To Sleep Gently

by Trent Zelazny

  Pulling to the side of the road just past the Subaru, Dempster killed the engine of the Honda Freddy had given him, and climbed out. Other than himself and this family of. three, it looked like, the highway was deserted.

  "Thanks for stopping," the man said. "We've been stuck here for over an hour."

  "Apparently not a big day for travel," Dempster said, looking once again up and down the road.

  "Guy came by about fifteen minutes ago," the man said. "Slowed down, laughed in my face, and took off. Asshole. You got a cell phone on you?"

  "Yeah, but I already know it's out of range. What's the problem?"

  "Not sure. I don't understand cars to save my life. I look there under the hood, and all I see is a jumble of metal and rubber. It's like a jigsaw puzzle and I've never been good at those. I could stand here a whole year and not know a damn thing about what I was looking at."

  The front passenger door opened. A woman, give or take around the man's age—late fifties or early sixties—stepped out and joined them at the engine. With the years she had on her, she wore them nicely. Her warm smile, for whatever reason, made Dempster think of honey, and a certain gleam in her eye said that she'd spent a lot of time at the bottom but could still see the top.

  "Well, I'm no mechanic, but let's have a look and see what we find."

  "I appreciate it," the man said. "Hillary and I here, we're on our way to Taos. Sandra, in the car, stayed to finish school. Folks moved there about a year ago. Now we're helping move her. Haven't seen my brother since they left Tulsa."

  Dempster looked down at the engine. "What did the car do?"

  "We were driving along, and all of a sudden it just cut out"—he snapped his fingers—"like that. Had the thing tuned up right before we left, too.

  Wanted to take it to Jimmy Landis. Been my mechanic for years, but he couldn't do it in time so I took it to one of those chain places. Didn't want to but sometimes you don't have much choice. I bet, though, had Jimmy done the tune up, we wouldn't have been sitting here for the last hour."

  "You could be right," Dempster said. "Fortunate for you, though, it looks like it might just be, go try it."

  "What, already?"

  "Yeah, give it a shot."

  "You've barely touched anything."

  "Hopefully I don't have to touch any more."

  The man stood there, looking at him. An unsaid message passed between them. A moment later the man removed his indignant stare, shrugged, and walked around the car.

  Dempster glanced at Hillary. The woman tapped her foot at nothing in particular on the ground, then smiled, and asked with a soft voice, "Where are you headed?"

  "Actually I'm heading to New Mexico myself," Dempster said. "Santa Fe."

  Just then the engine cranked and the car came to life.

  "How do you like that?" the man said climbing back out. "Man practically just looks at the thing and he gets it going. You got some sort of divine power or something?"

  "It's nothing," Dempster said. "The coil wire just came out of the distributor. Probably didn't put it on well enough during the tune up. Simple mistake."

  "Well, all the same, I'll be giving those goofballs a call when we get back to Tulsa, that's for sure. And where the hell are my manners, anyway? I'm Burt Colvin." He offered his hand.

  "Jack Driscoll," Dempster said, accepting it.

  "Nice to meet you, Jack. Guess you already know, but this is my wife Hillary, and still tucked away in the car there like a mole in the ground is our niece Sandra." Then to his niece, "Sandra, come out here and meet Mister Driscoll."

  The door had been open since he'd first pulled up, but what emerged from it took him by surprise. First of all, she wasn't some seventeen-year-old google-eyed little girl like he'd expected when Burt said she had just finished school. If she had just finished high school then she had to be dumb as a post because she looked to be closer to around twenty-four or -five. The innocence that stared from her eyes could have been interpreted as a sign of stupidity, but Dempster knew it wasn't. Her delicate, almost porcelain-like face was accented lightly with freckles, while her auburn hair was cut to tickle her shoulders, and her tiny impromptu smile sent a buzz through Dempster he didn't know he could have.

  Her voice embodied genuine friendliness, too, light and bouncy without seeming inane when she said, "Nice to meet you, Mister Driscoll. Thanks for stopping and helping us out."

  Reaching to shake her hand, Dempster fought an urge to pull her to him. It had been a long time since he'd felt anything like this. Fortunately he won against the temptation and simply replied with, "Nice to meet you, Sandra. Glad to be of service."

  "Where you on your way to, Jack?"

  Dempster tore his gaze away from Sandra and brought it to the inquiring Burt. "Santa Fe," he said. "Heading out there for a job and to see an old friend."

  "Well, that's not more than a little over an hour from Taos. We'll practically be neighbors, at least for a couple days." He looked at his wife and niece, then back to Dempster. "Tell you what. Next town can't be too far by now. You wanna follow us in, make sure we get there all right, we'd love to buy you some lunch."

  "That's not necessary, Burt."

  "Of course it isn't, but we'd sure like to. Only decent man on this side of the Mississippi, I'd like to buy that man lunch. C'mon, what do you say?"

  Dempster looked down the lonely stretch of road. When he brought his attention back, his eyes instantly focused on Sandra, who was smiling and giving the smallest, subtlest nod of encouragement. She didn't even seem aware that she was doing it.

  "Well," Dempster said, "I guess I would be a fool to say no."

  2

  The Weary Traveler was a large place, behind the times, high-ceilinged and grungy, with metal furniture appearing rustic only due to its loss of varnish. The corner booth they sat in was much too large for four people, the music being played was the undesirable and forgotten stuff from the 50s and early 60s, and the air-conditioning was too high. The walls boasted photographs of old movie stars, as well as classic film posters. On the wall, directly behind Burt, was a framed picture of James Cagney, while to the left and right were posters for the Cagney films White Heat and The Public Enemy. High above was a mock road sign that said CAGNEY CORNER. Dempster saw no connection whatsoever between the diner's name and interior scheme.

  "They don't do a bad chicken fried steak," Burt said cutting away at it. "I sense it's probably a triple bypass served up on a platter, but it works well enough for me." He shoveled another bite into his mouth and looked at Dempster. "So what are you supposed to do when you get to this museum?"

  "On this trip I'll mostly be studying and appraising," Dempster said. "Some questions were raised not long ago as to whether some of the pieces were legit. You know, the real thing? If they are, then it's up to me to see if the value held on them is accurate, and if they're not the real thing—forgeries—I need to find out if they're anything worthwhile at all, or if they should just be junked."

  "Don't take this the wrong way, Jack, but from the looks of you, you don't strike me as someone that would deal with works of art."

  "You're not the first person to ever tell me that."

  "You seem more rugged and masculine than the common image of an art appraiser."

  "All different kinds of people for all different kinds of jobs," Dempster told him, and tossed a casual glance toward Sandra and found she was watching him. The buzz inside him returned, and so, for a change of pace, he diverted the conversation in her direction. "What did you just finish studying in school?"

  "Literature," she said. "I wanted to be sure that I got a degree in something that would never get me a real job."

  "You might have actually done just that, honey," Burt told her with a snicker, diving once more into his chicken fried steak.

  "I'm not interested in any great job," Sandra said. Her attention was on Dempster. "I don't necessarily care what I do, so long as my soul is still intact when I die."

/>   "Here she goes," Burt said, almost apologetically.

  " 'The Human Race is but a monotonous affair,' " she quoted. "'Most of them labor the greater part of their time for mere substinence—' "

  "'And the scanty portion of freedom which remains,' " Dempster finished for her, " 'so troubles them that they use every exertion to get rid of it.' "

  A look of surprise crossed Sandra's face. It blossomed into admiration, and finally into a smile. "That's right," she said. "I didn't expect—"

  "The Sorrows of Young Werther," Dempster cut in. "Wolfgang Von Goethe."

  "Right again."

  "I know."

  His sudden, curt interruptions appeared to throw not only Sandra, but Burt and Hillary as well. They appeared not so much offended, but rather surprised at his abrupt smugness. Picking up his burger, he took a large bite in order to keep his mouth occupied for a while.

  Then from Hillary, before he had swallowed: "Did you study literature in school?"

  "No," he said, still chewing, "I just read a lot."

  "You apparently know your stuff."

  He shrugged, "Here and there," and swallowed.

  "You're an interesting man," Sandra said, leaning closer.

  "The other option is boring," he answered, finding himself now confused by his original conception of this girl. He wondered if the innocence in her eyes should be, for all practical purposes, exchanged for carefree. He also understood, however, that these were often the same thing. "I make a point," he continued, "of trying to better myself when I can."

  "He knows your books," Burt said. "He can fix cars, analyze art. From the way you've been sitting there, Jack, I bet you can tell me who's on the movie poster behind you and to your left, can't you?"

  "Fred Astaire."

  Burt chuckled. "Anything you can't do?"

  "I can't ride a unicycle with my hands, but I'll be starting on that when I get back to Ohio."

  Burt laughed and the awe that seemed to be developing, thankfully, dissolved. Dempster didn't like all the attention being on him. He generally preferred to blur, be non-descript, unmemorable. The more one stood out, the more one would be remembered. It heightened the level of risk, no matter how low that risk might be. Despite all of this, he couldn't help showing off at times. Especially when it was in front of someone like Sandra.

  "Tell me, Jack," Sandra said, shifting in her seat, "this might sound a bit pretentious."

  "Everyone's allowed a little of that."

  "If you can, sum yourself up in just a sentence or two. What kind of a person are you?"

  "Is this some pseudo-intellectual exercise you learned in college?" It came off snide. He knew that. He became aware, too, that Burt and Hillary were once again taken aback.

  Sandra, on the other hand, didn't flinch.

  "Humor me," she said.

  Dempster took another bite of his burger. He chewed meticulously, swallowed, then said, " 'An embittered atheist; the sort of atheist who does not so much disbelieve in God as personally dislike him.' "

  Sandra narrowed her eyes with an odd, confused scrutiny. "Camus?" she guessed.

  "Orwell," he told her.

  3

  Outside the sun cascaded a thick, blinding light over everything. It dripped off the buildings and parked cars, formed large bright pools around shadows, and twinkled off windshields like glitter. The gas station two hundred yards down the road rippled through heat waves, as though drunk and about to collapse.

  The four of them came to a stop at the blue Subaru.

  "Well," Burt said, "guess we're gonna fill up the tank and get back on the road." He extended his hand once more. "Nice to meet you, Jack. Thanks again for your help."

  "Not a problem. Thanks for lunch."

  "My pleasure."

  He watched Burt and Hillary climb into the car. Sandra, who had been sticking closer to him ever since he'd quoted Orwell, remained standing beside him. When the engine revved and she didn't move, Burt rolled down his window.

  "Aren't you coming?" he asked. "We got all your stuff. It would be strange not having you with it."

  "I'll walk over to the gas station," she said. "I'd like to talk a bit more with Mister Driscoll. That is, if he doesn't mind."

  "Well," Burt said, "don't dilly-dally. Still got a lot of miles ahead of us."

  "I'll walk her over," Dempster said, "and we can talk on the way."

  "All right."

  The car puttered out of the parking lot, hit the road, and before he knew it, Dempster found himself walking.

  "That comment you made," Sandra said after a time, "about pseudo-intellectual exercises? Is that how you felt about everything in college? That everyone and everything is a fake?"

  "I can't really say for sure. I never went to college. My life didn't allow me the luxury."

  "I'm sorry."

  "There's no reason to be sorry."

  After a short pause, "What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

  Dempster shrugged. "Life goes different ways for different people. Some people's lives are formed by a cookie cutter and some are immediately tossed from the kitchen." He laughed to himself. "That's a lame way of putting it."

  "But it's true," she said.

  "Yes, it is. My life went more the way of the latter part of the analogy. I'd like to just leave it at that."

  "Is that why you said what you did? Because you never got to go?"

  "Partly, and partly because I've known a lot of people over the years, and often, those that went to college never seem to have left college. They play these tricks on themselves, attempt to relate to people they have no concept of being, disguise their ignorance and sheltered lives through fifty-cent words and regurgitated information. And they walk around sputtering it, quoting Dostoevsky or Nietzsche, nipping from Robert Sherwood or Wolfgang Von Goethe as though it was theirs. I mean no offense when I say this, but most college students don't have an original idea in their head."

  "I saw thousands of ideas bounced around. Many of them were brilliant."

  "Most likely they weren't original. A couple, maybe, but not many. I'm sorry, I don't mean to go off on some tangent and I don't mean to throw disrespect in your face. Maybe you're a genius, I dunno."

  "I certainly don't see myself as a genius."

  "Thing is, you could be. I dunno. You could be the greatest genius the world has ever known." He lightly tapped her shoulder. "Just promise me that if you're not, or you don't find out how to be, you won't be too disappointed."

  "Why would I be disappointed?" She laughed. It was a cute little laugh. "I'm not interested in being a genius. I'm interested in love and romance, life and death. Watching the sun rise in the morning and set at night. Making love under the stars with someone I truly love. I couldn't care less if I ever do anything brilliant. Like I said, so long as my soul is still intact when I die, I'll let the world take me wherever it wants to."

  It was then that Dempster felt her hand slip into his. It almost made him jump, but didn't. Rather than looking at her just then, he looked up ahead and found that they were closing in on the gas station.

  "You're a remarkable woman, Sandra."

  "Merci beaucoup, vous le bel homme."

  "I got thank you very much," Dempster said. "The rest just sounded foreign to me, maybe like French or something."

  "I said thank you very much, you handsome man." Her grip tightened on his. "You're not too bad yourself." A contemplative sigh accompanied a thoughtful pause. Then she said, "Maybe it's abrupt. Maybe I'm insane and I'm sorry if I am, but this kind of feels like ships passing in the night."

  Dempster chose not to acknowledge this last statement. A moment later their hands parted.

  "So what are you going to do when you get to Taos?"

  "I have no idea. Spend some time with my parents, I suppose. Set up camp for a little while; see what I think of the place. I've never been there before. If I don't care for it, I'll move on and explore. All I know for sure is I was ready to g
et out of Tulsa. This seems like a logical step."

  "Though you don't care where the world takes you."

  "Sometimes you need to have at least a bit of a plan."

  "That's true."

  "What about you? What are you going to do in mystical Santa Fe?"

  He allowed himself to shrug again. "Guess I'll do what I always do. My job. And if time permits it, maybe I'll search around a bit, I dunno, look for something to believe in."

  She reached out and took his hand again briefly, squeezing it hard. With a cute little laugh accompaniment she said, "May we both find what we're looking for."

  "And what are you looking for?" he asked her.

  "I don't have any fucking idea," she said.

  As he crossed the border and entered Texas, Dempster found himself still thinking about Sandra Colvin. The look he had first seen in her eyes, and how it had evolved into something far beyond what he had imagined. A sweet woman, maybe just a kid, yet she stirred inside him something that he had forgotten existed. Something that made his chest flutter and his knees weak. Though he would have liked to blame this on the fact that he hadn't seen the light of day in five years, somehow, somewhere embedded deep inside his heart or mind or soul or somewhere, he understood there was more to it.

  He had loved when she'd taken his hand. Their conversation over lunch, and while walking over to the gas station. He felt as though he'd known her for ages, though he knew nothing about her. And he wanted to know her. A burning, almost obsessive desire to know her, and to know her more still, in every way he could think of.

  And now she was gone. The likelihood of their paths ever crossing again was slim, almost infinitesimal. Maybe she was right, even though it still sounded insane to him now. Maybe they were ships passing in the night, each just missing out on that thing he had so flippantly mentioned. That thing to believe in, worth living for, worth dying for.