Cross Country Murder Song (18 page)

Song 9: Eat

In the roadside restaurant they were playing Neil Diamond's Sweet Caroline. He sat there, fingers thrumming the beat on the table; the restaurant came into life, some patrons loudly singing the horn parts from the song's chorus:

They boomed, slamming their knives and forks on the tabletops to keep time; plastic tomatoes oozing ketchup were suddenly instruments of percussion among the clamour, sugar bowls jumped into life, teaspoons were tapped.

Honey, she said.

He was staring out of the window, humming to himself.

Honey?

He looked at the bright blue bouncing off the highway beyond the glass and let the racing cars come into focus and then drift out again, turning to black as they disappeared into the low sun, he felt hot. He liked the sound the cars made; their vibrations flattening out on the slick tarmac and buffeting the windows. He pressed his forehead against the glass to feel their blurring motion as they slid past.

Honey.

Her voice was more urgent now; she placed her hand on his elbow until he turned to look at her.

Eat something, she said.

The table between them was laden with burgers, there were three tall glasses filled with rippled scoops of ice cream, long spoons sat upright in the rounds of chocolate, there were bowls of fries connecting the main courses to the desserts, acting as bridges between meals. Coffee and Coke sat slopping in their respective cups and glasses. Sugar was scattered across the table. Neither of them took sugar, he wondered where it came from.

Ants, he said.

She tilted her head, her hand had moved towards his tightly clenched fist.

The sugar; we'll get ants, he said.

He indicated the table between them helplessly. She held the burger towards him, almost suppliant in her gesture. He took it and bit into it, he realised that no one was singing any more, the radio wasn't even on. A car came in close and he turned to breathe it in, to admire its untroubled passage from window frame to window frame and then out to the horizon. When he turned back she was sitting with ketchup and crumbs in a ring around her mouth. Her hand was reaching for the sundae. Packets of sweetener were scattered before her torn and empty. The sugar, he thought, looking down, dabbing at the table top and inspecting his glittering fingertip, who takes sugar?

In retrospect, life was a dream before, a dazzling celebration of life, a black sky filled with fireworks every night, it seemed that they were always standing in their yard whooping each explosive plume as the coloured stars tumbled to earth. He was sure that was how he'd felt when the three of them had been together.

The sundae glass was empty and she was tipping it back like a drunk chasing the worm in a bottle of tequila. She caught his eye, placed the glass on the table and grabbed a handful of fries and ate them, washing them down with a gulp of Coke. She leant forward and coughed violently, but waved his hand away as he leant forward to help. They rarely touched any more, their hands sometimes brushed when they were passing food to each other, but they'd shake it away as if there were residue on their skins that might burn if they let it stay too long, like lime. She waved the waitress over and ordered a grilled cheese sandwich, a burger, more coffee and another sundae.

Like Elvis, said the waitress who in spite of herself was staring.

His wife's face was flecked and smeared, ruddy with food, she'd grab at one plate after the next, leaving no space between courses, him clutching the table as if the restaurant might tip violently at any moment and he'd be the only one left holding on. He pushed his head up against the glass, leaving a half moon of sweat and condensation, gawping at the cars like a kid staring up expectantly at a Christmas sky trying to pick out Santa's reindeers. They both stopped to stare at her as she cleared their table, she half expected them to growl sullenly, they looked feral.

On Sundays the three of them used to drive out to the diner for brunch. They'd take the corner booth if it was free, he'd read the paper, glancing up from the supplements, she'd drink coffee and pick at her sandwich, tapping sachet upon sachet of sweetener into her cup, the circular tinkle of her teaspoon the only sound. Their son, Alex, would press himself up against the window, watching the cars go by, his hands leaving sticky imprints on the glass. His mother would pull him down in his seat and point him at his burger that he'd eat while kicking his legs under the table. Sometimes he'd drift out to the tyres hanging on ropes next to the slide and climbing frame at the back of the restaurant and swing listlessly as the midday heat came to bear on his thin shoulders. In the near distance the highway hummed like white noise.

I can't eat another thing, she said as she broke the crust free from her sandwich and pushed it into her mouth. You've hardly eaten anything, she said as they surveyed the debris between them. It looked as though their table had been attacked by a flock of ravenous birds.

That looks like the car, he said, sitting up as the blue Pontiac pulled into the diner's car park.

That car wasn't blue, it was black, she said, though her eyes followed the car as hungrily as his. They watched the man walk from his vehicle to the stool at the counter and only averted their gaze when he turned to meet their curious glances.

It might have been him, he said wearily.

Do you want some doughnuts? she asked, scanning the laminated menu. He nodded mutely. The waitress regarded them coolly, gave her blunted pencil a lick and waited for the woman's hand to once more rise and wave her over.

The driver didn't know how long he'd actually been driving – it felt like days – and he wasn't sure where he was when he crested over the hill and saw the long straight ahead of him. Cars were pulling away from his and disappearing into the distance. He was vaguely aware of the low-lying buildings off to the right up ahead. His head hurt and black dots played in front of his eyes, his stomach gurgled making his breath acidic and stale in his mouth. Someone behind him flashed their headlights and then leant on his horn causing him to sit up in his seat. He'd slowed right down and was weaving a little, unaware of the wheel, his foot idling on the accelerator. The horn blared again, longer this time, he could feel it pulsing through him. He slowed deliberately causing the red Chrysler behind to almost shunt him and then pull wildly to one side to avoid smashing into him. The horn blared again, the Chrysler's headlights flashed.

Fuck you, he sneered, fuck you.

He reached around, looking for something that could double as a weapon, something like a jack or tyre iron, he found himself wishing he still had his gun.

The diner was filling up. It was almost lunchtime. The waitresses moved among the tables, slapping orders down in front of the chef, shouting things he couldn't make out. The sounds of the diners and the hum of the road rushed through his ears and filled his head, it sounded like waves crashing.

Why did he speed up, do you think? Just when he was slowing down, why wouldn't he stop? he asked her.

Eat, she said, spooning ice cream into his mouth. She broke off a piece of doughnut and added that to the next spoonful. She dabbed at his mouth with her napkin. He moved the burger around on his plate, fishing the slice of cheese out then folding it neatly before popping it into his mouth. She beamed at him, happy to see him eat.

The boy was swinging as high as the tyre would let him, the rope creaking back and forth. He sat inside the ring, his hands clasped across the top, holding on to the rope. He dropped his head back and watched his outstretched feet race towards the sky and then fall backward to the ground again. It made him dizzy and he felt the blood creeping into his cheeks and his head get hot. His father came out of the diner and stood watching him for a while, the small figure swooping back and forth, laughing delightedly with each sweeping pass.

You look like Tom Sawyer, he shouted.

The boy turned his head to look at him, his father standing there with one hand on the rail, a foot set tentatively on the first step down to the playground.

Your mother wants to go soon, he called. You going to be okay to go?

Five minutes, he replied, feeling the air coming out of him as his stomach rolled over with each swing.

His father went back in, the glass and chrome door clunking shut, and he leant back as far as he dared, terrified and exhilarated as the tyre described arcs against the summer sky. He wondered how much it would take to the push the tyre over the crossbar and feel the world fall away as he completed a squealing revolution through the air. He was slowing down – his rising and falling dwindling in both urgency and power – when he heard the squealing of brakes and the angry stabs of car horns coming from the road beyond the squat diner. The sound rose like smoke into the air.

The plate between them was empty, broken circles of grease glimmered dully like a faded pattern on its surface. They were both licking their fingers, almost happily.

Good doughnuts, she said. He nodded, holding his coffee cup with both hands. This was the closest they'd come to happiness since the accident, times like these when they were sated, felt safe and achingly full. Their couples therapist – they'd both strained to escape each other as soon as they started seeing their sadness reflected in the other's face, but had fought against the urge to flee – had told them they might never heal. They found drinking and the deep comfort of food helped them feel otherworldly or numb, each was easier to deal with than themselves. It was like coming back here to the diner in the hope that one day the images flickering beyond the window might rewrite themselves and still their trembling world and stop the creeping blackness that brought them roaring awake at night, raging against their dreams and memories, screaming and tearful.

The driver pulled his Lexus across the highway, his head was thumping, his heart racing, he placed a hand against his chest and tried to still the beating. He pushed at the door with a grunt, righted himself with an unsteady hand, walked to the rear of his car and kicked at the trunk, the lid popping open with a slow hiss, and grabbed a wrench from inside. The red car that had flashed him backed up slowly as the driver, confusion and fear in his eyes, tried to manoeuvre his vehicle past and escape the madman raging and cursing in the middle of the highway, straddling the yellow line that divided the road. The driver, the wrench clenched tightly in his hand, was shouting something, as he came in close his white vest was streaked with dirt, ribs pushing through the cotton, his hair matted and standing on end, there was a mask of sweat on his face. He paused for a moment, pushing the wrench down into the waistband at the back of his jeans, and placed both palms lightly on the car bonnet.

I don't know what your fucking problem is, he said to the silhouetted figure before him. It was hard to make out his features with the sunlight casting a white blur across the windscreen.

His voice was low and tired as he said it, his face jutting forward, his features sharp yet emaciated like the prow of a once glorious ship now dry docked and running to rust. Why you're honking your horn at me . . . His voice trailed away and he gulped, trying to force back the tears that were gathering in his eyes.

Firstly he took the knife from his pocket and placed it under the winged Chrysler logo on the car's grille, working it back and forth until it slowly pulled away and came off in his hand. He held it up by its tip for the man in the red car to see and then jammed it in to the waist of his jeans like it was some kind of trophy. Then he pulled the wrench from behind his back, held it high above his head in both hands and then he brought it down hard on the bonnet, flecks of red paint thrown up by the impact, he did it again, two, three times.

You're fucking nuts, the man in the car screamed. Though he was checking that all his doors and windows were locked while he said it, then reversing quickly back he hit the car idling behind him in the traffic that had slowly built up. He heard his brake lights shatter as the thin figure stood before him swinging the steel cross above his head. More cars slowed at the crest of the hill, the cacophony of horns at odds with the still, dusty landscape. The driver of the Lexus dropped the silver wrench and let it bounce away from him, then he caught the eye of the driver whose car he'd just attacked, saw that he was sitting as far back in his seat as he could as if the extra inches might save him if the wrench came crashing through the glass. His eyes were wide, he was clinging to his seat belt even though he was stationary, his knuckles white with fear. Then the shambling figure in the white vest, disconsolate, teary and hopeless, straightened up, stared balefully at the train of cars that had now come to a halt behind his and climbed back into the driver's seat and gunned the engine into life.

He let the car idle and sat there fiddling with the radio dial, slumped in his seat; there were dots of dried paint on his arms. The sound of revving engines and car horns built as cars slowly started pulling around him. He gave some stranger the finger as he pulled up alongside him to shout something. All he saw was the disconnected anger lining the stranger's face. A classic rock station broke through the static of the radio and he sat there tapping his leg distractedly. Most of the traffic had cleared, but cars kept racing up to the crest of the hill and seeing his car parked across the road pulled wildly to one side and pressed on their horns as they went snaking past, the back wheels seeking purchase on the blacktop as they slid wildly sideways before regaining their line.