‘I didn’t mean it that way, Bob. It’s just that, well, you’re more resourceful than we are.’
‘An’ how you figure that?’
‘You found the light switch!’ Jack said, somewhat unconvincingly.
They circled the building again and checked for any open windows. They found one at the rear, a high restroom window slightly proud of its frame. ‘Do you think you’ll be able to climb through it, Bob?’
‘Hell no, I cain’t fit through that! This a job fo’ a skinny white boy.’
‘I’m thinner than you are, but I’m not skinny. I’m not sure I could squeeze through it.’
‘You the neares’ thing we got, so stop yappin’ an’ climb on my shoulders.’
Bob squatted to allow Jack to clamber on to his shoulders and then slowly rose. Jack pushed at the window and it opened. He called out Eric’s name again, but there was still no reply. He put his arms through the opening and then his head, slowly manoeuvring his body forward. His feet left Bob’s shoulders and he continued wriggling until his hips caught.
‘I’m stuck, Bob!’ he yelled. ‘You’ll have to push me!’
‘I cain’t even reach you, man. You sure you stuck?’
‘Of course I’m stuck! Do something for Christ’s sake, will you! I’m in danger of losing my manhood.’
‘I’ll go get Gene,’ Bob said, smiling.
Despite the seriousness of the situation and the increasing likelihood of having to leave Eric behind, Doc burst out laughing when he saw Jack’s legs sticking through the window.
‘This isn’t funny!’ Jack shouted.
‘How’s your hair, Jack? Is that okay?’
‘Fuck off, Doc! Maybe you could do something useful and help Bob get me out of here before people start to arrive.’
‘Boy’s right, Gene. We need to get movin’. Climb on my shoulders an’ then try an’ ease him through the hole.’
Bob squatted again, but this time rose with much greater difficulty. ‘Hell, Gene,’ he gasped. ‘Fo’ a live man, you a dead muthafuckin’ weight. Why you let yo’self get like this?’
Bob’s legs started to wobble and Doc swayed dangerously. He grabbed on to Jack’s legs to stop himself from toppling and Jack yelled. Doc apologised, but even now couldn’t stop chuckling. He eased and pushed Jack’s hips until they were free from the grasp of the frame, and his godson shot through the window. There was thump, followed by a loud groan.
‘You okay, Jack?’ Doc asked, for the first time concerned.
‘What do you think? I’ve just fallen six feet on to a tiled floor!’
‘He’s okay,’ Doc said, turning to Bob and smiling again. ‘Bob and I will go back to the bus, Jack. We’ll see you there.’
‘But what if Eric isn’t in here? What do we do then?’
‘Let’s have that conversation once we know. Now start looking!’
It was eerily quiet inside. Jack left the restroom and checked rooms as he came to them. Finally, and with relief, he found Eric sleeping soundly in John Boy’s bed. There was a strange, almost serene look on the boy’s face, but when Jack shook his shoulder and spoke his name, a look of acute pain crossed over it and Eric’s body convulsed.
‘Hey, Eric, wake up, kid. You’re having a nightmare. We thought we’d lost you, little man.’
Eric’s eyes opened and his body jerked upright. He was breathing heavily, palpitating and looked terrified. He scrambled out of the bed and rushed past Jack. ‘What the hell was all that about?’ Jack wondered. He straightened the sheets, tucked them into the bed and then smoothed the bedspread. Once he was sure all traces of Eric had been removed, he left the room, let himself out of the museum and returned to the bus.
‘What’s wrong with Eric?’ Doc asked.
‘I think he’s had a nightmare,’ Jack replied. ‘Why?’
‘He just dashed straight past everyone and into the bathroom. He’s still in there.’
Jack knocked on the bathroom door. ‘You okay in there, Eric? Need any help?’ He thought he heard the sound of sobbing, but then Eric answered.
‘I’m alright, Jack. I’ll be out soon.’
‘Okay, but watch your balance: the bus is about to set off. I’ll leave your breakfast on the table and you can join us up front when you’re ready.’
Bob was already sitting at the wheel, but Doc and Nancy were still in the rear lounge. ‘Is he going to be alright by himself?’ Nancy asked.
‘I think so,’ Jack replied. ‘He just needs time to get over his dream.’
‘I wonder what he was dreaming about.’ Nancy mused. ‘You should know, Gene. You’re his father.’
‘He’s not my son, Nancy.’
‘Is he my son, then?’ Nancy asked.
‘No, he’s an orphan, Nancy. We’re his friends. We’re helping him find his cousin – she’s going to look after him.’
‘The poor boy,’ she said. ‘It must be awful not to have parents. I’ll be glad when I see mine again. This time, I’m not leaving them.’
Bob started the bus. ‘I think that track yonder might be a short cut to the main road. Might give it a try.’
‘Just go back the way you came,’ Doc said. ‘We don’t need a repeat of yesterday’s performance.’
‘You the boss man, Gene. Jus’ tryin’ to save you some gas money, is all.’
Bob drove the bus slowly down the deserted road and back in the direction of Highway 6. They’d decided to head west, connect with I151 and follow Skyline Drive along the crest of the Blue Ridge Mountains. There was little traffic, and little movement in the houses they passed. It was 6:45 am and the morning was overcast.
Eric joined them in the front lounge. He was unusually quiet and sat reading the Bible. Doc couldn’t be sure from where he sat, but it appeared that Eric was reading the Book of Genesis again – the same verses over and over. He caught Eric’s eye and smiled at him: ‘You didn’t lose count, did you?’
Eric was about to say something when his voice caught and he started to sob uncontrollably. Tears poured from his eyes and dripped from his cheeks on to his Walton’s Mountain T-shirt. His small body quivered, and when he attempted to catch his breath he made strange, high-pitched braying noises. Jack went to Eric’s side and pulled the boy towards him. ‘It’s okay, Eric. It’s okay.’ He waited for the emotion to drain, and once he’d felt the boy’s body go limp in his arms, took hold of his red washing-up-gloved hand and led him to the rear lounge. Five minutes went by and then Jack returned by himself.
‘He thinks he’s dying and wants to talk to you, Doc. My guess is it’s a New Orleans matter.’
When Doc joined the practice in Maryland, he entered a world of code and euphemism. The practice had been led by Paul Hargrove, a doctor in his early sixties, a native of the town and a man both traditional and obdurate in his views. He insisted that junior doctors follow his own dress code and wear dark suits, white shirts and bow ties. He was equally adamant that they have a smile on their face and a shine on their shoes (preferably black) at all times. ‘The community looks up to us,’ he admonished. ‘We should neither disappoint nor offend them!’ He warned them against public crapulence (a sackable offence), and encouraged them to attend church every Sunday – preferably the Episcopalian service.
When it came to examinations of patients below the waist, Hargrove was particularly stiff-necked: he wanted no mention of either penises or vaginas. Although he allowed for the fact that these were bona fide medical terms, he was emphatic in his belief that both caused offence and distress to patients. The only expression he would permit them to use was Down Below. He contended, however, that at heart he was a tolerant man, and would be willing to review the situation if any doctor were able to coin an equally anodyne representation of the subject matter at hand – or rather – down below. He doubted, however, that this was a possibility.
Doc had been one of two junior doctors in the practice. He found the whole idea of using the description Down Below ridiculous, but from a po
sition of powerlessness proceeded to use the phrase and gave the matter little more thought. The other junior doctor, however, made it his mission in life to find an expression of equal blandness, and eventually proved successful. His first suggestion, that they use the term South of the Border, was rejected by Hargrove on the grounds that it was too Mexican. It was then he came up with the phrase Way down Yonder.
It was taken from Way down Yonder in New Orleans, a song written in the early nineteen-twenties and recorded by various artists. Freddy Cannon’s version was the most recent, but the recording familiar to the doctor was Louis Armstrong’s. He was listening to the album at home one evening and sat bolt upright when he heard the lyric:
Way down yonder in New Orleans
in the land of dreamy scenes
there’s a Garden of Eden… you know what I mean
Garden of Eden was the first phrase to resonate, but was quickly dismissed: Hargrove would have judged it too suggestive. But Way down Yonder, he believed, was in with a strong chance. He brought it up at the following day’s practice meeting and Hargrove considered it carefully – longer than he usually considered such suggestions. Eventually, he shook his head. ‘It’s too black, too rural,’ he said. ‘But, repeat the first line again, will you?’ The junior doctor did.
‘What about New Orleans? Why don’t we refer to Down Below as New Orleans?’ Hargrove suggested. ‘It’s a city with a good reputation, it’s in the south of the United States rather than Mexico, and they serve good food there, too. I like the idea!’
The junior doctor winked at Doc, and Doc smiled back. That night, they went to a local bar and celebrated the junior doctor’s triumph.
Only once did the maxim cause confusion and then, only after Doc had retired from practice. At the time he’d been walking through a department store and been accosted by a middle-aged woman. Her face was familiar, but he wasn’t sure why.
‘Hi, Doctor Chaney, how are you?’ she’d said. ‘I’m Gwen Collins. I used to be a patient of yours.’
‘So you did, Gwen. I’m well thank you, and how are you?’
‘There’s been a terrible disaster in New Orleans, Dr Chaney!’
‘I’m afraid you’ll have to see your new doctor about that, Gwen – I’m retired these days. Good luck to you.’ And with that, he’d walked briskly away. It was only after he’d returned home and listened to CNN, that he realised she’d been talking about Hurricane Katrina.
Doc walked to the rear of the bus where Eric was sitting. The boy was calmer now but still visibly upset. He sat beside him and, in a practised bedside manner, asked Eric what was troubling him. His style was both sympathetic and disarming; worthy of first place in any medical death bed competition, and it therefore surprised him when Eric burst into tears again.
Eric had been woken during the night by the sounds of Doc and Bob snoring. He was on the verge of falling back to sleep again when Nancy had started to make strange whimpering noises, and Jack to talk in his sleep: ‘Tell it to my ex-wife, buddy… You try telling her… Fuck Bingo… Heavy downpours tomorrow, folks: don’t forget your umbrellas.’ The noises disquieted him and made him think of the empty bed in John Boy’s room. Careful not to disturb Jack, he’d climbed down from the bunk, quietly put on his sneakers and walked the short distance to the brick schoolhouse. Once there, he’d made his way to John Boy’s room and climbed into bed. Within minutes he was fast asleep.
He told Doc he’d been dreaming, but remained tight-lipped as to the exact nature of his dream. All he would say was that his thing down there – pointing to his pecker – had grown in size and, as he awoke, sticky stuff had started to spurt from it. He knew from the accompanying sensation that something bad had happened, that he’d done wrong and would now probably die.
Doc smiled at Eric. ‘You needn’t worry yourself about this, young man. It’s all part of growing up: it happens to everybody. It’s happened to me, it’s happened to Bob and it’s happened to Jack. What you had was a wet dream. They just happen. But tell me, why do you think something bad happened?’
‘It felt too good to be right,’ Eric said. ‘And in the Bible it says that God kills people for this. He killed a man called Onan.’
‘I don’t know much about Onan, Eric; but Bob, Jack and I are all still alive: He hasn’t killed us. You mustn’t worry and get yourself upset over something as unimportant as this. You haven’t done anything wrong and believe me, it will happen again. Like it or not, it’s going to be a part of your life from now on.’
Eric went to the bathroom to wash his face and Doc returned to the others. Jack looked at him expectantly.
‘You’re Jewish, Jack: what do you know about Onan?’
‘Why would I know any more about onions than the next person, just because I’m Jewish? It’s a vegetable and it’s used for cooking. What more is there to know?’
‘Not onions, you dimwit – Onan! He was a vegetable of the Biblical variety and God cooked him. Now does his name ring a bell?’
‘I’ve never heard of him. You know my family was never practising. I’m not sure we even had a Torah in the house, let alone a Bible.’
Doc turned to Bob: ‘Hey, Bob. Do you know anything about Onan?’
‘Know all ’bout the man. People think he was a masturbator but he weren’t: he was a birth control man. Used to withdraw his John Thomas b’fore he came, an’ that’s why his seed splashed on the ground. It mo’ likely Eric thinks he did somethin’ ungodly ’cos he left a stain in John Boy’s bed. Ha!’
‘The boy’s growing up, Jack,’ Doc said. ‘He needs to know the facts of life. You’re closest to him in age and the two of you seem to be hitting it off. I think he’d be more comfortable hearing them from you than he would from either me or Bob. How about it?’
‘Jesus, Doc! Do I have to? I’ve never done anything like this before in my life, and to tell you the truth, I’m not sure I even know all the facts.’
‘You know enough – and I’m counting on you. Do it now, will you? He’s in the back lounge and the occasion seems right.’
Jack grimaced, but got to his feet and walked slowly to the rear of the bus. Forty minutes later the two of them returned, Jack as red as a beetroot and Eric as white as a sheet.
‘Don’t even ask!’ Jack said to Doc. He sat down and folded his arms. Eric sat beside him and opened the Bible. Doc was relieved to see him reading II Kings.
An Aura of Fake and the Smell of Horseshit
The fog thickened, and any views they might have enjoyed from the ridge were effectively blanketed. They decided to turn off Skyline Drive and head back to the interstate. It was a good decision: there were checkpoints on the road ahead, and if Bob had troubled himself to read the signs, he would have known that their vehicle had no actual right being on the road.
They descended the steep side of the mountain and followed a route that took them through Augusta and Rockbridge counties and past the small communities of Steeles Tavern and Vesuvius. They rejoined the interstate close to Buena Vista and followed it south, merging seamlessly into a stream of trucks and buses heading in the same direction. The tour bus, Doc was pleased to note, blended right in.
The interstate was a world unto itself, dotted with visitors’ centres, rest areas and exit developments more thriving than the towns they served. Like old-fashioned barkers standing outside a club, unremitting billboards touted for custom and tempted motorists to leave the interstate and spend money at nearby attractions. Towns proclaimed themselves to be the birth, residency or burial place of past presidents, generals and other notables: Woodrow Wilson, Robert E Lee and Stonewall Jackson among them. They left the I81 at Christiansburg, where Davy Crockett had once worked in a hatter’s shop, and headed towards the small town of Crawford. Or, at least – it used to be small.
‘Man, this place has growed,’ Bob said. ‘Used to be way smaller ’n this.’
‘How long has it been since you were here?’ Jack asked.
‘Forty years �
� maybe more.’
‘And you’re surprised it’s changed?’
‘Surprised it’s bigger, yeah. If anythin’, I thought it woulda been smaller.’
‘It’s still not big though, is it?’ Doc said.
‘Maybe not to you, but it sure ain’t the same.’
Bob pulled into Merritt’s driveway and parked at the rear of the house. Taking a slip of paper from his pocket, he punched the numbers written there into his cell phone. ‘We arrived an’ parked up, Merritt. You wan’ us to wait here fo’ you?’ He then hung up.
‘Did you just leave him a message?’ Doc asked.
‘Didn’t need to. I was talkin’ to the man.’
‘That was a conversation?’ Jack asked, somewhat incredulous. ‘How long has it been since you’ve seen him?’
‘’Bout forty years, but we talk an’ stuff. He don’t like usin’ phones.’
‘So what’s the plan? Do we wait here?’
‘Yeah: he says he’ll be right over. Jus’ needs to lock up.’
Crawford had changed. The town’s population had maybe quadrupled in size since Bob had lived there, and Merritt’s house – which had been on the outskirts – was now almost at its centre. Developers and realtors were in the ascendant, and old downtown buildings had either been gentrified or torn down and replaced by newer structures in the style of fucking twee. In the name of progress, the old era had been pushed to one side and superseded by a fake New Age of organic foods, complementary medicines, low carbon footprints and a contrived spirit of togetherness. The past had been re-written, and all traces of hippy drug culture erased from the town’s history as ruthlessly as images of disgraced Politburo members in the time of Stalin had been wiped from official photographs.
Although by any standards the town was still small, it now gave the impression of a town flexing its muscles, a town preparing itself for bigger and better things. A powerful PR machine promoted the area’s natural beauty, its music and its art. It encouraged people to visit the town, stay overnight in one of the many bed-and-breakfast establishments, eat in its restaurants and sample its wineries. It organised beer and wine festivals; orchestrated markets that sold gourmet, health and organic foods; and arranged activities that exemplified the area’s commitment to rural living: how to make apple butter, how to dry fruits and vegetables, how to husk corn.
Last Bus to Coffeeville Page 32