by Terry Kay
“I always count my change,” Kate said, fighting tears.
He looked at her curiously. “That’s good,” he said in a kind voice.
* * *
When she returned home Kate called Carrie. “I was right,” she said mournfully. “It was just like that magazine article said. He’s got no idea what money’s for anymore.”
“What happened?”
“He said he’d just as soon burn money as spend it.”
“What?”
“He didn’t even know the cost of candy.”
“Are you sure?” Carrie asked.
“Dead sure. We’d better call the others.”
“Somebody’s going to have to take over his affairs,” Carrie suggested.
“Well, it won’t be me,” Kate replied tearfully. “It’d tear my heart out.”
“Don’t start crying, Kate. If you do, I will, too.”
“I—I can’t—can’t help it.”
“Don’t, Kate.”
The two sisters wept painfully into their telephones.
While his daughters spilled their tears, he wrote in his journal:
I got my money for the reunion today, though I won’t need it for a few weeks. Kate took me to town to get it, since I don’t have my truck. I don’t think Kate is well. She talked funny all day. If she keeps it up, I’ll speak to Noah about her. I feel better than I have in a long time. My hip only hurts if I put too much weight on it and the new pills I’ve been taking help me sleep better than the old ones. Cora used to worry about me taking pills, but if they help the pain I’ll keep taking them. White Dog had a good time chasing Kate’s car today. When we went by the cemetery she was there, waiting for me. I couldn’t get her to ride in the car, though. I miss having my old truck around. Maybe Hoyt will have the work on it finished this week.
16
His reunion money was in a sock in the bottom drawer of his desk. He took it out often to assure himself that it was still there and had not been stolen while he slept in his unlocked house. He had never kept so much cash money with him, and he wondered why he had withdrawn six hundred dollars. Trying to be someone he wasn’t, he guessed. He would need less than a hundred, by his calculations. Gas for his truck and lodging for two days and some food. It would be best to put five hundred back in the bank. Or maybe he would take one hundred and fifty on his trip. Maybe he would want to leave a donation for the reunion fund, though he doubted that he would ever again attend a reunion. Not at his age. Traveling great distances was tiring. Still, having one hundred and fifty dollars was not unreasonable for such a trip as he had planned. If his truck broke down, he would have enough money for its repair.
But his truck ran like a new machine. Hoyt had kept it almost two weeks, and the motor now purred with a quiet ticking, like a tightly wound pocket watch. With his failing hearing, he was not sure if the motor was running. In an odd way, he missed the clattering noise of loose metal beating against loose metal.
“You have to change gears when it’s time to,” warned Hoyt. “You don’t, and it’ll tear up again.”
“All right,” he said.
“I even got the windshield wipers working,” Hoyt added proudly. “And the horn blows.”
“Good Lord,” he exclaimed softly. “Didn’t know it had one.”
Hoyt reached inside the cab of the truck and touched the horn cap in the center of the steering wheel. The horn squawked.
“I swear,” he said in astonishment.
“You change gears when it’s time to and keep the oil changed in it, it ought to run you two or three years before you need to do anything else,” predicted Hoyt.
“When I die, I’m going to will you this old truck,” he told Hoyt.
“Mr. Sam, that old truck’ll be gone a long time before you.”
“I doubt that,” he said philosophically. “I got no more gears to change. It has.”
He would take one hundred and fifty dollars to his reunion, he decided. Martha Dunaway Kerr would not feel pity for him if he demonstrated that he had money. And maybe he would buy a trinket for Kate and Carrie. If he returned with something for them, they would be distracted and not as harsh with him for not telling about the trip. They would probably cry, he thought. Lord, they were always crying about something.
He had his money and his map and his truck. He had his alibi about visiting Neal Lewis ready to tell. He had his suit and two shirts and two ties clean and pressed and hanging in his closet. He had a big sock for his razor and lather and Mennen Skin Bracer and pills.
There was nothing else he needed, but there was one thing he would carry with him: her picture. He had taken the picture in 1916 with Marshall Harris’s borrowed camera when they were together at Madison. Marshall was in the picture with her, clowning. Marshall had his arm draped teasingly over her shoulder, and there was a foolish smile in Marshall’s face. She, too, was smiling, but the smile had the girlish, blushed look of pleasant embarrassment. The central building of the campus was in the background of the picture, but it no longer existed. The buildings of Madison A&M had been bulldozed away, and Morgan County High School had been erected in its place. Brick columns at the entrances leading from the road onto the campus were the only reminders of Madison A&M. The columns had been established by graduating classes and on each there was a plaque containing names of the graduates. On his last visit to Madison—he did not remember the year, but he was with Cora—he had walked among the columns and read the names and it struck him that the columns were like leavings of an ancient civilization, with silent, guesswork histories set in curious markings.
Cora’s picture—Cora’s and Marshall’s picture—was the only photograph he had ever privately kept. None of his children had seen it. It had always been in his book of records and his book of records had always been in his desk. When he did remove it and look at it—as he was now doing—it would call him to that exact, camera-click moment, a day-bright spring afternoon ending the May Festival. All day they were together, with Marshall tagging after them, babbling his great, funny lies.
He touched the tiny image of her picture-face with his finger.
She was beautiful.
He wanted to have the picture with him for the reunion. He would show it to Martha Dunaway Kerr.
On the afternoon of September 21, he drove his truck to the service station on Highway 29 and had the attendant fill its tank with gasoline. He also had the oil level checked. “Looks fine, Mr. Peek,” the attendant said. “Looks like you had some work done on the motor. Want me to check the water and tires?”
“Look over what needs to be looked at,” he said. “I’m taking a little trip tomorrow.”
“Don’t be going too far,” the attendant said. “Old truck like this liable to break down, no matter what’s been done to it.”
“It’ll get me there,” he said confidently.
He had supper with Kate and Noah and told them he would be driving to Hartwell the next morning to spend one or two days with Neal Lewis.
“Neal’s been after me to come over since his wife died,” he said. “Wants me to look at some of his trees.”
“You sure that’s all he’s got in mind, Mr. Sam?” Noah said playfully. “The two of you not planning to drive over to Anderson to one of them girl shows, are you?”
“Don’t know,” he replied casually. “Neal said he had a couple of friends he wanted me to meet. Maybe that’s what he was talking about.”
“Daddy,” Kate exclaimed. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
“Leave your daddy alone,” Noah said. “A man needs to get out once in a while. Maybe I’ll go with him.”
“Well, maybe you ought to. Maybe you ought to drive him over,” Kate said.
“Going in my truck,” he replied firmly.
“Daddy, you ought not be out on the highway in that old thing.”
“Hoyt’s got it running good,” he argued. “It’ll get me there.”
“You don’t even have a lic
ense, Daddy.”
“Don’t expect to need one,” he said.
Noah did not want to hear an argument. He knew that Kate would not sleep from worry. “He’ll be all right. I drove the truck the other day. It’s in good shape.” He looked at his father-in-law. “Only thing you’ve got to do is learn how to shift gears. You keep starting off in third gear, you’ll strip everything in that gear box.”
His father-in-law nodded absently.
The entry in his journal of September 21 read:
Everything ready for my trip to Madison. I put an old quilt in the cab of my truck for White Dog. Washed out two gallon milk jars for water that I will carry with me in case the radiator boils over. I’ll cook some extra biscuits for White Dog to eat and make some sandwiches for myself. No need of spending more money that I have to. I’ll also carry some Pepsi-Colas, which I like and can drink when they’re warm. I don’t like not telling my children what I’m doing, but I know how they would act. It was a cool day for this time of year, almost cold. The weather report said we may set records. I thought we already had. Don’t ever remember it being this cold this early. I hope it warms up a little by tomorrow. I read a funny story in the paper today about Billy Jean King beating Bobby Riggs in a tennis match. The old fool ought to have known better than play a young woman, but I guess he’s laughing, or maybe limping, all the way to the bank.
17
It was still dark when he packed his suitcase—Cora’s suitcase; he had never owned one—and clumsily balancing it across the top braces of his walker, carried it to his truck. It was cool outside, almost winter-cold, but he was eager to be away on his journey.
He cooked and ate his breakfast—grits and sausage and biscuits—and he fed White Dog from the leftovers of his plate. He then made his sandwiches and packed them with the extra biscuits for White Dog in a paper sack from Pennywise, and he filled his plastic water jars and carried them to his truck and placed them on the floorboard of the passenger’s seat.
He made one last trip into his house—for his road map and for his journal and for Cora’s picture, which he had left in his book of records. He wondered if Martha Dunaway Kerr would remember Cora or Marshall Harris, or himself.
“Come on,” he said to White Dog, holding open the door of his truck. “Jump up in there. We’re going on a trip.” The dog looked quizzically at him, then sprang lightly into the cab of the truck and curled in the passenger’s seat. A pale, morning spray of soft pink fanned across the black gum and poplar trees of the swamp. A mockingbird squawked absurdly loud in a pecan tree. “Got a long way to go,” he said to White Dog as he pulled himself into the cab of the truck. He looked toward the houses of his two daughters. There were no lights on. At least he would be away, up the road, before they realized that he had left so early.
He touched the starter pedal with his foot, and the motor of the truck spit quietly and began to run easily. He pulled on the headlight switch and pushed in the clutch and eased the gear down and released the clutch. The truck jerked and sputtered and rolled laboriously forward. He wondered what gear the truck was in. Not the right one. But he was going forward and that was good enough. White Dog sat up and looked over the rim of the window. “Hold on, girl,” he said merrily. “We’re going to meet Martha Dunaway Kerr.”
Carrie said into the telephone to Kate, “You hear the truck start up?”
“Noah did. I was still asleep. Noah said he left sometime around sunup.”
“Still pitch-dark,” Carrie said. “It woke me up. I looked out the window. Couldn’t see a thing. Couldn’t see your hand up at your nose, it was so dark.”
“Maybe he just couldn’t sleep and decided he’d get started early. Maybe he’s going up by the cemetery first.”
“Looks like he’d call one of us before he left like that,” complained Carrie.
“You’d think so,” agreed Kate. “But you know Daddy. Does whatever he wants to. I swear, sometimes I think he does things like that on purpose, just to aggravate us, like Noah says. Like he’s always doing when Neelie’s around.”
“Sometimes I think the same thing,” Carrie said. “How long did he said he’d be gone?”
“A couple of days, maybe. But he won’t. He likes his own bed. He’ll be back before this afternoon, if I know him.”
“Has Daddy ever spent the night off with anybody that wadn’t in the family?” asked Carrie.
“Not that I know of.”
“Seems strange that he’d do that now. Don’t you think it seems strange?”
“I don’t know. You think it does?”
“He’s been acting funny for a long time now.”
“Don’t start that again, Carrie. I didn’t sleep for two days the last time you got started on Daddy acting like a child.”
“Me?” Carrie said in astonishment. “I didn’t bring that up. You did. Said you’d read something about it in Reader’s Digest.”
“Well, maybe I read the story, but you were the one who wanted me to follow Daddy in the bank to see if he knew what he was doing.”
“My Lord, Kate, don’t go making a mountain out of a molehill. I just said it seemed funny to me that he’d go off and start spending the night with people that’s not in the family. That’s something one of my boys would do, not a grown man.”
“There you go again, Carrie.”
“What?”
“You said it was something a child would do.”
“I said it was something one of my boys would do.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“Kate, it’s too early to argue. I haven’t had my coffee yet. Did he say he’d call when he got there?”
“He didn’t say he would. Maybe we ought to call over there and see if he got there all right.”
“You got the number?” asked Carrie.
Kate sighed wearily into the phone. “He said he’d give it to me, but he didn’t.”
“You know the name of the man he’s going to see?”
“Lewis,” answered Kate. “Somebody Lewis.”
“That’s a big help,” Carrie said bluntly. “Does Noah know?”
“I don’t think so. Anyhow, he went in early today. I don’t know why Daddy didn’t leave me the number. He said he would.”
“Well, let’s just wait. If we don’t hear from him by this afternoon, we can start trying to find him.”
“The man’s wife died not long ago,” Kate said.
“What man’s wife?” Carrie asked.
“The man he was going to see,” Kate said. “We can call the radio station and get the obituary. It’ll have his name.”
“I guess so. If you hear anything let me know.”
“Same with you,” Kate said. Then: “I’ll bet he knows right now how much he’s got us worried. I’ll bet he’s having a big laugh over making us worry so much.”
He was hopelessly lost, and he did not understand why. He had followed the crayon-coated line of his map—or believed he had—and still he did not see a road sign with the name of Madison on it.
It was late afternoon and the sun was in his eyes, blinding him, as he drove in sputtering slowness along the narrow dirt road that, on his map, should have been a paved highway. Maybe the map makers had made a mistake, he thought. It could be. People were always making such mistakes. He’d read about them often enough in magazines and newspapers, but if it was a mistake, somebody should have put up a sign saying the dirt road was a dirt road instead of a paved highway. “People don’t much care anymore,” he said to White Dog.
The man at the service station where he had stopped for gasoline and a check of his radiator should have said something to him about the road. Hadn’t he told the man where he was going?
“Madison, huh?” the man had said. “You sure this old truck’s gonna make it?”
“It’ll make it. Looks bad, but it runs good.”
“Hope you’re right,” the man had said pleasantly. “It’s a long way off. Does the heater work on this thing?
”
“Well, I don’t know. Never tried it. It’s warm enough inside. But the motor runs. It’ll make it,” he had repeated.
He pulled the truck to the side of the road, beneath the shade of an oak, and opened the door and White Dog leaped outside. “Go on and run around some,” he said. “I guess you tired of being jerked around.” He watched the dog slip cautiously into the brush by the roadside, then he said aloud as though calling to the dog, “I know we’re going slow, but seems to me we should of been there a long time ago.”
He took one of his Pepsi-Colas and opened it and drank from it. It was warm and sweet. Maybe it’d be best to rest a while, he decided. Let the sun go down some more, so it won’t be in my eyes. Maybe look at the map again. God only knows what could have happened. Old eyes. Maybe they read the map wrong. Maybe they missed a turn-off.
He could not remember ever going to Madison on the route he had taken. And even before there were good roads and automobiles that could cover the distance with some speed, it had never taken so long to make the trip. God Almighty, he thought, it’s only a hundred miles or a little more. Should of been there by lunchtime, even with stopping to rest. If I was younger and had two good legs, I could of walked it faster. Straight as the crow flies, I could of done it.
It had gone well enough early in the day. Being out at sunrise, there were few cars or trucks on the road and he had driven slowly enough to study his route, but somewhere near Athens, he seemed to be traveling southwest (by the pitch of the sun, at least) and he had been uncertain for hours.
There had been an occasional angry horn blast at him for his creeping pace, but he had ignored the impatience. People drove too fast for their own good. Little wonder there were so many accidents and so many killed. No reason to be in such a hurry.
He thought of a truck that had passed him earlier. It, too, was old—older than his own truck, he judged. The truck had eased up beside him, shuddering with great noise, and he had looked into the cab. The driver was also old—as old as he, perhaps older—and he held the steering wheel with a death grip. He remembered thinking, Good God, we must be a sight. Both of us ought to be in wheelchairs and both of us out on the road, like we’re on a race-track for turtles. He had lifted his foot off the gas pedal, and the other truck had gradually moved around him.