Fathoms (Collected Writings)

by Jack Cady

  “Mister,” I said, “and beg pardon for bothering you. Do you know anything about that Studebaker?” I pointed to the wall.

  “You ain’t bothering me,” he said, “but I’ll tell you when you do.” He tapped the side of his head like trying to ease a gear in place, then he started talking engine specs on the Stude.

  “I mean the man who owns it.”

  The old man probably liked my haircut, which was short. He liked it that I was raised right. Young guys don’t always pay old men much mind.

  “You still ain’t bothering me.” He turned to the waitress. “Sue,” he said, “has Johnny Still been in?”

  She turned from cleaning the pie case, and she looked toward the young guys like she feared for them. You could tell she was no big fan of engines. “It’s been the better part of a year, maybe more.” She looked down the line of old men. “I was fretting about him just the other day . . .” She let it hang. Nobody said anything. “He comes and goes so quiet, you might miss him.”

  “I don’t miss him a hell of a lot,” one of the young guys said. The guy looked like a duck, and had a voice like a sparrow. His fingernails were too clean. That proved something.

  “Because Johnny blew you out,” another young guy said. “Johnny always blew you out.”

  “Because he’s crazy,” the first guy said. “There’s noisy-crazy and quiet-crazy. The guy is a spook.”

  “He’s going through something,” the waitress said, and said it kind. “Johnny’s taken a lot of loss. He’s the type who grieves.” He looked at me like she expected an explanation.

  “I’m friends with his brother,” I told her. “Maybe Johnny and his brother don’t get along.”

  The old man looked at me rather strange. “You go back quite a-ways,” he told me. “Jesse’s been dead a good long time.”

  I thought I’d pass out. My hands started shaking, and my legs felt too weak to stand. Beyond the window of the cafe red light came from a neon sign, and inside the cafe everybody sat quiet waiting to see if I was crazy too. I sort of picked at my pie. One of the young guys moved real uneasy. He loafed toward the door, maybe figuring he’d need a shotgun. The other three young ones looked confused.

  “No offense,” I said to the old man, “but Jesse Still is alive. Up on the highline. We run together.”

  “Jesse Still drove a damn old Hudson Terraplane into the South Platte River in spring of ’52, maybe ’53.” The old man said it real quiet. “He popped a tire when not real sober.”

  “Which is why Johnny doesn’t drink,” the waitress said. “At least I expect that’s the reason.”

  “And now you are bothering me.” The old man looked to the waitress, and she was as full of questions as he was.

  Nobody ever felt more hopeless or scared. These folks had no reason to tell this kind of yarn. “Jesse is sort of roughhouse.” My voice was only whispering. It wouldn’t make enough sound. “Jesse made his reputation helling around.”

  “You’ve got that part right,” the old man told me, “and youngster, I don’t give a tinker’s dam if you believe me or not, but Jesse Still is dead.”

  I saw what it had to be, but seeing isn’t always believing. “Thank you, mister,” I whispered to the old man, “and thank you ma’am,” to the waitress. Then I hauled out of there leaving them with something to discuss.

  ═

  A terrible fear rolled with me, because of Jesse’s last postcard. He said he might not be home, and now that could mean more than it said. The Chrysler bettered its reputation, and we just flew. From the Montana line to Shelby is eight hours on a clear day. You can wail it in seven, or maybe six and a half if a deer doesn’t tangle with your front end. I was afraid, and confused, and getting mad. Me and Linda were just to the point of hoping for an understanding, and now I was going to get killed running over a porcupine or into a heifer. The Chrysler blazed like a hound on a hot scent. At eighty, the pedal kept wanting to dig deep and really howl.

  The nighttime road yells danger. Shadows crawl over everything. What jumps into your headlights may be real, and maybe not. Metal crosses hold little clusters of dark flowers on their arms, and the land rolls out beneath the moon. Buttes stand like great ships anchored in the plains, and riverbeds run like dry ink. Come spring they’ll flow, but in September all flow is in the road.

  The dancing ghost picked me up on highway 3 outside Comanche, but this time he wasn’t dancing. He stood on the berm and no mist tied him in place. He gave the old road sign for ‘roll ’em.’ Beyond Columbia he showed up again. His mouth moved like he was yelling me along, and his face twisted with as much fear as my own.

  That gave me reason to hope. I’d never known Jesse to be afraid like that, so maybe there was a mistake. Maybe the dancing ghost wasn’t the ghost of Jesse. I hung over the wheel and forced myself to think of Linda. When I thought of her I couldn’t bring myself to get crazy. Highway 3 is not much of a road, but that’s no bother. I can drive anything with wheels over any road ever made. The dancing ghost kept showing up and beckoning, telling me to scorch. I told myself the damn ghost had no judgment, or he wouldn’t be a ghost in the first place.

  That didn’t keep me from pushing faster, but it wasn’t fast enough to satisfy the roadside. They came out of the mist, or out of the ditches; crowds and clusters of ghosts standing pale beneath a weak moon. Some of them gossiped with each other. Some stood yelling me along. Maybe there was sense to it, but I had my hands full. If they were trying to help they sure weren’t doing it. They just made me get my back up, and think of dropping revs.

  Maybe the ghosts held a meeting and studied out the problem. They could see a clear road, but I couldn’t. The dancing ghost showed up on highway 12 and gave me ‘thumbs up’ for a clear road. I didn’t believe a word of it, and then I really didn’t believe what showed in my mirrors. Headlights closed like I was standing. My feelings said that all of this had happened before; except last time there was only one set of headlights.

  It was Miss Molly and Betty Lou that brought me home. Miss Molly overtook, sweeping past with a lane change smooth and sober as an Adventist. The high, slaunch-forward form of Miss Molly thrummed with business. She wasn’t blowing sparks or showing off. She wasn’t playing Gingerbread Man or tag.

  Betty Lou came alongside so I could see who she was, then Betty Lou laid back a half mile. If we ran into a claim-jumping deputy, he’d have to chase her first; and more luck to him. Her headlights hovered back there like angels.

  Miss Molly settled down a mile ahead of the Chrysler and stayed that distance, no matter how hard I pressed. Twice before Great Falls she spotted trouble, and her squinchy little brakelights hauled me down. Once it was an animal, and once it was busted road surface. Miss Molly and Betty Lou dropped me off before Great Falls, and picked me back up the minute I cleared town.

  We ran the night like rockets. The roadside lay deserted. The dancing ghost stayed out of it, and so did the others. That let me concentrate, which proved a blessing. At those speeds a man don’t have time to do deep thinking. The road rolls past, the hours roll, but you’ve got a racer’s mind. No matter how tired you should be, you don’t get tired until it’s over.

  I chased a ghost car northward while a fingernail moon moved across the sky. In deepest night the land turned silver. At speed you don’t think, but you do have time to feel. The further north we pushed, the more my feelings went to despair. Maybe Miss Molly thought the same, but everybody did all they could.

  The Chrysler was a howler, and Lord knows where the top end lay. I buried the needle. Even accounting for speedometer error, we burned along in the low half of the second century. We made highway 2 and Shelby around three in the morning, then hung a left. In just about no time I rolled home. Betty Lou dropped back and faded. Miss Molly blew sparks and purely flew out of sight. The sparks meant something. Maybe Miss Molly was still hopeful. Or, maybe she knew we were too late.

  ═

  Beneath that thin moon, mounded gra
ves looked like dark surf across the acreage. No lights burned in the trailer, and the Linc showed nowhere. Even under the scant light you could see snowy tops of mountains, and the perfectly straight markers standing at the head of each grave. A tent, big enough to hold a small revival, stood not far from the trailer. In my headlights a sign on the tent read ‘chapel.’ I fetched a flashlight from the glove box.

  A dozen folding chairs stood in the chapel, and a podium served as an altar. Jesse had rigged up two sets of candles, so I lit some. Matt Simons had written that the graveyard had to be seen to be believed. Hanging on one side of the tent was a sign reading ‘shrine,’ and all along that side hung roadmaps, and pictures of cars, and pictures of men standing beside their cars. There was a special display of odometers, with little cards beneath them: 330,938 miles, 407,000 miles, ‘half a million miles more or less’. These were the championship cars, the all-time best at piling up road, and those odometers would make even a married man feel lonesome. You couldn’t look at them without thinking of empty roads and empty nights.

  Even with darkness spreading across the cemetery, nothing felt worse than the inside of that tent. I could believe that Jesse took it serious, and had tried to make it nice, but couldn’t believe anyone else would buy it.

  The night was not too late for owls, and nearly silent wings swept past as I left the tent. I walked to Miss Molly’s grave, half expecting ghostly headlights. Two small markers stood beside a real fine marble headstone.

  POTATO

  HAPPY-GO-SLOPPY AND GOOD.

  REST IN PEACE WHEREVER YOU ARE

  CHIP

  A DANDY LITTLE SIDEKICKER

  RUNNING WITH POTATO

  From a distance I could see piled dirt where the dozer had dug new graves. I stepped cautious toward the dozer, not knowing why, but knowing it had to happen.

  Two graves stood open like little garages, and the front ends of the Linc and the Hawk poked out. The Linc’s front bumper shone spotless, but the rest of the Linc looked tough and experienced. Dents and dings crowded the sides, and cracked glass starred the windows.

  The Hawk stood sparkly, ready to come roaring from the grave. Its glass shone washed and clean before my flashlight. I thought of what I heard in Sheridan, and thought of the first time I’d seen the Hawk. It hadn’t changed. The Hawk looked like it had just been driven off a showroom floor.

  Nobody in his right mind would want to look in those two cars, but it wasn’t a matter of ‘want.’ Jesse, or Johnny—if that’s who it was—had to be here someplace. It was certain-sure he needed help. When I looked, the Hawk sat empty. My flashlight poked against the glass of the Linc. Jesse lay there, taking his last nap across a car seat. His long black hair had turned to gray. He had always been thin, but now he was skin and bones. Too many miles, and no time to eat. Creases around his eyes came from looking at road, but now the creases were deep like an old man’s. His eyes showed that he was dead. They were only open a little bit, but open enough.

  ═

  I couldn’t stand to be alone with such a sight. In less than fifteen minutes I stood banging on Matt Simon’s door. Matt finally answered, and Nancy showed up behind him. She was in her robe. She stood taller than Matt, and sleepier. She looked blond and Swedish. Matt didn’t know whether to be mad or glad. Then I got my story pieced together, and he really woke up.

  “Dr. Jekyll has finally dealt with Mr. Hyde,” he said in a low voice to Nancy. “Or, maybe the other way around.” To me he said, “That may be a bad joke, but it’s not ill meant.” He went to get dressed. “Call Mike,” he said to me. “Drunk or sober, I want him there.”

  Nancy showed me the phone. Then she went to the bedroom to talk with Matt. I could hear him soothing her fears. When Mike answered he was sleepy and sober, but he woke up stampeding.

  Deep night and a thin moon is a perfect time for ghosts, but none showed up as Matt rode with me back to the graveyard. The Chrysler loafed. There was no need for hurry.

  I told Matt what I’d learned in Sheridan.

  “That matches what I heard,” he said, “and we have two mysteries. The first mystery is interesting, but it’s no longer important. Was John Still pretending to be Jesse Still, or was Jesse pretending to be John?”

  “If Jesse drove into a river in ’53, then it has to be John.” I didn’t like what I said, because Jesse was real. The best actor in the world couldn’t pretend that well. My sorrow choked me, but I wasn’t ashamed.

  Matt seemed to be thinking along the same lines. “We don’t know how long the game went on,” he said real quiet. “We never will know. John could have been playing at being Jesse way back in ’53.”

  That got things tangled and I felt resentful. Things were complicated enough. Me and Matt had just lost a friend, and now Matt was talking like that was the least interesting part.

  “Makes no difference whether he was John or Jesse,” I told Matt. “He was Jesse when he died. He’s laying across the seat in Jesse’s car. Figure it anyway you want, but we’re talking about Jesse.”

  “You’re right,” Matt said, “Also, you’re wrong. We’re talking about someone who was both.” Matt sat quiet for a minute figuring things out. I told myself it was just as well that he’d married a schoolteacher. “Assume, for the sake of argument,” he said, “that John was playing Jesse in ’53. John drove into the river, and people believed they were burying Jesse.

  “Or, for the sake of argument, assume that it was Jesse in ’53. In that case the game started with John’s grief. Either way, the game ran for many years.” Matt was getting at something, but he always has to go roundabout.

  “After years, John, or Jesse, disappeared. There was only a man who was both John and Jesse. That’s the reason it makes no difference who died in ’53.”

  Matt looked through the car window into the darkness like he expected to discover something important. “This is a long and lonesome country,” he said. “The biggest mystery is: Why? The answer may lie in the mystery of twins, or it may be as simple as a man reaching into the past for happy memories. At any rate, one brother dies, and the survivor keeps his brother alive by living his brother’s life, as well as his own. Think of the planning, the elaborate schemes, the near self-deception. Think of how often the roles shifted. A time must have arrived when that lonely man could not even remember who he was.”

  The answer was easy, and I saw it. Jesse, or John, chased the road to find something they’d lost on the road. They lost their parents and each other. I didn’t say a damn word. Matt was making me mad, but I worked at forgiving him. He was handling his own grief, and maybe didn’t have a better way.

  “And so he invented the Road Dog,” Matt said. “That kept the personalities separate. The Road Dog was a metaphor to make him proud. Perhaps it might confuse some of the ladies, but there isn’t a man ever born who wouldn’t understand it.”

  I remembered long nights and long roads. I couldn’t fault his reasoning.

  “At the same time,” Matt said, “the metaphor served the twins. They could play road games with the innocence of children, maybe even replay memories of a time when their parents were alive and the world seemed warm. John played the Road Dog, and Jesse chased; and, by God, so did the rest of us. It was a magnificent metaphor.”

  “If it was that blamed snappy,” I said, “how come it fell to pieces? For the last year it seems like Jesse’s been running away from The Dog.”

  “The metaphor began to take over. The twins began to defend against each other,” Matt said. “I’ve been watching it all along, but couldn’t understand what was happening. John Still was trying to take over Jesse, and Jesse was trying to take over John.”

  “It worked for a long time,” I said, “and then it didn’t work. What’s the kicker?”

  “Our own belief,” Matt said. “We all believed in the Road Dog. When all of us believed, John was forced to become stronger.”

  “And Jesse fought him off?”

  “Successfully,�
�� Matt said. “All this year, when Jesse came firing out of town, rolling fifty miles, and firing back, I thought it was Jesse’s problem. Now I see that John was trying to get free, get back on the road, and Jesse was dragging him back. This was a struggle between real men, maybe titans in the oldest sense, but certainly not imitations.”

  “It was a guy handling his problems.”

  “That’s an easy answer. We can’t know what went on with John,” Matt said, “but we know some of what went on with Jesse. He tried to love a woman, Sarah, and failed. He lost his dogs which doesn’t sound like much, unless your dogs are all you have. Jesse fought defeat by building his other metaphor which was that damned cemetery.” Matt’s voice got husky. He’d been holding in his sorrow, but his sorrow started coming through. It made me feel better about him.

  “I think the cemetery was Jesse’s way of answering John, or denying that he was vulnerable. He needed a symbol. He tried to protect his loves and couldn’t. He couldn’t even protect his love for his brother. That cemetery is the last bastion of Jesse’s love.” Matt looked like he was going to cry, and I felt the same.

  “Cars can’t hurt you,” Matt said. “Only bad driving hurts you. The cemetery is a symbol for protecting one of the few loves you can protect. That’s not saying anything bad about Jesse. That’s saying something with sadness for all of us.”

  I slowed to pull onto Jesse’s place. Mike’s Olds sat by the trailer. Lights were on in the trailer, but no other lights showed anywhere.

  “Men build all kinds of worlds in order to defeat fear and loneliness,” Matt said. “We give and take as we build those worlds. One must wonder how much Jesse, and John, gave in order to take the little that they got.”

  We climbed from the Chrysler as autumn wind moved across the graveyard and felt its way toward my bones. The moon lighted faces of grave markers, but not enough that you could read them. Mike had the bulldozer warming up. It stood and puttered, and darkness felt best and Mike knew it. The headlights were off. Far away on highway 2 an engine wound tight and squalling, and it seemed like echoes of engines whispered among the graves. Mike stood huge as a grizzly.