by Jack Cady
I hope Janine knew. I think Janine knew. Because of what happened.
There was music in the wind, a ghost in the wind, and so who needed a witch? And besides, Mrs. Lydia Kale was a daytime witch who never stepped outdoors at night.
Her clothes were black. Only her white hair was a trace of her slow movement through the wind. It came to me that Mrs. Lydia Kale must be very, very old. Music, or Darrell, pulled her forward. Wind, only strong enough to scatter leaves, seemed to press her back. She had to walk a short block, and yet it took awhile.
Twenty-five years before, back in WWI, our nation had lost 116,000 sons. Tales of that war still covered the town. And, Mrs. Lydia Kale walked slow.
It was a night of shadows. On the darkened back porch, and facing the yard where Darrell flew his planes, The Widow appeared. She moved timidly. The Widow was but a dumpy form, a darker shadow among shadows. The music did not crescendo, but began to rise. Some sort of fury, or anger, or sorrow propelled the music; but Janine was already a master. She had it under control.
The shadows came together, but gradually. Mrs. Lydia Kale walked along the sidewalk, while in the yard the planes rose. I think she saw nothing. I think she wanted to see nothing. The Widow stepped from the back porch, moving slowly to the sidewalk. In that dark night the two forms came together. I could only see the white hair of Mrs. Lydia Kale. It seemed, to a child, that there was but one person out there, white-haired.
I do not know why Darrell appeared, and can’t say exactly when he left. Mystery lived in the night, and the two women who seemed to have become only one woman, stood silent. From the house the music became, for a few moments, tender. That must be when Darrell left.
And then the music began to weep. It filtered through the night, through wind, and across the street to ten-year-old ears. The three women held the night, or pressed it back. The young woman wept above her keyboard, wept with her keyboard. The two older women simply held each other and wept.
The Forest Ranger
The view from the freeway was excellent. Beyond the dusty trees, mottled and sickly from either fumes or disappointment, lay a narrow strip of San Francisco Bay on which cast-off bottles bobbed and shimmered softly in the diminishing light. The sunset would be sickening.
Near the water was an auto wrecking yard, a big one that processed junkers wholesale; stomping and kicking and mashing and baling them to be stacked on railway flatcars. It was instructional. No fewer than seventy klunks were fitted on each car, like multicolored cans of anchovies. He had been counting them for half an hour.
Traffic moved. He pressed the accelerator and rolled forward twelve feet. He figured that the evening commuter jam was breaking. Only fifteen minutes ago he had moved five feet. He savored the recollection. It had given him a good look at the baler.
With the daily salvation in sight he sat thoughtfully; distinguished, holding down the seat of the Brooks Brothers. He sat in the expensive automobile. He sat listening attentively to the imported radio that was not playing. It was buzzing. He had tuned out the helpful helicopter announcer who advised him to avoid the only road that led home. The idea almost made sense. He tuned back to the station. The announcer was still speaking of congestion. This time it was of the eliminatory tract. He reflected that it was a long way between filling stations and wriggled uncomfortably in his seat. Then he tuned the announcer out and chuckled. A man well under forty should learn exquisite control of all things . . . the girl in the car next to him smiled. He decided that she should go topless.
The parking lot lunged forward. It was dazzling. He was nearly past the baler now and thinking of Yellowstone. The park. Ten years ago, a kid, he had wanted to be a forest ranger. His old man had encouraged him. His old man had been in the insurance game and must have known. Who ever heard of an uptight bear? A squirrel in the wrong bag? What in the hell had happened to them? Him? His old man? In spite of his bladder he chuckled again.
He chuckled with the secret glee of a man content to know an impending revenge, a man to whom the rage of an outraged wife was a trifle. She suspected him of an affair. He allowed her to believe that. It was much cleaner than working with the truth. Besides, he was afraid of making counter-accusations. Maybe only birds and elephants mated for life.
Revenge. He rolled the flavor of the antique word across his tongue. It tasted good. He was now a man. He wondered why automobiles were not fitted with chamber pots. Then he marveled again at the magnificent luck that had served to bring him the means of stunning violence; the means to be the prime adulterer of a way of life that understood adultery to be as healthful as breakfast cereal. His name was Arthur. It had been for three months. Before that it had been Art. He thought on the old days. They were disgusting. Art and Arthur were both fed up.
Three months. Three little months since the huge moving van had pulled up to his door to gulp his possessions; piano, fishing rods, bed (dismantled, dismasted, depleted), rugs, pictures, college artifacts, tables, television, books, record player, potted plants, objects d’art, all . . . gobbled into the maw of the fathomless, unfathomable giant.
He had spoken to the driver. Wiry man. Tough. No fat. “You’ll take good care . . . .”
“Of everything,” the driver told him. “Except the potted plants. We don’t ever guarantee the potted plants.”
“The wife . . . .”
“She rides with you.”
“Yes,” he had admitted, and turned to the truck which fascinated him. “Big.”
“Fifty feet long. Over three thousand cubic feet capacity. Up to forty-two thousand gross.” The driver had been proud of his machine. They walked through the empty rooms, checking to see that nothing had been left.
“You see a lot of road?”
“Eighty, maybe a hundred thou a year. You going into the business?”
The thought startled him. “No, going to California. Bucked for one grade and got promoted two. Nice surprise. Going to California. Twenty thousand a year.”
“Yeah,” the driver shook his head in commiseration. “Won’t make more myself. But,” he brightened, “it’s been an off year.”
“Can you make that much?” He had been incredulous.
“Sure. But lots of road. Never home. Fella like you it’s different. Good money and home every night.”
“Uh huh,” he said, trying to feel a good-bye. The trees beyond the window were bare. Sterile. The house was empty. There were no whispers. “Listen,” he asked, “is it nice there like they say? A little peace . . . .”
“They grow artichokes,” the driver told him.
The truck had continued to fascinate him. He and his wife drove the new automobile coast to coast. During most of the first day he stayed with the truck. His wife wanted to check up on the trucker’s driving. It was a relief. On the second day he was sleepy and pulled over early.
His wife protested. “If a little guy like him can go, why can’t . . . .”
“They take dope,” he had offered hopefully, knowing that it was going to be a pretty long trip.
The traffic moved. Two whole car lengths. He checked his watch and congratulated himself on his progress. He was either ten minutes or fifteen hundred feet ahead of schedule.
The trip had started long. At about Minnesota it had shortened. His wife had loved him again by Minnesota. They had taken time to explore the country and ended by exploring each other. Like back in college and then later when they were married.
“Please,” she had said. “I love you,” she had said. He thought a lot about Minnesota.
In California the biggest change was the weather. That, and artichokes were plentiful. His job was more responsible. He had to push hard from the first. It filled his life. Later there was time for a drink before lunch. The clubs were a little more liberal. The women, maybe. He still went home every night. Now he drove. No more commuted trains. The prestigious new car was a joy on weekends when there was a chance to drive in the hills. Sometimes his wife accompanied him. She
was very busy. Clubs, entertainment, art lessons, politics. She no longer said please.
He tried Reno, then Tahoe. His wife loved both, the excitement, the crowds, the color, the gambling. He decided that she was a bum. In New York it had been bridge. In the west it was nickel slots. A take down. A come down. A bust.
And prices were high. Lord, Lord how high were prices. He started bucking for the next grade and thought of a mistress. In shopping he found that even the idea was expensive.
Far past the baler now. Soon there would be a gentle curve. Sunset would find him overlooking the sanitary landfill. Traffic settled into a reluctant five-mile crawl; hesitating, sometimes speeding up, making conforming ripples of start, stop, brakelight and screech.
It was really the traffic that got him. Finally, he had to admit that it was really the traffic. People were about the same. His wife had returned to New York Normal. But he was not the same. Something of him responded to the mountains, looked toward the sea, remembered Minnesota.
And the traffic never ceased. Once, returning home from an ordinary party at 3 AM on a Tuesday he had waited five minutes before daring to cross a street. Traffic. Traffic.
He remembered the truck wistfully. The driver. A hundred thousand miles a year. A hundred thousand. One night with pencil and paper he figured that he would drive to work and home not less than fifteen hours a week, fifty weeks a year. Seven hundred fifty hours. More than thirty days. Twice his vacation. In that time he would cover, well, he would cover almost five thousand miles. There was no question of moving from the high-speed, commute community and expensive house. The office would peg him a loser. He thought about the truck. One day, glancing through the classified, he had seen an ad which explained how he, too, could be a Big Rig Man. The idea was loathsome.
What he needed was a cabin in the forest. Deer playing. A stream. Trees. Maybe a farm. Sunlight. A loving woman. The bit.
His wife was blonde. He thought a lot about brunettes. Thought on thought. Passion unexpended. He clipped the ad and shuddered. It was several days before he understood his motives.
He planned a final gesture. Perverse. The highest violence he could conceive. Then he and his blonde wife could leave forever. There were other ways to live, other places; Australia, Iowa, Manitoba. Maybe she would go with him. There was some money saved. Some. They could cash in the insurance. Maybe she would not go with him. It was the traffic that was the cause, or maybe it was the traffic that was fruition. There is no race when the rat won’t run.
On the following Saturday he had gone to the driving school. Monster trucks stood around. The biggest one . . . . “That one,” he said to the friendly proprietor who eyed his check with the same cold eye he turned on the nineteen dollar lite-weight casuals. “Call me Art,” he explained timidly to the honest proprietor.
“Not that one,” the man explained. He pointed to a different truck. “That one’s for beginners. You start there if you aim to bust gears.”
The truck had been old and small, but homey. It smelled of stale tobacco, sweat, and things discarded from lunches carried in paper bags. In a single lesson he had learned all ten gears and how to shift them. His shift was lumpy. On the following week he returned. His shift improved. In three weeks he could drive but not maneuver. He needed to know how to maneuver.
“You’re really serious, fella.” The man was even more friendly: the checks were clearing. “What the hell,” he grinned. “Take out the big one.”
A concession. An advancement. The big one turned out to be easier than the smaller one. When he backed it made a longer lever, easier to judge. There was a great feeling of fascination and satisfaction. His bank statement showed checks to M. Jones for services. His wife began talking of people named Marie and Muriel. He could not explain and was afraid to challenge. She seemed very busy, desperately busy, yet there were some things for which anyone could make time . . . not that he cared. That was the trick. Care only for the drama and a decent exit.
Twice he left work on some pretext, learning how to drive, how to jack the huge van down simulated alleys, against simulated curbs, through simulated mountain passes which were perfectly flat but horribly curved. He was an apt student. He was awarded a degree.
They offered to find him a job. He refused. He did not want to drive a truck. He only wanted to know how to drive a truck. The plan. Maybe his wife would not go with him.
He speeded up because traffic speeded up. Now his car was going thirty. Soon he was up to forty. Then he came to the correct ramp and turned for home, the auto lights searching through the early darkness. The new car was a good car but lately it seemed puny. His big rig degree (hidden between leaves of Games People Play) was warranty against the smallness of life. It was insurance. It was power.
When he arrived home there was a note. He was to meet his wife for dinner and a party. He had forgotten about that party. To dress was a matter of minutes. To shave was a matter of deliberation, then planned forgetfulness. Hipster, hip . . . he would grow a beard and wear lumberjack shirts. He was tired. He wanted to sit in the sun, wanted to get quietly loaded, wanted, wanted. Instead he allowed himself a quick one before returning to the car and broaching the evening.
Coming from the drive he waited for a car to pass. Then he waited for another car to pass. Then he entered traffic and decided that tomorrow was the day. Tomorrow was Friday. Fridays were excellent days for endings. At the party he would drink with care. A sure hand.
At the party his wife was cool. Maybe the forgotten shave. Maybe the bank statements. His wife danced three times with a chubby man named Vernon. Trucker Art drank. He watched the shapeliness of his wife and refused to worry. There was no affair after all. If she was looking, she had found no one yet.
No affair. Vernon used the same freeway, worked the same hours. No time. Trucker Art fuzzily mulled a vague sorrow for Vernon who was never going to make out, either. Then he felt an absolute sorrow for himself. It felt like New York. It did not feel like Minnesota. He was a little over his limit when they went home and slept.
“Today,” he said when he woke up.
“Don’t wake me,” she told him. “Why today?”
“It’s past time.”
“I agree. You woke me up. Time for what?” She put her hand against his face.
He checked his watch on the nightstand. He was a little behind schedule. Everything must look normal. Nothing must go wrong. Nothing. “Go back to sleep,” he told her.
She went back to sleep. No breakfast. He swilled coffee and orange juice. Smoked cigarettes. He got in his car and drove for an hour and a half; checked into the office; checked out of the office. “Later,” he told the receptionist with neat ankles who looked as if she hoped for a double meaning.
“Liar,” he told himself and looked at his desk before he left. Wife’s picture, she smiling. Pretty when she smiled. Embossed desk set. Monogrammed pen given by former secretary on his promotion. Lucky piece. Clutter. Crap. He slipped the picture into a pocket and went down to his car. “Sentimentalist,” he told himself. “Fool. She will throw you out.”
He paused to light a cigarette. He squinted over the tilted butt, looking at the executive parking lot through smoke. “I am a desperate man,” he told himself, “the next Vernon will be someone without a commute.”
He paused again. Surprised. “So that’s the reason, after all. Not revenge. The grand gesture and leave? No. The big wake-up and win, or throw and crap-out.”
He climbed in the car reading the sign that shimmered from his imagination across the windshield. One Owner Repo—Take Over Payments. It was a beautiful car. He thought that he would miss the car. He started the engine and drove aimlessly, across cable car tracks, through the beautiful park, into the chatter of Chinatown and the erotica and pizza of North Beach. The beautiful city. Well, he would miss those parts. But on the other face he had been missing them anyway. At two-thirty he changed to working clothes in a service station. At three o’clock he was at the ren
tal agency to keep his appointment.
It was a huge truck. The instrument of question, after all, and not of revenge. It was a premium instrument. Fully as long as the mover’s. Fifty feet. Fifty feet. It stood grumbling on the readyline, huge, snouty. He did not want a tilt cab. Long. A conventional. Long.
The gears came in smoothly and made him proud. He moved into traffic, standing high above traffic. Look down. Cars going by. Girls’ knees, fat men’s paunches, kids waving from rear windows, yappy dogs. And smooth, those gears. He made the freeway easily and thought that it was not bad at three o’clock. The traffic was heavy like always, but moving. He wheeled the rig like an expert. The traffic was moving too well. It threw him ahead of schedule. He slowed down and a cop tailed him. A speed up and the cop passed. He slowed down again. Cars crackled around him blatting horns. He was afraid one would run under the trailer.
With the speed back up the schedule was shot. He entered the approach to the main bridge that carried traffic for half of the city. The bridge that handled eighty thousand cars a day. The bridge that was a whole five lanes wide. It was a beautiful bridge. A man could buy a postcard . . . .
He paid his toll and continued across the bridge to drive into the hills. The engine roared big against the grades. He downshifted the gears. The hills spilled wild flowers. The speed caused a tiny vibration in his driving mirror that glinted sunshine. He played with the giant and enjoyed the exhaust crack, coasting hills, tapping the brakes to hear them hiss, testing the air horns. He liked it more than any car. Very comfortable. Easier to handle at speed. He confidently turned it around and played all the way back to the bridge where he entered the ramp headed back into the city.
He decided to do it immediately. He slowed.
Traffic boomed around him. He was blocking the curb lane at five miles per hour. He slowed to a stop. Traffic backed up behind him. He cut the wheel hard left and eased the cab across the next lane. Traffic backed up more. Loud honking. He checked and then eased the truck into an oncoming lane. The trailer was huge in his mirrors, swinging across two lanes while the cab blocked the third. Traffic screeching and trying to by-pass. Ease across the fourth lane. Violent yelling. Screeching of brakes. No bumps.