wanted to tear out of here so bad, you could’ve been gone by now. I was just on the phone for ten minutes. I gave you about as good a chance as you’re gonna get.”
“Just watch me.”
“I don’t intend to do that. You’re a grown woman. You need to attend to yourself.”
“Fuck you, dipshit. You think you’re so smart. All you do is clean up after my stupid fucking granddad. You’re just like one of his fucking nurses. I’m surprised he doesn’t have you wiping his ass.”
“You try and make a run for it now, I’ll treat you the same way I’d treat anyone dumb enough to cross me.”
“Do you have any idea how ridiculous you sound?”
Rick ignored her, concentrating on finding his way back to the highway. In truth, he did not care to judge how stupid his threats now sounded.
As soon as they pulled up to the first stoplight, only a hundred yards or so from the entrance to the freeway, the girl made a run for it. She popped the lock, shoved the door open, and threw herself out. Rick tried to grab her, his foot on the brake, his hand grasping a few strands of hair, but then she was gone, her back a blurry conflagration in the corner of his eye. He had the sense to put the truck in park, hurrying out from his side, and chased her through the parking lot of a dumpy-looking gas station, the girl screaming something as she ran as hard as she could toward the glass doors of the Quik-E-Mart. He got one arm around her middle when she paused to grab hold of the door. Rick heaved the kicking, wailing thing over his right shoulder, the girl pounding furiously on his back and neck with her small bony hands. Then she was biting him, sawing at his ear with those diabolical teeth, the sharp pain of which caused him to tumble sideways, the two of them collapsing on the pavement. He did not think twice when he reached out to strike her. He caught her open-palmed across the jaw, shocking her with the unprecedented violence of the act, the tears welling up in her eyes, her expression not one of pain but incandescent fury.
She sat there like a child for a few moments, unwilling to believe he had struck her, holding her chin where she had been hit, staring up at him with those wild flame-blue eyes.
“My granddad is going to have your head,” she hissed.
Rick pulled himself to his feet, dusted himself off, and muttered, “After this, your granddad can kiss my ass,” equally surprised as she.
An old man, who had been filling up his camper and who had witnessed the scuffle, now edged near them. He seemed to be sizing Rick up; he slowly made his way between him and the girl, who was still seated on the pavement, pouting.
“I don’t know if no one ever taught you the way to treat a lady,” the old-timer said. “But this sure ain’t it.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Rick replied with a wide grin. “You find me a lady anywhere near here and I’ll be sure to inform her.”
The old man took one more step forward, having no interest in backing down. Rick could see the faded blue-black ink of an anchor tattoo on his forearm. He nodded at the tattoo and asked, “How long were you in for?”
It took a few moments for the old man to understand, and then glancing down at his arm, he seemed to remember what the dark outline signified. “Four years. In the Pacific.”
For no good reason, Rick pointed at the center of his chest. “I was in for four too. US Marine Corps. Got booted for choking some Filipino half to death. They gave me an honorable discharge though. I got fond memories.”
“That’s all I got,” the old man muttered, his remaining teeth like the jawline of some exotic deep-sea fish. “That girl belong to you?”
“I’m minding her for her granddad. I came up from Texas to bring her back. She fell in with some Mexicans.”
The old man turned and regarded the girl for a while. “If I’d known this is how it would turn out, I don’t know if I woulda fought so hard. I seem to remember those Jap and German kids seemed awful well-behaved. These ones here . . . well, they don’t got the faintest notion.”
Rick gave a short laugh and reached out to shake the old man’s hand. Then the old sailor trotted off, glancing over his shoulder once more to see Rick heave the girl to her feet. Holding her beneath her left armpit, Rick marched her back to where the black truck was parked in the middle of traffic, pushed her onto the bench, and fumbled underneath the seat for something. Whe
n he found what he was looking for, he grabbed the wrist of the girl’s right hand, snapped the cold bracelet in place, and clamped the other end of the handcuff to the door handle. He shoved the door closed as the girl began to fuss and curse. Rick climbed back inside the vehicle and started it up once again. The girl went eerily quiet, staring out through the glassy windshield. When she spoke, the flame-blue eyes had become two specks of coal.
“You ever put a hand on me again, I’ll kill you,” she whispered, and there was no fear now, no equivocation in the tension of her voice. “I seriously will.”
Rick aimed the truck onto the expressway, both hands on the steering wheel, tired eyes watching the traffic to the left and right and then directly ahead. His face felt a little flushed. He gazed at her briefly, certain then that the girl meant what she said.
_________________
After another hour they decided to park at a state-run rest stop. The drainage from the gunshot wound—which had been begun to ache sharply these last few miles—had soaked completely through the bandages.
“I oughta go change this dressing,” the grandfather said, looking serious.
The boy had no idea what kind of pain the old man felt. He climbed down from the vehicle, walked around the front of the truck, and helped his grandfather hobble across the slate-gray parking lot. The old man shuffled lamely into the flat-roofed brick building, and together they sought out the men’s room. Inside, the boy got the old man set up in stall.
“It might be a little while,” the grandfather said. “Don’t wander too far.”
The grandson stumbled out of the restroom, into the lobby, and then over to a white-lit vending machine. It looked like all the candy was seventy-five cents. He checked his pockets and found he only had two quarters. He sighed, turned, and saw a number of arcade game consoles—Tetris, at which he was an unacknowledged master, Mount Holly having no machine anywhere in town, and the childish, repetitive, meathead-favorite Mortal Kombat. He decided at once he would add his name to the high-score roll on the Tetris machine, slipping both quarters inside the narrow slot, cracking his knuckles as the screen booted up. A few moments later, already onto the fourth level, he saw—in the brightly colored reflection of the glass before him—someone observing him from over his shoulder. Feeling self-conscious, he craned his neck and saw it was a girl, a fair-looking one, standing behind him. There was nothing remarkable in her face or appearance and yet, simply knowing she was there, his hands became paralyzed. One, then two, then a third block descended from the top of the screen, before he regained his senses, maneuvering them into their proper place, his score immediately doubling.
“My parents told me to come talk to you,” the girl whispered, not moving any closer.
Quentin was so shocked by the funny lilt of her voice, as it rung there in the air—the sound containing all the secrets of a girlhood spent in the safety of the suburbs of some Southern city, an entire clandestine world Quentin would never, could never understand, not even amongst the most peculiar distances of his own imagination. Hearing that particular soft, mannered voice, he lifted his eyes from the video machine and turned, the colored blocks onscreen now piling up, the boy immediately forfeiting the game.
“They said I had to talk to you,” she repeated.
He faced the girl. No girl had ever said more to him than she already had. In a white shirt and jeans, she was frowning, eyes as bright blue as a bird’s egg, hair long and light blond, her skin white and scrubbed. She was taller than he was.
“They asked if you wanted to come pray with us,” the girl said.
He glanced over and noticed the girl’s parents standing in front of their station wagon, both of them smiling, the father peering over the rim of his glasses, the mother in a plain blue dress, left hand raised in a polite wave. Quentin, having been raised mostly by his grandparents, knew to wave back.
“Do you want to or not?” she asked.
The boy, glancing over at the arcade screen, seeing his game was over, felt cheated but mumbled, “Okay,” intrigued by the girl standing there, by the idea of praying with strangers. He followed her over to where her parents were standing.
“These are my parents,” the girl said.
The boy nodded at both of them, afraid to look either in the eye. The father spoke in a pleasant voice, like a radio announcer. “I’m David. And this is Jan. We’re pleased to meet you.”
“Hi.”
“You met Denise, of course.”
Quentin nodded again.
“And you are?” Jan asked.
“Quentin.”
“Quentin,” the father said, approving. The boy stared at the man’s thin face for a moment and had a flash of what, all these years, he had secretly dreamt his own father might have looked like. “We’re glad you’ve decided to join us, Quentin.”
In a small, impromptu circle, the father leaned over and took his daughter’s hand, grasping his wife’s in his other, Jan, the mom, taking Quentin’s hand, the girl, with an expression of minor disdain, taking his left. Each of them save Quentin closed their eyes. The boy now stared at them, at their lack of fear, at their stunning blandness, and felt chastened.
“Heavenly Father, we thank you for bringing our friend Quentin into our lives, and hope he has a chance to experience the wonder and glory each of us have in the service of Your mission, dear Lord. Grant all of us peace and safety on our journeys today. Through Christ our Lord, amen.”
The girl let go of Quentin’s left hand, the mother still holding his right.
From where he stood, he looked past the father and mother and saw a girl, a year or two younger than the one standing beside him, sitting in the backseat of the station wagon; the girl had long blond hair and skin that was too white, the white slowly fading to pink, the eyelashes white also, the shape of the girl’s forehead a little too wide, too prominent, the rest of her body looking small, doll-like in comparison. He gawked there for a moment, seeing the other girl struggling in the backseat. The girl was huffing, grunting, moaning to herself, with an animal ferocity. She was bound up in some kind of special seat with dark blue and black seatbelts holding her in. It seemed like she was having a fit of some kind: her eyes kept flashing open and closed, her head jerking back and forth, her small, clawlike hands twitching before her.
“What’s wrong with her?” Quentin asked without thinking.
The mother smiled numbly, still holding Quentin’s hand. “That’s Clarissa. She’s handicapped.”
“She looks like she’s screaming.”
“She has seizures. There’s nothing we can do to about it.”
The boy nodded, the noise of the girl screaming, twisting there, fighting against her restraints, her clenched fingers scraping uselessly before her, the sound now culling the soft words of their prayer back from the air. Somehow this encounter seemed to describe all the questions the boy had about God.
* * *
It was with obvious dread that the younger brother saw the older was no longer fit to drive, or do much of anything. The wheel was loose in Edward’s hands, his eyes glazed and rheumy, so that wherever they were headed—an address on New Circle Road—no longer mattered; if Edward was driving they would never find the place, only circle around over and over again in infinite condemnation. It was because Edward had been ruined by the drugs he wanted to sell and was no longer even paying attention. He had been busy the last hour itching his neck until a red welt appeared, glowing there like a second, reptilian mouth. Finally, he announced that he had to find somewhere to piss. Gilby took it as no small relief, deciding he would either convince Edward to give him the keys or not get back in the truck with him.
They pulled into the parking lot of a tiny gas station with a sign that featured no prices for the gasoline it was selling. The older brother hurried from the truck, holding his hands over his crotch, limping toward the bathroom door which was located around the back of the squat, concrete building. It turned out the john’s only urinal w
as already occupied, a slim-looking fellow with longish blond hair pissing silently, Edward hissing, springing from foot to foot, mumbling curse words even he didn’t recognize. The man at the urinal did not seem to notice, only stood there, relaxed, head hung forward, one arm resting against the cold brick wall before him. There was something about the man’s posture—about the red and blue tendons in his neck, something about his greasy hair and exposed genitalia—which Edward could not bear. Unthinking, nostrils flaring, he reached down into his heavy boot and gripped the small knife in his hand. The man seemed to take notice, glancing over his shoulder to where Edward was crouched. But it was too late, or so the older brother thought, knowing that as soon as he had opened the bathroom door and caught a glimpse of the man standing there vulnerable before him, he had no choice but to physically violate him. It was not even his own fault. The older brother lunged forward, forcing the tip of the knife deep into the man’s side, slipping his left hand over the man’s mouth, pressing the weapon through the clothing into the flesh deeply, the man’s body going tense, arms flailing, Edward holding his left hand against the heat and moisture of the man’s panicked mouth, and then forcing him to the floor, kneeling over him, seeing the pattern of red slowly forming there along the dirty tile, he finally felt calm, he finally felt like he could think again. He squatted there, marking the sign of the cross on the tip of his own forehead, on his sternum, his left shoulder, his right.
The man on the ground was alive, mouthing faint words no one could hear.
Gilby knocked once, opened the door—not hearing any answer—and saw the odd shape lying there, eyes wide open, mouth still working. His older brother was kneeling above the wounded man, the knife still in hand, and looked to be just as horrified. Gilby knew he should run away, should make for the truck and hope the keys were still there, but he did not. He felt trying to run from his brother now would be as dumb as trying to run from a storm cloud, the moon, the night. He took the knife from his brother’s hand, made sure to lock the door behind them, and hurried off, leading Edward back to the truck, a conformation of fine red dots showing on his brother’s neck, hands, and face, the daylight calling into question what had just occurred.
