Caught (19 page)

You’re welcome, son, the man said. The trucker worked his fork and knife under his second egg and in a delicate manoeuvre he transferred the jiggling mass so that it hovered over Slaney’s empty plate and then slithered off and landed with a plop. He put the two pieces of toast he could not finish on Slaney’s plate and an extra piece of bacon.

You don’t need to do that, sir, Slaney said.

All I got to show for a lifetime of hard work is that truck out there, the man said.

It’s quite a rig, Slaney said.

I’ve got complaints, the man said. Heavy lifting. A man gets a certain age. No pension, no nothing. Eat your egg.

Thank you, sir.

I can’t eat it. I got half a stomach gone to cancer.

I’m sorry to hear that.

Just eat.

Thank you.

Eat the egg, son.

Sir, do you think the chickens will survive the heat? Slaney asked.

Those chickens are frozen solid, the trucker said. My rig is a refrigerator freezer.

I thought you had a cargo of live chickens back there, Slaney said.

Those are chicken legs. I don’t know where the rest of them is, the breasts and what-have-you. On somebody else’s truck.

I thought they were alive out there.

Dead as doornails, far as I know. Slaney and the trucker looked out at the lot together and they both lifted their coffee cups at the same time and sipped and put them back down.

I’m going to freshen up, Slaney said.

Powder your nose, the trucker said. Go ahead.

Slaney headed to the bathroom where he washed in the sink and crossed the parking lot and climbed up into the truck and shut the door as quietly as he could and he hunched low. After a moment or two the driver sauntered across the parking lot and climbed up into the cab and slammed the door. Slaney saw the driver had a toothpick. It wagged up and then down.

Then Slaney jerked with fright: a fist rapping the glass.

Son, those police officers have some questions, the driver said. Slaney rolled down the window.

Good morning, the officer said. Where you from, son?

Down east, Slaney said. The cop looked down the highway toward the east. He hooked his fingers into his belt loops and stood there for a long moment. He watched the horizon as though Slaney had yet to show up, as if he were still down east, living his life, breaking the law, getting caught, busting out of jail, and he might appear any minute on the horizon, heading west, heading toward this very truck stop.

Slaney glanced around for the other officer. He was leaning on the open door of the patrol car, still talking on the hand radio.

Mind if I ask you what you do for a living, son?

I’m a university student, Slaney said.

What’s your line of study?

I am hoping to become a dental hygienist.

Looking in people’s mouths, the cop said. He took out a notebook and pen and flipped to an empty page. He clicked the pen with his thumb and held it over the page and there was a pause.

It was a pen from Florida and the top half was clear glass filled with water and a dolphin swam up and down the pen against a background of a beach and blue sky. The cop moved his lips. His lips formed a word or two, but nothing came out. He gave up. Clicked the pen again.

I got a bad tooth myself, the cop said. I believe it’s rotting right out of my head. Sometimes I’d like to take a gun and shoot myself in the mouth. Just blow the damn thing right out of my face.

The cop moved his lower jaw from side to side and touched his fingers to it.

I’m not qualified yet, said Slaney. It was as though the cop had been rebuked. He seemed instantly angry.

I don’t see how someone could find fulfillment looking in people’s mouths. Turn your stomach. You’d want to be pretty hard up.

People are starting to take better care of their teeth, Slaney said. He wanted to move his hands up and down his thighs but he didn’t do it. He let his hands rest lightly on his knees. He kept them still.

There’s flossing daily, he said. Fluoride. Sometimes just removing the tooth.

Just yank it out, you’re saying, the cop asked.

Get a professional, Slaney said.

And you’re studying it?

I’ve done history courses so far, Slaney said. First you have to do general things. Before you can get into the school of dentistry.

Which you are going to do, the cop said.

Which I hope they’ll accept me, Slaney said. The cop winced as though he were uneasy with what he had to say next.

What’s your name, son? the cop asked.

Douglas Knight, Slaney said.

Do you have any identification on you, Doug, I could take a look-see?

Slaney took out the new passport and the cop turned the pages and he glanced at the picture and up at Slaney. Then he lifted his sunglasses and let them rest on his forehead. He brought the passport over to the other cop, who leafed through and then got in the car and spoke at length on the radio.

Slaney and the trucker waited in silence, looking forward. The trucker rolled down his window and tossed the toothpick. He put his hand on the gearshift and gave it a vicious shake as if he wanted to make sure they could move if they had to. The cop came back to Slaney’s side and handed up the passport.

Doug, I have to be honest, the cop said. I don’t like your personality. I don’t believe you are a dental hygienist or that you will ever become one. I don’t think you have it in you. It’s a distasteful job. But it requires discipline. You look like the kind of guy doesn’t get up in the morning. I don’t think you’re college material.

Slaney lifted his hip and fit the passport into his back pocket.

I don’t like the look of you, the cop said. Slaney looked straight ahead.

Get a haircut, Doug, the cop said. And he strolled away.

Something funny happened there, son, the trucker said.

I know, Slaney said.

Why didn’t they take you in? They made a phone call and they decided to let you go.

Moved by a whim, Slaney said. I don’t know.

It wasn’t a whim, the trucker said.

You had my back.

Something funny, the trucker said. I don’t know what the hell you done, but they sure as hell wanted you for something and then they let you go.

The trucker was watching in his side mirror as the cops pulled away from the parking lot. He started up the truck and let it idle.

I don’t have your back, the trucker said. Nobody has your back.

Party

Slaney could hear
the party before he saw the house. He walked up a grassy lane and could feel the music thumping through the soles of his sneakers. He saw yellow ribbons of lit window through the black tree trunks and at the end of the path the stretching rectangles of light cast across the lawn.

The party had spilled into the garden and he could smell a barbecue and there were children running around playing spotlight, patio lanterns strung from the low branches and along the veranda railing. A Hula Hoop wheeled past him and hit a stone and fell into the tall grass at the end of the lawn. He wandered into the house and found Hearn in the kitchen.

Hearn opened his arms and Slaney walked into them. They stood there hugging without speaking a word. Music throbbed in the walls and there was the racket of conversation. The crowd so thick bodies stood close and people had to work a shoulder or elbow through to pass.

They just held each other. They stood locked in each other’s grip. They were hanging on tight. Slaney could feel Hearn’s heart. They stood like that for a long time and Slaney let the beat of Hearn’s heart enter him. Then they stepped apart and tried to take each other in.

Hearn’s freckles and a red bandana he had knotted around his throat. He was skinnier and more muscled and he’d let his fiery hair spring out in an afro. He looked high and a little haunted.

I’m sorry about your father, Slaney said. He had wanted to say that in person. Hearn put his hand to his forehead as if taking his own temperature.

I’m sorry you went to prison, Hearn said. He said it in a flat voice and his eyes gleamed with tears and everything that had gone on between them since they were kids seemed to be present in the room.

Hearn threw back his head and howled. An animal noise that came from somewhere deep. He stamped his foot three times to urge the whole weltering cry out of himself.

We’re going to show them, he said. We’re going to show those bastards.

Is there anything to eat here? Slaney asked.

Gutfounded, I suppose, Hearn said.

Eat the leg off the lamb of God, Slaney said.

Get this guy a plate of food, Hearn shouted.

Are you crying? Slaney asked. They had to raise their voices to be heard.

Yes, I’m crying, Hearn shouted. He grabbed Slaney in a headlock and dug his knuckles into his scalp.

Of course I’m crying, he growled.

Let go, Slaney said. He jabbed his elbow into Hearn’s ribs and broke free of the grip.

It is so good to see you, Hearn said. He folded his arms across his chest and shook his head slowly, as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Then he got Slaney a beer out of the old claw-foot bathtub full of ice someone had dragged into the kitchen. He knocked the cap off with a
puck
and smoky frost curled up. Slaney put the beer on his head and a few people hooted. He drank most of it in one long swig. Slaney found he was crying too.

A girl handed him a paper plate with a leg of barbecued chicken and potato salad and a salad of tinned pineapple and creamed corn. She dug around in the drawer for cutlery but she could only come up with a miniature spoon, an enamel oval in the handle with a portrait of the Queen.

Come meet some of the boys, Hearn said. Slaney put down the paper plate and followed him to the basement. The party pounded through the ceiling. There were five men sitting around a table in the corner playing cards. The room smelled yeasty, full of mould and concrete. A washer and dryer were going in the corner. There was a padded leather wet-bar and a lava lamp at least five feet high and shaped like a missile. They had a bottle of scotch on the table and poker chips. A collage of centrefolds covered an entire wall. Each man stood as he was introduced and sat back down.

Everybody, this is Doug Knight, Hearn said. He’s heading out of here tomorrow for sunny Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. Doug, this is Roy Brophy. Roy came in at the last minute with some serious financial support.

Patterson stood and shook Slaney’s hand.

Roy is a contractor, Hearn said. And you know Geoff O’Driscoll.

Good to see you, man, Slaney said. He reached over the table and they high-fived. It was Frank Parsons. Going by the name of Geoff. Frank had gone through school with Hearn and Slaney.

Geoff is responsible for the cargo once it gets to shore. Geoff’s distribution.

Good to see you out, man, Frank said.

Good to be out, Slaney said.

These three guys, Hearn said, Harold Jesperson, Don Burn, Stan Summers, I think you know Stan.

Stan was Phil White, grew up on Slaney’s street. Played sax in the school band. Phil had seven sisters, two of the older ones were nuns in Monsefú. He was wearing a transparent green visor and a Doors T-shirt.

Long time no see, Phil said.

Your ticket to Mexico, Hearn said. He handed Slaney the plane ticket.

You land in Puerto Vallarta tomorrow. Go to the Hotel Luna and you’ll meet up with Dan Stone. You sail from there the next day for Colombia. We’re thinking six, seven days on the water. Load up and head back here. It’s going to take six to eight weeks to get back, you got the current against you, nearly five thousand miles; you give it to her, we’re talking six weeks. And we’re waiting for you.

Phil White was walking a poker chip over his knuckles as Hearn spoke. It flicked end over end and disappeared in his fist.

Men, let’s raise a toast, Hearn said. The men raised their glasses and clinked.

Godspeed, Hearn said. They drank down the drinks.

Now we party, Hearn said. We bring in the dawn.

Can I talk to you? Slaney said.

Sure.

Just a few words, Slaney said.

We’ll see you at the party, man, Phil White said. The men folded up their cards and dropped them on the table and the washer in the corner began to spin out and rattled and jittered on the concrete floor.

You got a screw or something corroded, Phil White said.

Something’s loose in that machine, Hearn said. I haven’t had a chance. The old lady is after me to fix it.

See you upstairs, man, Phil said. And the boys filed up the stairs and back into the party.

Hearn pulled the door shut behind them.

Dan Stone? Slaney said.

It’s Cyril Carter, Hearn said.

Jesus Christ, Slaney said. Hearn said Carter was their only option. A master mariner and he had the sailboat, custom designed, mahogany, brass fittings, two engines.

A real beaut, Hearn said. Carter also invested.

He spent six months in the Waterford, Slaney said. Jesus, Hearn.

Don’t call me that, Hearn said. I’m Barlow. John Barlow.

The fucking Waterford, Slaney said.

Six years ago, Hearn said. He was discharged with a clean bill of health.

The man’s unstable. He had a nervous breakdown.

He’s been dry ever since, Hearn said. I’m telling you, it wasn’t easy to raise interest. Carter was interested.

A nervous breakdown, Hearn, Slaney said.

Don’t say Hearn. Hearn doesn’t exist. I’m a different person. I sloughed off all the old cells of Hearn. He’s been replaced, cell by fucking cell. That guy dried up and blew away. I’m John Barlow. You have to become someone else out here. You are Doug Knight. I am Barlow; you are Knight. Slaney and Hearn don’t exist. We’re reinvented.

We have history, man, Slaney said.

Forget it, Doug.

Carter is insane,
Barlow
. A guy’s got to withstand pressure down there. Anything can happen. He’s got to hold up.

He’ll hold up.

He’s a drunk, Slaney said.

He’s a sailor. He knows the water. He knows the boat. Treats it like his baby. He’s not going to let anything happen to that boat, believe me. You’re with him six weeks. Tops. All he does is sail. He doesn’t meet anyone. He doesn’t talk to anyone. You do everything else.