Looking for Przybylski

by K. C. Frederick

  “I think she’s sweet on you,” Ziggy says. “Or maybe she’s looking for some protection from that Missouri Slasher.”

  “I don’t know,” Lennie says, trying to ignore Ziggy, “she seemed awfully eager for us to get started again. I wanted to tell her not to worry, since dead presidents aren’t likely to go anywhere. I mean, if there’s one hobby that I wouldn’t associate with impatience, it’s got to be hers.” He knits his brow. “Do you think our driver was making that up? About the Missouri Slasher? Has anyone seen a local paper? I never heard of this guy, of course. If he’s for real, he could be on our bus for all we know. I’ve got a couple of candidates picked out already.”

  “No,” Ziggy says. “Didn’t you hear what the driver said? He’s hiding in the woods.”

  “Who’s hiding in the woods?” Roy asks when he comes back.

  “Did you have your little talk with Sharlene?” Ziggy asks. “I can’t help noticing that you don’t have your candy bars with you.”

  “I had my five minutes with her,” Roy says. “It’s that little weasel’s turn now. Look at him grinning. I wish he was the one who was hiding in the woods.”

  “Calm down, boy,” Ziggy says. “You’re turning purple.”

  As if she senses that they’re talking about her, Sharlene looks over from the booth and waves to them. “There,” Ziggy says, “she knows Daddy’s watching. And I’d say it’s a good sign she’s eating that Snickers bar.”

  Roy smiles sourly. “I’ve got faith in that girl,” he says.

  When they start up again, Roy seems to go quiet. Something is bothering him, Ziggy guesses, and he’s not sure it’s just the Sharlene business. As the bus labors up a hill, Roy turns toward Ziggy and tells him, “I still don’t like the way that engine sounds. They sure as hell didn’t do much to this bus in St. Louis besides clean it out, and they didn’t do a very good job of that.” Ziggy waits for more but that seems to be all Roy has to say for the moment, and the further west they travel, the deeper his silence becomes. It’s true that they’re getting closer to Wayne’s place, but Ziggy can’t help thinking that Roy may be brooding about his visit to his son.

  For some reason Ziggy remembers Al Kozak, who was beaten to death last winter, one more reminder of how the old neighborhood had gone to hell. Is it possible, he wonders, that Detroit will make a comeback some day? Not likely in my lifetime, he’s thinking when he hears Roy’s voice again. “Why do you suppose we’re pulling off the main road here?” he says. “Can’t say I’m aware of any weather detour this time.”

  Ziggy looks out the window: this steep, twisting two-lane blacktop can’t be part of the bus’s regular route. “Yeah,” he says, “I see what you’re saying.”

  Lennie leans in. “Hey, you don’t suppose our bus driver could be the Slasher, could he? Maybe he’s taking us into the woods to kill us all.” He gives them a nervous laugh but neither of them responds.

  After a few minutes, though, another passenger is apparently concerned enough about their traveling the back roads of Missouri to approach the driver and ask him about it, because after the passenger has returned to his seat the driver makes an announcement. “Some of you sharp-eyed people may have noticed we left the main highway a couple of minutes ago. Guess I should explain that I’m doing a favor for a lady who’s got to get to work. I know we’ve got a lot of working people aboard and I’m sure you don’t mind a very short detour that’s kind of an act of kindness, do you? We can make up the time once we’re back on the highway.”

  “The floozie,” Lennie exclaims. “I can’t believe it.” Sure enough, after at least fifteen minutes’ travel across the back roads, the bus enters the outskirts of a doggy town and pulls into the parking lot next to a low cinder block building whose neon sign announces the place as Cal’s Cave. A string of Christmas tree lights above the door spells out “Welcome.” Ziggy wonders who the hell comes to a place in the boondocks like this to drink. He wouldn’t be surprised to see one of those leaning outhouses from the little book J.J. gave him.

  “Suppose she tends bar there?” Lennie speculates. “Or does she own the place? I hope our driver at least got her phone number.” The bus comes to a stop and the woman gets out of her seat and slings her bag over her shoulder. When the door opens with a hiss, the driver accompanies her out and walks her to the door of the building, where he decorously bows and kisses her hand. There’s a spring in his step as he returns to the bus and excitement in his voice when he announces, “Once a Boy Scout, always a Boy Scout. That’s my good deed for the day.” A couple of people actually applaud but it doesn’t seem as if that’s the majority sentiment.

  The bus does indeed pick up speed once they’re back on the highway, though it’s not a sure thing that they’ll make up the lost time. They’re still behind schedule when they arrive at the town where Wayne is getting off, and Ziggy watches him as he grimly gathers his things and says goodbye to Sharlene, who smiles brightly and gives him a peck on the cheek but is clearly not going to accompany him. When the bus pulls away at last, leaving Wayne behind, Ziggy leans over and whispers to Roy, “Looks like you guessed right about old Wayne striking out.”

  The other man smiles. “Oh, I always had faith in Sharlene’s judgment,” he says, “but I don’t like to leave things to chance. When I had those few minutes alone with her at the last rest stop, I told her I was proud of the way she was making Wayne feel good—given what he’d told me about the terrible social disease he had.”

  “You’re a pretty wily old dog, aren’t you?”

  “I never claimed I was dense, did I?” He frowns. “I told you, I just didn’t like that guy. There was no way she was leaving with him.”

  Well, Ziggy thinks, if she didn’t leave with Wayne it was because she didn’t want to. When she decides to go, though, even Roy won’t be able to stop her.

  “I like Sharlene,” Roy says, apropos of nothing. “She’s got a lot of spunk. It’s just that when you’re that way, sometimes you need somebody else to be careful for you.”

  A few miles into Oklahoma, Roy leans back once again. “Listen to that,” he says, his face wrinkled with concentration. He holds up a finger and Ziggy turns his attention to the sound of the bus’s engine. Even he can tell now that there’s something wrong. For the last couple of miles the bus has been traveling more slowly, and even to Ziggy’s untrained ear, the engine’s power seems to come and go in fitful spurts, like a balky plumbing system. He’s grateful to see that they’re on the outskirts of a town.

  “What’s that smell?” Lennie asks as the bus labors along the town’s main street. “Isn’t that smoke outside your window?”

  He’s right: Ziggy isn’t the only one to see the black plume, and a mournful ululation ripples through the bus. There are shouts and cries of alarm. Within seconds, a few people have bolted upright in their seats, two or three have scrambled into the aisle. Frantically, the driver appeals for calm. “Everything is under control,” he yells, jerking the bus off the road. Through the smoke Ziggy can see that the crippled vehicle has pulled into a large open area on the edge of a used car lot. “Seems we’ve got a little problem,” the driver announces with a failed attempt to sound in control when he’s turned off the engine. “Let me get a look at what’s wrong. Meanwhile, if you good folks would just stay where you are, I’ll report back to you right away.”

  It’s immediately clear, though, that not many people relish the idea of staying on a bus that may be on fire, and he’s quickly followed out the door by those who are sitting in the front seats, which precipitates a rush of the rest of the passengers. Before long, they’re all gathered around the bus in the warm Oklahoma air that’s slightly acrid with the smell of smoke, though the plume itself has pretty much dissipated and there seem to be no lingering flames. Not far away, colorful pennants flutter above shiny cars that carry signs reading, “A Steal,” “Like New,” and “Easy Terms.”

  “OK, OK,” the driver tells the group with a harried air, “I�
��m going to have to check this out.” He wipes his brow with a handkerchief. All traces of his former high spirits have vanished. “I’m going to call the company and see what they can do,” he says. “Meanwhile, I guess we’re likely to be here for a while.” He looks at his watch. “Why not take a look around town and check back here in, say, an hour?” There’s a collective groan punctuated by curses and angry muttering.

  Gradually the passengers begin to disperse, and Ziggy looks from the smoke-stained bus to his new surroundings, a cluster of commercial properties not far from the center of town. Certainly Roy can’t say they’re not in the real west now. Ziggy’s already noticed a number of people on the street who are dressed in cowboy clothes. Oddly, some of them seem to be wearing cowboy clothes from another time—a bearded man who looks like a gambler from Maverick with his flattopped hat and flowered vest is standing in front of a booth in the used car lot looking at the bus, a toothpick moving in his mouth. And it’s begun to dawn on Ziggy that an awful lot of men seem to be wearing beards. Has the bus driven through a time warp, he wonders.

  “Look,” Lennie points to a sign above the street that says, “Frontier Days.” Carnival music comes to them distantly from what looks like the town center a couple of blocks away. A crowd is gathered there and it’s clear some kind of celebration is going on.

  “Well,” Roy says, “if we had to make an unannounced stop, it looks like we got lucky and landed in a pretty interesting place.” He sniffs at the air. “Ah, that’s the real west,” he says. “You can smell the dryness.”

  So that’s what it is, Ziggy thinks. He hadn’t been able to put his finger on it.

  The three of them have moved about a block or two from the abandoned bus. Nearby is a bar that’s been decorated to look like a saloon from the Wild West. “Territory Days Prices,” reads a sign above the door.

  “Hey, I guess I can deal with that,” Roy says. “Let me buy you one.”

  “Sure thing,” Ziggy nods. He can taste the dryness in his mouth, smell the dust on the windy air. “What about you, Lennie?”

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I thought I’d take a look at what’s happening down the block.”

  “We’ll join you after a drink,” Roy says. “How about you, Sharlene?”

  She’s already picked up with a pair of local cowboys. “These nice gentlemen have offered to show me around,” she says.

  Roy frowns. “You boys be awful sure you take good care of that little lady,” he says, and the bearded cowboys acknowledge this with a touch of their hats. When they leave, he shakes his head. “I bet she’d be able to find a man in one of those harems.”

  “She’s young,” Ziggy says. “She wants to have a little fun. Besides, how far can they go here?”

  They’re met by a blast of air-conditioning when they enter the bar but, after a short passageway, they encounter a set of swinging doors like the ones in the saloons of old westerns. The floor is covered with sawdust and behind the bar there’s a large gilt-edged mirror and a painting of Custer’s Last Stand. The furniture looks like the kind that gets routinely broken on the bodies of brawling Hollywood cowboys. Roy orders a couple of draughts of beer from the mustachioed bartender whose slick hair is parted in the middle.

  “I’ll be back in a minute,” Ziggy says when he sees the sign for the men’s room.

  The tinkling sounds of “Buffalo Gals, Won’t You Come Out Tonight” from an old-fashioned player piano follow him down the corridor, fading as the men’s room door closes behind him, but still distantly audible. He could be at a Saturday afternoon western at the Ritz Theatre back on Chene Street, and the thought pulls him into an abstracted state. The men’s room itself is clean and modern. A sweet soapy smell is a welcome relief to his dry nose, and a few feet away, across the tiled floor, there’s a sink with shiny chrome fixtures. He moves toward the gleaming porcelain bowl, still dimly aware of the music, which is now caught up in a dim roar, like the sound inside a seashell, coming in waves. He’s very tired, it hits him all at once, overwhelmingly weary from all this traveling—and he’s a bit woozy as well. He catches a brief glimpse of himself in the mirror and suddenly everything around him seems a hundred miles away, as if he’s dreaming all this; and then he’s on the floor, his cheek pressed against the cool tile. Hearing the loud beating of his heart, he wonders, what just happened? Did he actually faint? For a moment he’s not sure where he is, then, moment by moment, he orients himself. He blinks the world into darkness and then back to light. He moves his fingers, tentatively pushes out a foot—thank God he’s not paralyzed. He remembers feeling lightheaded just before everything went blank. Now, on the floor, he knows he has to get up but he isn’t ready yet. His heart races. What is it? All that sitting on the bus? Should he have been drinking more water? Is it his heart? Has he just had a stroke?

  Carefully he brings himself to his knees and rests there for a few seconds until with a grunt he’s ready to pull himself back into a standing position. Fortunately, no one else has come into the room. Most of the other passengers must have gone to see what was happening down the street. When he gets to his feet at last he leans on the sink, he waits for his head to clear and examines himself in the mirror. No cuts or bruises—he was lucky when he fell, he must have just crumpled. He turns the faucet and the water hisses, he splashes some on his face. But what the hell was that about? Looking down at his old man’s trembling hands, he realizes how scared he is. Is he sick? Is it possible that he’s going to die on this trip? Christ, I’m sixty-five years old. It could all be over for me in the blink of an eye. He feels a jolt of pure terror and stands there, leaning against the sink, letting the feeling pass through him.

  “You were in there a while,” Roy says when he returns. A good portion of his beer is already drunk.

  Ziggy tries for a smile, then settles carefully into his seat at the bar. “I think I prefer johns on dry land over that cramped little cabinet we have at the back of the bus,” he says.

  Roy nods, distracted, then sighs. “This trip is like some kind of bad dream for me. The closer we get to the finish, the slower things become.” There’s a note in his voice that Ziggy’s picked up on before, and he’s convinced that this is just an introduction, that Roy has something important to tell him. He re-experiences a brief twinge of the terror that visited him in the men’s room, but he takes a deep drag on his cigarette, holds in the tobacco smoke for a while before exhaling, and things are better. Not great, but better. “You eager to see your kid?” he asks.

  Roy takes a long drink and sighs, then shakes his head. “Not really,” he says. “No, not really at all.” There’s a pause before he goes on. “I don’t expect this to be an easy visit but it’s something I’ve got to do.”

  Ziggy takes a quick drink of his beer. “You and your kid don’t get along?” he asks.

  Roy sighs again. “Tyler is only part of the story,” he says. “You see . . .” He takes another swallow of beer before going on. When he resumes he has the resigned air of a suspect who’s decided to confess at last after a punishing round of questioning. “The fact is, for a long time I was a lousy husband and father.” He looks into his glass. “Lou and I had two kids, Martha and Tyler.” He pauses as if to allow Ziggy to digest this information. Still avoiding Ziggy’s eyes, he goes on. “The fact is, I had a rough time back in Texas.” He lifts a hand an inch or two from the table and lets it drop. “I basically got run out of town for my misbehavior, but the straw that broke my marriage was when my daughter ran away.” Once again he pauses before going on. “She was fifteen when she just took off one day in the middle of the week and left a note saying that she just couldn’t stand it anymore, all the fighting at home.” He stops as though pausing for breath.

  “You said your wife died five years ago?” Ziggy asks after a while.

  Roy leans forward heavily. “That’s right,” he says. “Only what I didn’t tell you is that she wasn’t my wife anymore by that time. She left me as soon as it was cl
ear Martha wasn’t coming back.” He shakes his head slowly. “We drove her away, she said, and she was right. I suppose what she was really saying was that I drove her away, and I’ll accept that.” He runs his fingers abstractedly along the sides of his glass. “I was too busy with other things, I guess. You see, my father was a preacher and I’d had a pretty deprived time of it when I was growing up, and as soon as I got free of him I told myself I was going to enjoy life. Well, enjoying life meant drinking, gambling and partying.” When he stops it’s clear he’s remembering specific scenes. “I never noticed,” he goes on, “that time was passing real quick and my kids were growing up. Pretty soon my little daughter was a teenager, she needed more from me. And my son too, for that matter . . .” He drifts off.

  The piano continues playing music from the old west, and the two of them turn when a pair of gray-bearded men who could be car salesmen enter the saloon, bringing with them a brief wash of sound from the outside. “Yee-haw, I’ve got me a real thirst,” one of them shouts. “Ditto for me,” the other echoes, and they belly up to the other end of the bar.

  When things settle down Roy resumes his story, his voice firmer now. “OK, why I’m on this trip. Lately I’ve had reason to believe that Tyler has been in contact with his sister—no proof, really, but some interesting indications.” He nods to himself. “That’s what I’m going there to see him about. Now the problem is, he and I don’t get along very well, we don’t communicate much: he doesn’t write, he won’t answer my calls. The only way I’ll ever get him to talk about his sister is if I go to see him.”