In the Walled City

by Stewart O'Nan

  Willie T. lied again. The foreman began throwing away coffee cups. Smokers ground their cigarettes out and scattered. “I got to go now,” Willie T. said, “but it sounds real good. Thanks a lot.” He put his hard hat on and snuck back to the salter, where he dreamt away the rest of the morning, gliding over a fragrant highway of saltines.

  On the way home, stopped beneath the blue and white Waynoka Ford sign, Willie T. swore out loud. Gar had left work early for a dentist’s appointment, so there was no one to hem Willie T. in. He stood in the lot, looking at the van, despairing. The loan, the job, it was all too complicated. The risk was too great. They’d been poor before, but they were young then, and work came easier. License, insurance, tax. He was no closer to owning the van now than when he first saw it; it was all an old fool’s daydream.

  He stepped to the driver’s side, opened the door and climbed in. Worn smooth, the oversized wheel fit his hands. The interior smelled of stale cigarettes and grease; on the dash lay a squadron of dead flies, stiff-legged. Willie T. gripped the wheel, shifted his butt on the seat, and pumped the pedals. He twisted around and tested the first bench seat. The upholstery sprang back when he bounced. He slid the panel door open, got out, shut it, slid it open again and shut it again. He knelt, took a penny from his pocket and checked the tire treads, then lay on his back and inspected the undercarriage for rust. Everything looked fine.

  A man in a suit and tie came out of the showroom doors. Willie T. waved, and the man began to thread his way toward him through the maze of parked cars. He was short, fat, and white, and his suit was too small for him. Red socks flashed as he approached. They met and shook hands.

  “Floyd Bannister,” the man said, “glad to meet you. I see you’ve been looking over this Ford here. It’s a fine machine.” His hands flew as he spoke. “Interested?”

  “Might be,” Willie T. said. “The man last week said it’s two thousand.”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Even with the back messed up?”

  The man surveyed the damage, scratching his jaw. “We could fix her for you, but that would kick the price up considerably.” His hand stopped, a finger pointing to the sky.

  “I don’t know. It looks like a lot of work.”

  “Why don’t we go inside, Mr. Tillman? Let’s see what it looks like on paper.”

  When Willie T. left, it was dark. He felt his way through the lot, guided by the liquid shimmer of fenders, hoods, and windows. Beyond the lot flames shot from the refinery’s safety valves. “Thursday,” Floyd Bannister called, “don’t forget now.”

  After Willie T. finished his speech, Christine wiped her mouth with her napkin, replaced it in her lap, and rested her arms on the table, one on each side of her plate. She stared at him as if decided, features set, eyes searching his.

  “So?” he asked.

  “I knew you been scheming on something, I knew it.” She looked at the ceiling, puffed her cheeks full of air, then let it out. “You’re gonna quit your job and drive around in this van all day. And the money they pay is gonna keep us alive. On top of the pension and Social Security.”

  “Four hundred dollars, way more —”

  “Wait.” She held up a hand. “You’re not gonna be home most of the time now, getting in my way?” He nodded. “Then OK. It’s crazy, but OK, go ahead. At least you’re finally thinking about retiring and what we’re gonna do.” He scooted around the table and hugged her in her chair. “Long as you aren’t home all the time,” she said, holding his arms against her chest. “I don’t want no shadow hanging around.”

  That night, he woke in darkness, suddenly, as if from a nightmare. An arm of light stretched gray across the ceiling. What if he failed? Christine’s breathing filled the room. He lay his head on the mattress and held the pillow close against his ear. In the silence, he heard his own breath, and growing steadily, like footsteps, the beating of his heart.

  The next day at work he called the Sunrise Home to see if the job was still open. The man he had spoken to before said it was and asked him when he could start. Willie T. told him he didn’t know. Soon. The line was silent, then the man said, “To be honest, we haven’t been getting much of a response. If you can come up with something in a few weeks, I suppose we can struggle through with what we have.” Willie T. gave him all the information. When he got off the phone, he clapped his hands together once and said, “Yeah!” The smokers turned their heads for a second, then went on smoking.

  Coming home, Willie T. said to Gar, “I’m gonna buy that van.” Gar began to say something, but Willie T. kept on, “I’m gonna buy that van and haul people around in it.” He kicked a stone with his boot and it skittered across the road. “Don’t tell me I won’t, cause I will.”

  Gar stopped and looked at him. “You’ve been up to something.” He smiled, then nodded solemnly. “I believe you, Willie T, I believe you’re gonna buy that van.”

  “I’m gonna have something for when I retire, see?”

  “Guess so.”

  “What are you gonna have?”

  Gar shrugged. “I got some years to go yet.”

  “It’s something to think on. Cause I been thinking on it, and let me tell you, if you’re old they let you starve. They throw you out in the street if they like, and that’s no lie.” He turned and walked, and Gar followed.

  Thursday after work he met with Floyd Bannister and gave him a check for four hundred dollars. The two thousand now included licensing, registration, a ten-month warranty on the engine, and a tow to the garage. By the time Beatty fixed the left rear, Willie T. would be in business. Which worked out well, considering he had to give Nabisco two weeks notice. The deal was running so smoothly that Willie T. got nervous. Pen in hand, he imagined accidents, thieves, and after he signed, walking home, not even the van itself, tilting on its cinder block, could cheer him.

  “Wonderful,” the man from the Sunrise Home said. “Send us a copy of your papers, and we’ll draft a contract here. If you can get us the paperwork this week, we’ll have the contract back to you next Wednesday or Thursday.”

  “Sounds good,” Willie T. said. Gar made faces at him, held out a palm to slap.

  “Very good, Mr. Tillman. We look forward to hearing from you.”

  He thought he would love leaving Nabisco. He and Christine had agreed that he could quit. Having served over twenty-five years, he would retire at full pension. Gar congratulated him daily, and they joked about it, but the last two weeks were hard on Willie T. Friends he hadn’t seen in years dropped by to wish him luck. “Don’t forget us now,” they said. On his last Friday, the department threw a party for him, with free coffee and a cake from the cafeteria. His foreman made a speech praising Willie T.’s initiative, thanking him for his long service. Gar presented him with a pair of leather driving gloves on behalf of the crew. “Speech, speech,” everyone said. Willie T. held the gloves up and said, “Thanks, everybody.” The room filled with laughter, applause.

  The sun setting, Gar and Willie T. passed Waynoka Ford. The cinder block sat in an empty space. They walked the refinery fence and up onto the bridge, boots crunching in the gritty dirt, lunch pails swinging, squeaking. The refrigerator shone dully from the riverbed. Silent, they went by the Arco, Big Ed’s, and the bowling alley and came to Gar’s corner. “All right, Willie T, you come back and see us sometime.” He shook Willie T.’s hand.

  “I will, Gar.” They broke, Gar heading down his street, Willie T. crossing. As he was walking away, Willie T. paused and looked back. Gar’s brown jacket glided through the circle below a streetlight, then vanished into darkness, appeared again, vanished again, and on down the street, smaller and smaller.

  Saturday morning Willie T. arrived at Beatty’s Garage before Beatty did. The van sat in the parking lot, surrounded by wrecks. Above a new tire, a coat of gray primer covered the left rear fender. “Looking good,” Willie T. said, smoothing the paint with his hand.

  He found a pay phone and called the Sunri
se Home. “I’ll be ready Monday,” he told the man. “What time you want me there?”

  “That’s fine, Mr. Tillman. We’ll expect you at ten o’clock. We have to go over the terms of the contract, and that will take an hour or so. Then at eleven you have a group going to the Care Center, and their return trip at two. So, yes, we’ll be looking for you around ten.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Beatty showed up an hour later. Willie T. paid him with a check and picked up the keys. They went out to the van and Willie T. started it. “I took it out yesterday,” Beatty said, leaning against the door. “It runs pretty steady. There’s some little things, some touch-up work, but overall it’s solid.” The engine rumbled, the wheel tingled in Willie T.’s hands. “If anything goes wrong, bring it back in and I’ll take care of it.”

  “Hey, Beatty, it’s a help, man.”

  “No trouble.” He smacked the door. “Drive on, Willie T.”

  He had driven a van in the fifties when he worked at Hoover’s Laundry, but now, easing the Econoline through the narrow streets of Waynoka, Willie T. felt as if he were no longer part of traffic. He drove slowly, gauging the van’s size, looping wide on turns, braking early. He took it out on Route 64 and raced it one exit, turned around and raced it back. Before going home, he stopped for gas. He pulled up to the full service island and had the attendant fill the tank and check all the fluids. Inspired, he drove to the Self-Wash and sprayed and vacuumed for an hour. The windows threw rays. He climbed in, removed the box with Gar’s gloves from the dash, pulled the gloves on and started home, whistling.

  Christine looked it over, nodding. “You’re right, it’s a real nice van.” She walked around it. “You gonna take me for a ride, Mr. Bus Driver?” Willie T. kissed her, opened the passenger door and helped her up onto the seat. She ran her hand over the vinyl, touched the invisible windows. “It really is something,” she said.

  They drove all Saturday afternoon and most of Sunday, testing the Econoline. He slipped between lines of cars stopped at lights, changed lanes without turning his head. Christine sat in the middle of the rear bench seat, and Willie T. practiced driving with passengers.

  Monday he woke at the regular time and tried to go back to sleep, but it was useless. He took a shower, shaved, dressed in his best work clothes, ate breakfast, then read the paper until nine. The Sunrise Home was on the other edge of town, only twenty minutes away, but he didn’t want to be late. He left at 9:15. Christine pecked him on the cheek and gave him his lunch bag. “Drive safe now,” she called from the door.

  Mr. Binstock, the man he had spoken with on the phone, seemed smaller in person, but just as courteous. After signing the contract, he led Willie T. around the complex, pointing out the residential wing, the medical facilities, the recreation unit. Old people in lemon yellow sweaters wandered the lawns and hedge-lined paths. “Our residents,” Mr. Binstock lectured, “receive the finest care available. I trust you will maintain a professional attitude, and at all times the state of your vehicle must be immaculate. Remember, only the finest.” A woman tottered by, mumbling to herself. “As you well see, some of our residents may require a bit of extra understanding. I think we can both agree that this is important. At our age, Mr. Tillman, I believe we should realize how critical that special touch is, don’t you?”

  Willie T. noticed that all of the residents were white. Strangely, none rolled in wheelchairs or leaned on walkers or hobbled on canes. They strolled along in their matching lemon sweaters, tanned faces beaming. A country club, Willie T. thought.

  The six an orderly helped into his van were no exception. He checked their names against a list Mr. Binstock had given him. They shifted across the seats, greeting him with rearviewed waves. The man directly behind him laid his hand on Willie T.’s shoulder and whispered, “Glad you finally showed. That damn station wagon was kicking the hell out of us.”

  “Yes, sir.” Willie T. laughed.

  The orderly slid the door shut, and Willie T. pulled away. Taped to the dash, the instructions to the Care Center trembled. At the front gate he pressed them against the dashboard to read them. His passengers chatted, a steady murmur softening the thrum of the engine. He turned left across traffic, swinging her in a long arc. No one complained.

  The ride lasted half an hour. South out of town along 281, through prairie, horse-head rigs, and power lines; then east on 15, with the tankers on their way to Enid. They crossed the Cimarron River twice. Willie T. kept to the right, the needle on 55. Behind him, his passengers laughed and hollered over the highway wind. He changed lanes before exits, avoiding on-ramps.

  The Care Center, a poured concrete block banded by mirrored windows, sat in the suburbs of Cleo Springs. Willie T. cruised around a circular drive and stopped in front of a group of uniformed orderlies. While they helped his passengers out, he took off Gar’s gloves, pulled out a map and drew the route on it in Magic Marker. One of the orderlies came over to his window and said, “So you’re the new guy. My name’s Eddie.” His hand reached in over the map.

  “Willie T.”

  “We should be done around 1:30, so get yourself a coffee and be back by a quarter past, all right, Willie T.?”

  On the return trip, one of his passengers, a fat woman with clear orange barrettes, threw up. Willie T. saw her in the rearview mirror, a consoling arm across her bent back. Terrified, he found a wide part of the shoulder, pulled off and stopped.

  “Don’t worry,” the man behind him said, “it’s only Clara. She’ll be fine when we get home.”

  Willie T. sat staring at his lined, gray face.

  “I’ll take care of everything,” the man said, “you just keep driving.” He took a handkerchief from his pants pocket, rose from his seat and made his way to the woman. “Go on,” he waved, “drive.”

  Moving again, Willie T. watched him open a window and drop the handkerchief out. “All set, Ace,” the man called, smiling. Back in his seat, he whispered, “I think you’d better invest in a slop jar. Clara’s pretty regular.”

  After rinsing the floor at the Self-Wash, Willie T. bought a plastic bucket at the Savemore. When Christine asked him how his day went, he didn’t mention it. “Bunch of rich old people,” he said. “It’s a breeze.”

  The next day it happened again, but this time the bucket saved the floor. They rode with the windows open, and on his way home Willie T. bought a hanging air freshener.

  Aside from Clara’s vomiting, the week went well. Willie T. knew their names and as much about them as their conversations allowed. The man behind him was their unofficial leader, Mr. Fergus. To his right sat Mr. DiSilvio, and in the seat nearest the door, Mr. Johns. Behind them sat the girls: on the left, Mrs. Ryerson, by the window, Miss Flynn, and in the middle, fussed over, the baby, Clara.

  The hours were good, the pay was good, and the work was easy. Emptying the bucket every day was nothing compared to Nabisco, and although he hadn’t said much yet, he imagined he’d like talking with his passengers. They seemed nice. He would have felt sorry for them, being in a home, but they didn’t act sad, so why should he? In fact, as the week went on, Willie T. began to envy them. He was sixty-two, and before he took the job he worried about growing old, losing it. But listening to Mr. Fergus describe smuggling gin in a flower vase, he forgot about age. Or to see Mrs. Ryerson and Miss Flynn patting Clara on the back, soothing her. At Nabisco, Willie T. thought sixty-five was the end. It worried him that Christine was all the family he had, that he was all she had. Knowing there would always be someone like Mr. Fergus, or even Mr. DiSilvio, let Willie T. sleep easier.

  Saturday at the Self-Wash, Willie T. swept a handful of hair out the door. He held it up, the sky showing through the loose wool. “Guess something’s got to go,” he said. It floated to the ground and the wind rolled it away.

  The second Monday he drove a different route, taking the hilly back roads. The group cheered each dip and curve. Every day he found a new combination, and by the end of the week Mr. Fergus
was guiding them to the Care Center, crinkling the map, tapping Willie T.’s shoulder right or left. Mr. Johns wondered if the radio was broken. They rode, lost, Benny Goodman and the Dorsey brothers swinging, Mr. Johns snapping the time. Stepping down, the girls said, “Good-night, Mr. Tillman.”

  Nabisco officially shut down at five-thirty on Fridays, but no one stayed that late. Willie T. waited outside the fence, beside the guardhouse, secretly thrilled. It felt like playing hooky. Around five, cars started escaping, speeding at first, then creeping along as the guard stopped traffic to let other workers cross. Gar walked down the middle of the vacant entry lane, shaking his lunch pail at the cars, calling “Have a good one. All right, you too.” Willie T. honked the horn to get his attention.

  They chose The Wildcat over Big Ed’s because it had free pork rinds and the jukebox played the old songs. Beer raised, Gar toasted Willie T. “To the millionaire.” They clinked mugs and drank. “Really, sounds like my kind of job. Get up late, don’t do much of nothing, quit early. Yeah, sounds mighty sweet.”

  “It’s like I told you, Gar, you got to be thinking ’bout these things.”

  “Yeah, well.” He sipped. “I’m doing all right for myself.” He rolled the mug in his hands, set it down. “C’mon, let’s spin some tunes.”

  Sweeping that Saturday, Willie T. formed a hairball the size of a grapefruit. He brushed his hands over the seats; a sparse fur clung to them. He paid fifty cents for a vacuum and did the interior.

  After dropping them off Monday, he asked Eddie why there was so much hair.

  “It’s just a side effect,” Eddie told him. “Sometimes it’s worse, and their teeth fall out too. Some puke. From what I can tell, it’s almost as bad as the cancer. I mean, what’s the difference? No one really gets any better. Hey, want to see the place?” he asked. “There’s some wild stuff.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “C’mon, you can leave the van here, it’s safe.”

  “That’s all right. I got to get my coffee.”