Bluegrass Symphony

by Lisa L. Hannett

  A few seconds later the car’s high beams were tearing his eyes open, its crumpled carcass ploughing a ten-metre gash into the crops. Vaguely, he recalls a high-pitched clinking—like dozens of ice cubes dropping into empty tumblers. Walking back and forth between the truck and the roadside, he sees a trail of broken glass, feels thousands of diamond shards crunching beneath his steel-capped work boots. A glittering parabola describing the car’s trajectory after it ricocheted off the truck’s cab. Lord, he thinks. Not again.

  He’d almost made it this time: there and back with no incidents. And so close to the warehouse . . . it wasn’t fair. Fuck, he thinks, making another trip over to survey the wreck. Fuck. He pinches the bridge of his nose, rubs thumb and finger around his tired eyes. So tired. Cybill’s been telling him to quit for months, saying he’ll lose his pay-outs if Al fires him first. Just one more haul, he’d reply, ignoring the risk; forgetting the number of times he’s said the same thing. One more and we’ll have enough to get married, good and proper.

  That’s what he tells her, the terms of his contract coating each word with lies.

  “You got room for us in that truck?” The woman has a toddler on her hip and an arm around the oldest husk of a person Haros has seen in ages. White fluffs of hair top a balding head; a shrivelled face drips wrinkles down the neckline of a button-up shirt. Only sign she’s a she is her long floral skirt and the stockings elephanting into old lady sandals. Clinging to her granny is a young girl who looks a few years younger than Cybill’s kids, about ten or eleven at most.

  He looks at them, at the mess of their vehicle, and sends a prayer of thanks to whatever God is listening at that hour that no one else has yet driven past. “I don’t know, darlin’—”

  Deaf to morals and ethics, his instincts tell him to hop in the rig and floor it. Clouds block most of the moonlight and his cap obscures the parts of his face not already covered by his beard. He keeps his gaze averted so they won’t see his greyish-blue irises; Cybill thinks his eyes are what people notice first. They’re memorable, she says. They’re fierce. He’s not so sure. Line him up with a handful of other truckers, pull faded black Styx t-shirts over their beer bellies, hang sleeveless jean jackets on their shoulders and dangle a few coins like novelty buttons from their vest pockets—no one would be able to tell him from the rest of them. And with no witnesses . . .

  No. Running isn’t really an option. Such things always catch up with him—time and distance are flimsy protection from responsibility. If thirty years on the road has taught him anything, it’s taught him this: out here, it’s depot to depot. No matter how long the haul, you finish what you start.

  He opens the passenger door, takes his lumbar support belt from the seat. Cinching it tight around his thick waist, he clears his throat. “Where you headed?”

  The women follow him to the back of the refrigerated trailer, watch him check the bolts on the double doors. How long has he been idling here? No one will profit if the meat defrosts before he can deliver it, least of all him. He’s only just repaid Al for the last time—a detour across the border to a hacienda filled with the tightest women you ever saw. Two days round-trip and such a change in temperature he lost ninety grand’s worth of grass-fed beef and his job along with it. Neither was his fault. He had no choice: he couldn’t leave the minivan’s passengers stranded with their only means of transport destroyed, steaming its last breath on the gravel shoulder. What the girls looked like had nothing to do with it. Al had thought otherwise. Of course, that was before Haros found Cybill, and more than a year before his boss put him back on the books. Now, he was reassured by the sound of the trailer’s coolers humming, the roar of his engine reduced to a waiting purr. As long as the cargo is secure, he reckons, so is his future.

  “Listen, mister.” The woman’s voice wavers to stifle tears, talking through shock. “We ain’t got the right insurance.” Unconsciously, she adjusts her hold on her wriggling son, starts again. “This trip wasn’t planned, so to speak. Losing the car don’t worry us none, right Mamma?” Granny shakes her head as wrinkles curve up her cheeks. “And we can’t stay here—who knows what’d happen to us.”

  Haros keeps quiet, heads towards the hatchback and gives them a few minutes to think about what they’re saying. The lasting implications.

  “So, look.” The woman pauses as he looks through the crushed window panes, tilting his head as though listening. “We’d be awfully grateful if maybe you could, you know, give us a lift?”

  Rattling the driver’s-side door, he feels like bolting but knows he can’t. Knows he won’t. He exhales, then turns to look at her directly. “You know where you’re headed?”

  The woman nods slowly, watching Haros work. Again, she nods and tells him what they’d had in mind.

  The east coast; a beach. He curses under his breath. Granny—her name’s Daena, he’s told—used to go there with her family as a kid. She wanted to see the sun rise over the ocean once more before she meets Jesus, the daughter says. The woman: Sissy. Nowhere near as good-looking as Cybill, but friendly enough to spend a few hours with. He helps them all into the cab, shows them where they can sit.

  No more than three hours until dawn. “That explains the speed.” Did Haros say this out loud or in his head? Then, or now? Sometimes it’s all a muddle. “Give me a sec to clean up here,” he said. He knows he said.

  His hands are stained by the time he’s done. A properly frozen side of beef sounds like wood when struck—he hopes all his cargo will pass this test once he arrives. Brushing the dirt and filth from his jeans, he takes a moment to calm himself, to adjust his timelines. Just a few extra hours, he thinks. It’s better than days. Now, sitting safely in his rig, the wooden beads of his seat cover pressing into his sore back, he finally smells burnt rubber. Smoke. Spilled fuel. Char from a barbeque.

  He’d smelled nothing at the time.

  “All set?” The cheer in Sissy’s voice is forced. The family is settled: Daena and her daughter bracket the little girl, Penny, while the youngest member is passed from lap to lap. “Tha’s a truck,” the boy says, nodding and pointing earnestly.

  Crescent moons of sweat are acrid under Haros’ arms. He turns up the air-conditioning even though the window is still down. Rubs the red from his eyes, grips the steering wheel. Just a detour, he tells himself, glad the key is already turned in the ignition. Back to the sea.

  A faded tattoo runs the length of his right forearm: a long twisted staff pushing a skiff from elbow to wrist; the sun and moon merging like a yin-yang symbol where other folks might wear a watch; the whole thing framed with writing in some language Sissy’s never seen before—all upside-down Vs and pointy Es. Angles so sharp they could cut.

  She watches his red-rimmed fingers brush the black hair around on his arm; now casting the image in shadow, now revealing it.

  “What’s it mean, mister?” she asks.

  “Haros.” He spits the word from his throat, guttural emphasis on the H. The look she throws him is pure confusion. “Not the tatt,” he says. “The name. Haros. Call me Harry—most do.”

  “Like you, Harry-berry,” Sissy says, pulling the boy closer, pressing her cheek against his soft curls. Her sing-song tone leaves a taste of bile in Haros’ mouth.

  “Tha’s a truck.” The toddler shrinks from the hug. Pudgy hands reaching for the pile of change in the ashtray, he eyes the driver warily.

  “Ma, tell him to stop saying that.” Penny squirms between her mother and Daena, pries the silver quarter from little Harry’s fingers.

  Sissy blushes and apologizes. “He always fixates on the last thing he sees.”

  Haros understands; he’s dealt with plenty of kids. The woman smiles then, and repeats her question.

  He suddenly wishes they’d all just shut up. Taking a deep breath, he contracts his diaphragm; tries to smother the vines of anxiety sprouting from his stomach, groping from his oes
ophagus to strangle his heart. The odometer ticks over as he exhales.

  “Stint in the navy,” he says, which is mostly true. It was a long time ago. He’d captained a boat, nothing too grand, no more than a handful of passengers in one go and him the only crew. The work was cold but regular. Always, he knew what to expect. He picked folks up, dropped them off; it wasn’t brain surgery. The gig got him a berth on the vessel, hot meals when his guts rumbled, a few coins in the bank. No surprises. For a while, it’d been enough.

  The squall changed everything. He’d grown so complacent pushing bodies around in the water that it shook him to the bones having to pluck one from the waves instead. At first, he’d thought she was a mermaid—all delicate skin and weedy hair—but she was just a little girl. Swept overboard, she was half-drowned but still full of fight. Every inch of her twelve-year-old frame screamed it wasn’t her time to die. And Haros had agreed.

  He’d jumped in. Dragged her out. Returned her to her family, saved them premature grief. He hadn’t felt like a hero; it’d been a fluke. He was paid to make deliveries, not retrievals. The child was an aberration. But for the first time, the thought of doing his job gave him chills. For the first time, he ached for dry land.

  Two days after selling his boat, he got a letter of thanks from the little girl’s family. Nearly three decades later Cybill rediscovered his name, tracked him down to repay him herself. And after sharing his bed that night, she’d stuck around. It was a first: having a constant friend, a stable lover. So much better than the roadhouse tarts he used to bring home—so fulfilling, he sometimes isn’t sure which of them is more grateful she didn’t drown that day.

  Now she works at the diner near their place, brings home leftover cherry pie on Sundays. Makes him egg salad sandwiches and packs them in a mini cooler with a couple cans of cola and a mickey of rum. “For the truck stop,” she warns, teasing him with the bottle and a cheeky grin. “Not a drop before you’ve pulled over, you hear?”

  Haros’ mouth is dry.

  He could offer his passengers a bite to eat, but doesn’t. Ordeals like the one they’ve been through tonight have a way of stealing the appetite. And they’ve other things to deal with than hunger.

  “Wonder what the cops will do when they find our car,” Sissy says.

  Penny perks up. “I bet they’ll measure the skid marks on the road and dust for fingerprints and see if there are different colours of paint in the smashed-up parts.” She pauses to catch her breath. “And they’ll look it up on the computer, find out which dealership makes those paint colours and search for licence plate numbers that match.” Excited now. “They’ll narrow it down to a few different people who’ve bought those cars and then they’ll see who has a record.” She smiles at Haros, smug and accusing.

  “Hoo-ee, girl! Look who’s got some school learning in her.” Daena’s dentures click when she talks, whistling the Ss. Penny falls quiet, her face red. Embarrassed by Granny’s ignorance or because she’s got most of that shit knowledge from late-night TV. Far as Haros knows, real cops take much longer to figure things out, if they ever do.

  Especially when there’s so little evidence.

  A gas station glows on the horizon. Haros doesn’t usually make stops so close to his destination, but tonight is an exception. The rig’s too crowded. The travellers won’t stop talking to him. Won’t stop staring. He can’t look at them directly, their faces grey with the night’s final hours. Mile after mile, he feels their gazes boring into his skull. Penetrating. Questioning.

  Every time he blinks, he sees the four of them inside their hatchback.

  Eighteen wheels spit out gravel on the road’s soft shoulder then rumble to a halt under a cluster of spotlights near the station’s gas pumps. The tail-end of a Johnny Neel tune crackles out of a hidden PA system. The singer’s nasal melody falls into the pot of black coffee a young waitress carries between tables on the sidewalk outside. Focused on the lengths of their own journeys, not a one of the diners spares the rig a second glance.

  “Stay here,” Haros says, grabbing a handful of change and throwing the door open. “I need to piss.” Bluish light fills the truck’s cab; garish and too bright. He squints and adjusts the peak of his cap.

  In his mind, the car’s high beams are still blinding.

  In some ways it was easier on the boat. Less mess, fewer conflicts. He turns the bathroom faucets on full, splashes his face until the front of his t-shirt is soaked. Water gushes down the drain, the sound echoing around the tiny concrete room. He closes his eyes and imagines himself as the vortex in a whirlpool. The calm point after the gales, a hush after the noise. Empty and rudderless. Alone.

  In a flash the space fills with bodies. Bloated. Bloody. Mangled. They rush in, waggle their familiar heads, their silenced mouths, then disappear with the tap’s squeaking shut. He grips the basin, waits for his heart to stop racing. When he can bear to reopen his eyes he ignores his reflection in the mirror. The fluorescent ceiling light hums and flickers, its glass littered with fruit fly corpses. How do they get in there? He doesn’t bother switching it off as he leaves.

  Damp and standing out in the fresh night air, he is overwhelmed by an urge to call Cybill. To tell her everything. To be absolved.

  Though he knows it’s useless, he pats at his back pocket to find his phone. Flips it open. Still dead. He spots a rusty public booth at the far end of the parking lot, heads for it. A series of dimes and nickels chinks into the bashed-up coin slot as he presses the receiver to his ear. Please wake up, he thinks. His hand so jittery he screws up the number and has to start dialling again.

  He leans against the cold glass, oblivious to the graffiti and gobs of dried spit marring its surface. One ring; he shifts from foot to foot. Two, three, four; there’s a click followed by Cybill’s voice. He swallows the lump in his throat and hangs up without leaving a message.

  Staring at his stained boots as he walks back to the truck, he hears the buzz of walkie-talkies before he sees any cops. State troopers, what looks to be a whole fleet of them, line up at the bowsers. It takes all his willpower to keep from breaking into a run.

  “Hey—" The lawman is stocky and holds his chest out like a peacock. “Hey, you.”

  Shit. Haros shoves his hands into his pockets, tries to look casual as he picks up the pace. He keeps his eyes forward, focused on the truck. On the folks inside it.

  Footsteps on gravel behind him; walking then jogging.

  His pulse races. Sweat trickles down his back.

  “Hey!” The cop grabs Haros’ arm, spins him around—then snatches his hand away as though burned. The teamster’s body is so tense it prevents him from striking.

  “That your rig?”

  Haros nods. “Why?”

  “Quite a ding you’ve got there,” the trooper says. “Ain’t safe driving around with half your front lights smashed.”

  Fucking do-gooders. Haros thinks quick. “Yeah,” he replies with all the pleasant he can muster. “Twelve-point bucks’ll do that.”

  The cop whistles through his front teeth. “Shit. You keep the meat?”

  No one ’round these parts would leave something that valuable behind. It wouldn’t be right for him not to have picked it up. Haros swallows. “In the back.”

  “You planning on using it? I mean, my cousin’s a butcher—” The policeman saunters over to the trailer, keen to have a gander. “Mind if I take a look?”

  Clenching his fists, Haros wonders how hard he’ll have to belt the cop to knock him out. Adrenaline courses through him until he’s short of breath and his temples throb. He’s never hit a soul in his life. Not with his hands.

  Beep! B-b-b-beeeep! Styrofoam coffee cups teeter on the police cruiser’s roof as the cop’s partner wails on the horn. “Problem, McAllister?”

  “Nah,” the trooper calls over his shoulder. “Reckon this feller’s got a side of venison
up for grabs.” The grin he shoots in Haros’ direction is crooked and shows too many teeth. “Don’t you, buddy?”

  Turning to a pair of officers in the neighbouring car, the partner chuckles. “Opportunistic fucker, ain’t he?” Still laughing, he calls out, “We got to roll, Sarge. You can do your wheelin’ and dealin’ off the clock.”

  “Shit.” McAllister slaps Haros on the shoulder, pats him like he would a dog. “Sorry, pal. Maybe next time.”

  Incoherent farewells garble from the trucker’s mouth before he finds himself back in the driver’s seat, slamming the door. Gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles whiten, he puts his forehead on his hands and fights the urge to weep.

  “Everything okay?” Sissy whispers because the kids are looking dozy, and she thinks they might drop off if she leaves them to it. Granny’s staring out the window, face aglow as the first hints of pink bleed into the sky. The air in the cab crackles with static. Seagull cries fill Haros’ ears. He tastes seaweed and salt; smells rotten fish, earthworms, the electric zing of ozone that precedes a storm. He shakes his head to clear it. For a second it feels like his callused hands are gripping an oar.