by Joe Meno
“I can drive,” the boy blurted out. “It feels okay.”
“Why don’t you rest it some?”
The boy shook his head, holding his hands out for the keys. The old man examined him then, seeing and not seeing him—a face, the face of a child, of a baby—still hanging in the air and then fading away. Where was the small one? The gray-faced one? The one who toddled about the kitchen on chubby legs? There was hair on the boy’s upper lip which he had noticed but never considered before. The grandfather looked down at the keys and slowly placed them back in the boy’s soft hand.
* * *
The old woman, though she was blind, managed to live on the third floor of a worn-looking walk-up, right above a bait store and a boarded-up church. The girl helped her all the way up, eyeing the old woman’s purse as she searched through her sweater for her keys. It would be nothing to grab it from her hands. But before the girl could act, the old woman had put the key in the lock and thrown open the door.
Even at this hour, the apartment was filled with stray fragments of light. Children’s drawings had been taped everywhere and there were several birdcages placed on stands throughout the cramped room. A goldfinch was swinging on a piece of wire. The old woman set her purse down on a counter crowded with junk mail, walked over to its cage, and began whistling.
“Used to give piano lessons,” the old woman said, nodding to where an upright piano was buried beneath a mountain of newspapers. “Now the birds are my music.”
The girl studied the children’s drawings on the wall, saw an angel and devil singing to each other, then turned and inched closer to the woman’s purse.
The old woman lifted her head and said, “Come on over where I can talk to you.”
When the girl took a seat beside her on the cluttered couch, the old woman leaned over and opened the cage, then carefully placed her hands around the bird, cupping it in her palms.
“I’d like to give you something for your time. For helping me. But first I want to know who it is I’m talking to.” She sat down and gently handed the bird to the girl.
Rylee tensed, feeling the living thing trembling between her fingers.
“You’re lost, aren’t you?”
The girl felt like she might begin to sob. “Yes,” she said, swallowing it down.
“You’re lost and far from home.”
“Yes.”
“Everybody gets lost sometimes. Everybody gets tested. You’re being tested right now, aren’t you?”
The girl nodded silently.
The old woman placed her hands upon Rylee’s and took the bird back. She stood and carried the animal back to its cage, shoving the wire door in place. “Now hand me my purse.”
_________________
“Sir.”
“—”
“Gramps?”
“Hm.”
“Did you ever think about that horse? Where it came from?”
“—”
“Gramps?”
The old man glanced at the boy behind the steering wheel and muttered a curt, mendacious, “No.”
“I have. I thought about it.”
“You have?”
“I have.”
“I’m not surprised.”
“How come?”
“I’m finding out you got all kinds of thoughts.”
The boy smiled, proud of himself.
“Well?” the grandfather asked.
“At first I thought it was just a mistake like Mr. Northfield said.”
“—”
“But now I don’t know.”
“—”
“I don’t know.”
“—”
“I think maybe God is that horse. That He sent it Himself.”
The grandfather squirmed in his seat.
“I think maybe God is that horse and He sent Himself and now we’re being tested. Like Jonah. Or Jesus. How He likes to test all kinds of people. Those sort of things.”
“—”
“Gramps?”
“—”
“Gramps?”
“Hm.”
“What do you think?”
“I thought . . .” the grandfather started. “It feels stupid to talk about.”
“No,” the boy said, encouraging.
“I guess. Well, I guess I thought your grandmother had sent it.”
The boy was silent.
Then the grandfather added: “I still do, I guess.”
* * *
Rick sneered as the needle pierced the loose flesh above his left eye, Fannie’s fingers working the black thread through, crisscrossing the rancorous white wound. He could see right down the front of her dress, the bony bridge of her clavicle sloping toward her teardrop-shaped breasts. She smelled like dish soap and sweat. She leaned over him, fingers pressed against his face, and as she slipped the needle through again, he felt an ache somewhere in his stomach. He thought of saying something, of maybe winking at her and whispering a few of the old, soft words, but then thought better of it, for just then, Jerry lumbered into the kitchen. Jerry was a pale, gargantuan mountain of human flesh, bigger than any other person Rick had ever seen. In fact, it seemed like the room shrank as soon as Jerry had entered, the corners and ceiling all bending around him. It wasn’t just his shoulders or chest, or even his mammoth-sized head—really closer to that of an elephant than a man—it was him, everything about him—moles, wrinkles, scars—everything twice, maybe even three times the size of a normal person’s. He had long blond hair that was stringy, thinning out along the top and downright bare in spots. He took a seat beside Rick, nodded with a dumb, happy grin, and mumbled, “They’re both asleep. The baby was a little fussy. I think maybe she has a tooth coming in.”
“Thanks, hon,” Fannie said with a smile, black thread hanging from her tightened teeth.
“So, Rick, you ain’t back to stay?” Jerry asked.
Rick blinked, wincing a little as the needle pierced his skin again. “Nope. Just passing through. Got in a jam. I got to be heading on as soon as I’m able.”
Jerry nodded, looking a little relieved, staring down at his immense hands. “You didn’t say what kind of trouble you’re in.”
“I didn’t.”
Jerry tapped his fingers twice, cleared his throat, and then stood, once again filling the span of the tiny kitchen with his unfathomable bulk. “Guess I’ll see what’s on TV.” He waddled through the kitchen door, collapsed on the dingy sofa, and flicked on the television set, the sofa rattling with each reverberation of Jerry’s oil-drum laugh.
“He’s been depressed,” Fannie whispered from the corner of her mouth, the black thread slipping from her soft lips.
Rick peered through the kitchen door to where Jerry was sitting and noticed an oversize glossy poster on the far wall which featured a photo of Jerry from more than a decade ago, when his blond hair had been long and full, when he had worn a brownish beard, his arms impossibly large, red tights straining at his gigantic thighs, an opulent golden championship belt fitted around his waist. Beside him, on the poster, was Fannie—in a lacy white dress—his ring girl, though at the time of the photo she had been in love with Rick. Those had been the days, although Rick had been too dull to notice. He stared at the poster, seeing her long, long legs like two scissor blades, and winced a little as Fannie tightened the thread again.
“They asked him to retire about a year ago and now all he does is mope around. They got him doing commentary, you know, at the matches, but he’s not his old self. He’s great with the kids but they kind of broke his heart when they said he was getting too old.”
Rick blinked, knowing better than to say a word.
“It was the best thing in the world marrying him,” Fannie whispered with a smile. “He needs me almost as much as I need him.”
And here the needle slipped a little, poking at the open cut, Rick sucking in his teeth.
“Sorry ’bout that. You want another drink?” she asked, motioning to the half-gl
ass of bourbon sitting before him.
“I’m good.”
Fannie, squinting, more careful this time, threaded the needle through the skin yet again, drawing the wound closed.
“How come you stopped by?” she asked, her voice slightly muffled, glancing across the kitchen at the shape of Jerry on the sofa.
“I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“You and I know that ain’t the truth.”
“Well then, guess I wanted to see you.”
“Hmmm.”
“I’m coming into some money,” he said abruptly. “In a few days or so. I can stop back this way.”
Fannie, having finished, bit the thread, snapping it in half with her small, sharp teeth. “All done.”
“You hear what I say?”
“I did,” she said, a flush creeping into her cheeks. She set the needle and thread down on the kitchen table, turning away from him. “We’re done.”
“Fannie . . .” His hands reached out for her but she was already across the kitchen somehow.
* * *
It was now near eight p.m. The pale-blue pickup was parked before the bus station, the old man—his legs stretched out before him in the passenger seat—watching the double glass doors for any suggestion, any sign of the horse, of the trailer, of the thing they had come all this way for. The driver’s-side door opened and Quentin climbed back inside, favoring his right leg as he slid behind the wheel.
“It’s not anywhere around here,” he said flatly, turning to his grandfather. “I looked all over the parking lot.”
“We’ll just have to be still.”
“Sir?”
“We’ll just have to sit here and wait until something happens.”
“Shouldn’t we be doing something?”
“We are. We’re waiting for those other folks to make a mistake. They already made a few. We just need one more and then we’ll be in the catbird seat.”
“And then what?”
“I don’t know. Anyways, we’re better off getting that horse back when there isn’t anyone else around. We’ll wait for them to show up and then follow ’em to where we can take her back, trailer and all.”
The boy’s eyes darted back to his grandfather. The old man’s breath seemed irregular and shallow. “Are you okay, Gramps?”
“I’m okay. I just need to rest my eyes. You seeing anything funny, you wake me, all right?”
“Okay.”
Silence once again seized the pickup.
* * *
Rick limped back out into the night, stepping over the pair of metal roller skates, shuffling down the front steps, and turned back in the middle of the street to face the shabby house. It was not as if he had expected her to say yes; he was not fool enough to think that. It was how she had treated him like a child, like he posed no threat, sewing up his eye, her husband sitting in the other room laughing at the television, like they had never been young, like they had never been wild. He crept into the cab of the black pickup and lit a cigarette, holding the smoke deep in his lungs. Before he slid the key into the ignition, he thought how there was now no kindness, no reason, no obstacle to keep him from finding that girl and putting the hurt on her, putting an end to all the anguish she had caused. He reloaded the pistol, slid it back under his unbuttoned coat, and drove off, feeling wrathful.
* * *
Like a polecat, the girl slunk through the parking lot of the bus station, glancing back over her shoulder once, then again, dodging from shadow to shadow until she could lay her fingers on the cold steel door. She flung it open in a hurry, darted inside, and spread out the wrinkled dollar bills on the beige counter only to discover the next bus wasn’t until four in the morning. She bought her ticket, scraped the remainder of her change into her jeans pocket, and strode over to a bank of faded plastic seats. She had more than six hours to kill and not enough in her pocket for something to eat. She peered up at a TV in the corner of the room. The screen was fuzzy with snow, the picture kept rolling, the image unclear, and then it gradually sharpened into a pale, eyeless face. It was her face and it was on TV because she was dead. Rylee stood, stepping toward the screen, and watched the image vanish, electronic snow buzzing before her with brilliant ferocity. She fell back into her seat, stared down at her hands which were pink and blistered. She put her feet up on the seat next to her, admiring the pink cowboy boots, and feigned sleep, watching the clock across from her. It was almost nine p.m.
* * *
The horse, sleeping now in its silver stall, paid no notice to the harried lights flashing outside. The dark pickup wound down the street, past the motels, the hotels, past an adult movie theater. At each location the truck stopped, its driver slowly, angrily climbing out, treading across whatever grime-specked parking lot laid before him, the driver disappearing indoors for a moment, and then returning, once again slipping the color photo of the girl into his front shirt pocket, the engine starting up, the clutch engaged, truck and trailer once again carrying on, the forward movement and its cessation matching the animal’s steady sway, undisturbed in its sleep.
* * *
Nine o’clock. The sound of nine o’clock, a shade being pulled down in a dark room. Nine, the faltering, final dismissal of daylight. Then ten. Ten, a fragile wick of a white candle being worn down. Ten. Then eleven, an old phonograph quietly announcing a song of regret, melody of old memories, the tune of another useless day spent. Eleven, then midnight. Midnight, the voice of a stationmaster, with a locomotive approaching, midnight set to arrive like a stranger aboard a westbound train, the engine surrounded by clouds of steam, the stranger faceless, unassuming, the cold certainty of one more day advancing. One o’clock, a barn owl perched in a high tree, branches bare, leaves blown clean. Two, a fog-covered lake, the haze of wanting, of waiting, of wishing to sleep. Three o’clock, the hour of neon, of fading colored lights, of aqua and pink flashing, electric signs reminding JESUS DIED FOR OUR SINS and ALL-NITE JACUZZI SUITES AVAILABLE. Three, religious in its quietude. Three, the hour of confession, of supplication, of forgiveness before the Holy Trinity, terrified prayers whispered in the dark, in between breaths, in between kisses, upon the muted colors of drawn motel sheets.
* * *
At three a.m. the girl was asleep, the child-size pink boots which had been stolen placed on the floor before her, bare feet curled beneath her posterior, the toes covered in grime, a wadded-up newspaper serving as a blanket, slightly covering her lower half. She looked like a refugee: her left nostril gummy with snot, her hair a tangled bramble, cheeks and chin waxy in day-old makeup. Rick stood above her, staring at her sad shape for a second, before he squatted, placing his hand beneath her chin, softly whispering, “Rylee.”
The girl blinked, the look in her eyes one of confusion before rapidly turning into horror. She tried to scramble to her feet but he put his hand out, grabbing her by the shoulder, sure to keep her from running again. She fought him, shucking her arm loose, eyes wild, searching for the nearest exit, seeking out a security guard, a well-meaning stranger, anyone. But at this hour of the night, this hour of the morning, the waiting room was empty. There were two derelicts nodding off in the opposite corner of the room. The TV set, which was affixed to a metal arm, its volume muted, was a field of scattered electronic snow. He got her back down in the plastic seat and tried to sound reasonable.
“Calm down,” he muttered. “Calm down, just try and calm down.”
“Fuck you,” she hissed, trying to dart off again.
He grabbed her by the back of the neck, still squatting, staring at her solemnly. “Come on, we ain’t got time for this.”
“Fuck you.”
“Listen, little girl—”
“Get the fuck off me.”
He let go of her neck and blurted out the words as soon as she was on her feet again: “Your geegaw—he’s dead.”
She turned, her yellow eyes wild-looking again, an animal caught in the headlights of a fast-moving vehicle. “Fuck yo
u. I know you’re lying.”
“Rylee.”
“Get the fuck away from me.”
“Why do you think they sent me all this way?”
“You’re so full of shit, you stupid fucking—”
“Rylee.”
“It was the day before yesterday. Why do you think they sent me?”
“You think I’m some stupid fucking kid? Well, I ain’t. You’re fucking nuts if you think I’m getting into that fucking truck with you.”
“Have it your way. We’re already a day late as it is. Tomorrow, they’re having the service. You want to miss it? After all that old man did for you?”
“Fuck you,” she said again, though this time it ended with a sob, her shoulders shaking, folding her face into her dirty hands. “Fuck you,” she repeated, a narrow slip of a girl trembling beneath the awkward fluorescent lights of the waiting room.
“You can either get in the truck with me or stay here, I really don’t give a shit. You want to run, keep running. But I’m leaving now. I aim to get back in time to pay my respects.”
The girl looked away.
“You got enough for the bus?”
The girl nodded her head, eyes wide and opalescent.
“Come on, I won’t bother you,” he said in a voice just like her father, or her granddad, or Brian, or any number of them, showing her a little affection.
The girl sniffled again before she lowered her head, grabbed the stolen boots, and slowly limped toward the glass doors. They headed from the waiting room out to the paved parking lot where his black truck had been parked in a handicapped spot.
_________________
Two forms emerged from the double doors of the bus stop as the boy finished sipping from the glass bottle of Coke. He watched them without interest at first: a man with a lean build, dark eyes, and mustache; the second, a girl, a young woman, it was hard to tell, whom the fellow was leading by the shoulder. They paused in front of a dark pickup—and there, attached to a hitch, was the silver trailer, their trailer. The boy rubbed his eyes, watching the girl whisper something to the man, the man, helping her up and inside the cab. Once she was situated, the man crossed in front of the vehicle and climbed behind the steering wheel.