“It’s not pity!” Casper flared.
“Calm down, honey,” she said, her voice deepening. “I didn’t mean no diss. Like you said, everything’s gonna be all right.”
They drove in silence for quite a while then and the girl nodded out. Sometimes she seemed to spasm in pain, but didn’t wake. Casper was left looking through a windshield darkly . . . the long black runway of the interstate . . . semi-trailers and cars with license plates from all over America—until the lights of Tulsa—clean sharp buildings downtown, donkey oil rigs still on the fringe. When Joe was drunk he used to sing that old Gene Pitney song . . . I was only twenty-four hours from Tulsa. Cracking the window, he caught the whiff of nitrogen and ozone—tornado perfume.
What in God’s name was he doing, trying to save a teenage hooker? She was probably a drug addict too. At any moment he’d expected her to break out a pack of menthol cigarettes—and that would’ve been it. He hated smoking worse than pimps or police. But no, she just chewed her Black Jack gum, which scented her purse like the Poison. He took a gander while she was dozing—a little Troll Doll key ring slipped in beside condoms and a packet of lube.
He changed the station on the radio, keeping it down low while she slept. It was just an evangelist reaching out to the lost souls of the night. But he heard the voice of Reverend America . . . We shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed, in a moment, in the twinkling of any eye, at the last trump: for the trumpet shall sound and the dead shall be raised incorruptible, and we shall be changed.
The sky turned gunmetal blue and then a time-lapse eerie red that reminded him of the color of her hair. He’d snuck a couple of gazes at her breasts and felt bad about it. But it yielded some forgiveness for the orthodontist. There was in fact nothing he wanted more than to lower her seat back—but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. The bruise set him thinking of Summer, all that he’d never known about her, and all that he wanted to share. Touch me, Reverend America, touch me in the name of Jesus.
She stirred awake when they made the outskirts of Oklahoma City. He tried to remember the last time he’d been there—and thought of the bombing tragedy that had been eclipsed by 9/11. He checked the weather reports again. There’d been a major strike just due south. He took an exit where there were some fast food places and pulled into an Arby’s parking lot.
“I’m going to take a bit of a nap—then we’ll grab some food when they open,” he said. “They’ll have tornado sirens here. If you’re still around when I wake up, we’ll head south and hope we don’t get blown away.”
He undid his safety belt and went out like a light. There were some dreams at first—faces and fragments from the faith healing days . . . Berina, Summer . . . Old Joe out in the mesquite with General Douglas MacArthur . . . and then just darkness like the Oklahoma highway they’d come in on.
He woke up, wondering where he was. Where his knapsack was.
“Whoa Mr. Casper—the world’s still here. And so’s your bag.”
He glanced around—she was still there. And she had food—he could smell it.
“I got you a Sausage, Egg and Cheese Biscuit—thought that would be more your style than a wrap. And some black coffee. You look like a black coffee man.”
“Th-thanks,” he mumbled, still trying to get his bearings. From the light of the sky it seemed much later than he’d expected . . . a forbidding gray streaked across the blue, huge cumulus thunderheads down to the south.
“You call that a nap?” the girl joked. “I coulda done a tour of the town.”
“How—long have I been out?” he asked—he thought his shirt smelled more of her perfume than before.
“Four solid hours. Y’all needed it, I could tell.”
“What have you been doing?”
“I had to get walkin’. I quit smokin’ for the baby—when I found out—and sometimes the gum just don’t cut it.”
He noticed she’d zipped up her jacket and shed the torn nylons. She held up a foot. “Lost the chase me-catch me-fuck me shoes and got some cheap sneaks. Eat yer food. I had mine ages ago.”
He tore into the breakfast fodder. It tasted as good as Cameron Blanchard’s pork and peach mangle.
“Good to see a man like you with some appetite—for something,” she remarked—and then winked. “Who’s Berina? You were talking in your sleep about her . . . and Bible shit.”
“Uh,” he struggled. “She . . . was a woman who saved me.”
“Lover?”
“No,” he managed after a slurp of coffee. “More like the mother I never had.”
“So, I have her to thank. She taught you good, Mr. Casper. They got them some clean bathrooms in there.”
He took her advice, took his pack and took his time. Since they’d bought food, he didn’t worry about being stopped. It felt good to wash up and the toilet was clean—something that’s often hard to find in Men’s Rooms on the road. He brushed and flossed his teeth—polished his Red Wings, and changed his socks and underwear.
“Let’s roll then,” he said when he got back to the car. “It’s later than I thought.”
“There’s news about twisters where we’re goin’. Maybe we should hang?”
“We need to get rid of this car soon. We need to get farther away from Joplin—and we need to think about getting you to a hospital for the baby,” he responded. “The twisters can’t be predicted. I say we run for it.”
“You’re drivin’ and savin’,” she said. “You want some money for gas?”
Minutes later, fueled up on both counts, they were heading south on I-35, one of the greatest American roadways that runs from Duluth all the way to Laredo.
“I hate hospitals, man,” she said.
“We all do,” Casper answered, thinking back to the infirmary in jail.
The sky had gone white, and he wished he knew more about this aunt of hers—that there’d been more contact of late. After going looking for a son he turned out not to have had or was in any case dead in Hartford, he was afraid they were chasing butterflies. He didn’t have much choice after Rick James—he had to get out of Joplin. She, however, needed someone to foot her hospital bill . . . and a whole lot more. He kept the radio on for news about the tornadoes . . . there was talk about a super cell building. But it was better than squawkback about the broken economy and the healthcare system. Deeper into the ruins of One Flag, One School, One Bible country they rolled—the land Old Joe came from. Rinder Country.
They passed through Moore and then by the exit for Norman . . . Goldsby, Purcell, Wayne. The names of the towns on the water towers reminded him of Poppy and Rose’s aliases. But would’ve happened to him if they hadn’t come along? He’d never been able to answer that question. He could’ve ended up like Dowdy, the church handyman.
Paul’s Valley . . . Wynnewood . . . he talked with Little Red over the radio as the miles turned over. She asked him about the “Bible shit” and he told her a little about Reverend America. She told him more about Swivel and Bobby P.
Casper stopped looking in the rearview mirror for state police, although he couldn’t help notice Angelike fidgeting in apparent discomfort. She didn’t make any remark though. She just chatted—she was good at small talk—and sometimes she sang a bit of a song he didn’t know. She had a lovely, yet childish voice. At one point, she reached back and opened her bag and tugged out a t-shirt. The fake leather jacket came off and Casper caught an eyeful of round teenage breasts before the white cotton slipped over them. She laughed.
“Good to see ya take notice. I knew you wanted to jump my bones. Y’all just too decent. Ain’t known many like that. Forgive a girl, eh?”
“I forgive you.”
“What are ya gonna do . . . in Austin?” she asked.
“Let’s get there first,” he said, pointing out the window. To the east they saw a towering mass of red and brown dust that still had substance. “It’s just good the road’s not closed. That one must’ve leapt the highway.”
There was a sudden flittering of rain and then almost phosphorescent clanging hail. They were in the midst of old cotton land, the greedy farming practices that had killed the soil and caused the Dustbowl crisis. Then oil had been discovered and all around them still were derricks, somnolent mechanical beasts pumping in narcotic rhythm. Into Carter County. Lightning blazed over the Arbuckle Mountains and wind buffeted the Buick. The sky was red and lowering—then through Ardmore, it went Valley of Decision dark.
Ardmore’s a Santa Fe railroad town built on oil, home to Michelin—and it’s seen its share of twisters. But what Casper and Angelike saw then was a real frightener. It was the kind of tornado that’s called a wedge—but this was a wall. Pure black cloud, with traces of red dust like blood. The radio crackled with warnings and advisories for people to take cover . . . a refuge center had been set up in the WinStar World Casino. The air pressure changed even inside the car. “Holy sheet!” Angelike blurted, clutching her stomach. Casper turned off into town. It wasn’t safe in amongst buildings, but it was safer than being in the open. The cars and trucks on the street were driving fast, tornado sirens sounding.
He turned down Washington and sped for a parking lot. He knew they needed to be in amongst some structures but still somewhat in the open. He found a Best Dollar lot and drove to the far end. There were a few cars left. The earlier twister just north had gotten people mobilized. The sirens continued. Then the colossus hit—with a full-jacked freight train reverberation that seemed to be both coming up out of the ground and just above their heads.. And I will darken the earth in the clear day.
Red-brown chunks of field and road whooshed and boomed in a black-cold angry gale laced with flying fire—taking with it streetlights, signs and roofs. Plate glass exploded and window frames whisked away like cards. Trees ripped loose from their roots. A length of rain guttering smashed into the side of the Buick . . . the vehicle rocked . . . whole sections of street awnings whipped and bounced, no better than snapped spokes of umbrellas . . . plasma televisions blew by and seemed to vaporize . . . some cars in the parking lot tumbled . . . while lumber and even steel struts shot overhead as if they were toothpicks. The Voice of the Whirlwind . . .
And then, just as suddenly as it had emerged on the near horizon, the behemoth was past, dwindling in a wreckage of smoke and fluttering debris. Flaps, shutters and shards of town struck the pavement or wisped down like newspaper ash. The sirens whined on. Angelike was hysterical and Casper realized they were squeezing each other tight, as if they could keep from being seized by the storm. He felt the bump again. Everything’s connected, even as it blows apart, he said to himself. To her he said, “Shh, now. It’s gone.” So was a good bit of Ardmore and the surrounding countryside.
He got out to inspect the car, still shaking inside. The whole world seemed to have changed. He tried to focus on the car, their vehicle of deliverance. A side panel had been sheared in, but the fuel tank hadn’t been hit and the tire was still intact and free of the wheel well. Boy, they’d been lucky. Many other cars had been demolished—and then he turned—and spied one lying upside down on the store roof.
“This is the storm belt. It’s running west to east. I think if we can get south now, we’ll be all right. You OK?”
“I ain’t never seen anything like that,” the girl answered, her voice numb, her face still scrunched like a test pilot on a rocket sled.
“Me neither,” Casper said, and it was true, except in dreams and hallucinations.
He fired up the Buick and weaved their way out between the clutter of the parking lot, people scurrying, voices rife . . . the streets a havoc of insurance claims. There’d be a serious body count with this one. He spun the wheel, dodging between the scrambling figures.
But the route back to the interstate was blocked with fallen trees and littered concrete—police cars and emergency vehicles everywhere—lights flashing. He had to turn around and get there another way. There were streets with no one on them—and others congested with traffic and panic. Rescue crews and firemen were already on the job. Several fires had broken out and pieces of buildings kept collapsing. As they drove, they felt more and more grateful. A motorcycle had been implanted in the side of a house and the sides of many houses had either been stove in or torn loose altogether. More than a few houses, Casper suspected, weren’t standing or had yet to land. It had been a vengeful, Godlike thing.
Shops and city buildings had fared a little better, but there was rubble everywhere, dust thick all around. He picked his way through the shambles, trying to find an open street, when they passed the old folks’ home.
It wasn’t some kind of retirement complex like where he’d once mowed lawns—it was a nursing home, a convalescent hospital—or at least it had been a few moments before. Now? It wasn’t good. Some of the roof had been split off, the rest had crumbled down. This was the sort of place that he’d been hearing about—where they were shoving the oldsters out onto the street. He thought of the man in St. Louis. In the aftermath of what Jeremiah would’ve called a “destroying wind,” it looked like a lot of their work here had been done for them. There were no ambulances around, no rescue crews—and yet when he stopped the car and rolled down his window, he could hear people calling for help. He put the car in park and shut off the ignition.
“Duddn’t take a mind reader to see you’re set on helpin’ more strangers,” Angelike said, shaking her red mane.
“C’mon,” he said. “There are people trapped in there.”
He said that knowing that those people had been trapped in there before the tornado. He turned Angelike around and sent her back to the car when he got the first hint of how bad things really were. It wasn’t just the damage from the twister that was to blame.
There was a pungent smell of urine and tainted food. It appeared that all of the staff had fled and left the patients, or rather inmates, on their own. The facility was desolate of any authority and the destruction was intense.
He helped one crone reinstate her oxygen supply—struck by the expression of terror and surprise in her eyes. He wasn’t sure what else he could do, except call the fire department or one of the real hospitals. There were many others that were past all help. Some of the healthier, more mobile ones appeared to have been buried under a section of roof. A couple of wards had been obliterated, leaving only limbs and medical hardware. Bedpans, meal trays. He checked the pulse of a lean effigy of a man—who made him think of what he might look like in death himself one day. Then he noticed the full-to-bursting catheter bag. This had been a place of living death and maybe the tornado had been an act of grace. He knew the man had died of heart failure only moments before.
He pulled some ceiling panels off a couple of others, brushed off a woman in a wheelchair that made him think of old Jessie. The old lady wanted to call her family—he gave her some water. But the scope of the problem was much more than he could resolve. The facility should’ve been inspected and condemned well before any tornado attack. The walls were flimsy, the construction unsound—still from the look of the bathrooms and the kitchen, the real horror was the absence of any standard of care. He wished all the residents could’ve been raptured to Kingdom Come. He sought out a telephone. As he’d surmised, the line was dead. Then he heard the car horn honking. The girl was priority one.
He raced back outside through the remnants of the facility just as the rest of the roof went down and the street-side wall gave in. A minute more and he’d have been spattered. Angelike was still pounding the horn, the pleading of it just another voice of distress amongst many—but hers was the voice that called him. The moment she saw him, she pointed.
Another twister had formed, as often happens in the path of a big brute. This was a very different kind—a tight funnel touching down and then rambling . . . staggering. Black liver blood and paving sand. Casper hadn’t run anywhere since the cops had chased him in Hartford, but he sprinted then—and took the old man out in a dive—the wheeling pillar just passing b
y—like a thousand snakes groping for their legs—vacuum cleaners mouthing their pant legs—pellets of shredded street pelting them.
Without stopping to think, he grabbed the old man up and ruckered him back to the car. Across his chest and around his neck was some kind of tape recorder and headset. Unlike most of the other denizens of the home, he was fully dressed—a rumpled oversized checked shirt and threadbare secondhand trousers—with a still thick head of silver hair and a face that was as worn as tornado stricken clapboard. Casper stuffed him in the back seat, jumped in and spun a wheelie U-turn and then a hard right down another street, heading toward the interstate but behind and south of the funnel.
“Holy moly,” Angelike let out. “You still run as good as you fight. Bad?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Those people were fucked before all this.”
“So, you do swear?” she said. “That’s good to hear. What about him?”
Casper swerved around some wrecked vehicles and put on the parking brake. “You all right?” he asked the old man—not having any idea what to do with him. “I said, you all right?”
“My name is Hoptree Bark and I’m 151 years old,” the man replied.
“Sheet!” Angelike scoffed. “I believe his ass.”
“I’m a communist rabble rousing, labor organizing, folk singing legend,” the old man informed them. “I was born during the Civil War—I fought in World War I. I’ve sung the blues and ridden trains.” Then he proceeded to sing . . .
Then the moon arose and the stars came out
He was ditched on the Gila Monster Route
“Oh, great,” Angelike said. “You bagged us a real basket case.”
“I take exception to that, Miss,” the old man quipped. “I may be ten times your age, but I’m as lucid as lemonade. I just happen to have a diagnosed psychological condition called Benjamin Franklinism.”
“What’s that?” Casper asked, noticing that the legend had thick, blurry cataracts in both eyes. With the headset on, no wonder he was unaware of the second tornado.
Reverend America: A Journey of Redemption Page 13