The Car (10 page)

“All bad,” Waylon added. “All that crap . . . Even when it was cool to do it, drugs sucked. Even when
we
did it, it was the stupid thing to do. There were garbage heads running around turning kids on—that writer and his Acid Trip bus, Timothy Leary—and everybody thought it was cool, but it wasn't. It kills everything, did then and does now. Just crap.”

A mosquito fought the smoke and landed on Terry's neck and he brushed it away. “Did you guys go to Vietnam together and then just stay together afterward?”

“We worked with each other over in-country,” Wayne said. “But not afterward. I bought Baby when I came home and hit the road and didn't see Waylon for four, five months. Or was it more?”

“Six,” Waylon said. “Almost seven.”

“Then we went trucking together.”

“On bikes?”

“Just Baby. The two of us.”

Terry looked at the flames for a time, thinking of what they'd said: the war, the bike, drugs—it all swirled together. Then he remembered Waylon hitting the two men in the gas station. “Is that where you learned to do that?” he asked. “You know, those two guys you hit. Did you learn that in Vietnam?”

Neither man said anything and Terry realized he'd asked something he shouldn't have and took a sip of his chocolate, which was getting cold. “I didn't mean to say anything wrong—I just didn't know.”

Waylon looked up sharply. “You know who Robert E. Lee was?”

Terry nodded, glad to at last know something. “He fought for the South in the Civil War.”

“Right. He commanded the South. You know what he said? He said, ‘It is well war is so terrible, we should get too fond of it.'”

“What does that mean?”

“It means,” Wayne cut in, standing up, “that it's time to eat.”

And that was the end of conversation for the night. When they'd finished eating, they rolled out foam pads near the tent, let the fire die down, and each slid inside his bag.

Terry was using his windbreaker for a pillow and couldn't get it quite right and kept moving it around to find the most comfortable position. At last he folded and refolded it and then lay looking at the red coals of the fire. Waylon and Wayne were breathing evenly and he thought they were asleep. At last he felt his eyes closing, the warmth of the coals making him drowsy, when Waylon spoke softly.

“You're starting to learn.”

“What?”

“You're starting to want to know things. More things. You asked questions, pushed. That's good—that's how you learn.”

Then he was silent, his breathing smoothed, and Terry closed his eyes and let sleep come.

S
AMUEL WAS SO OLD
Terry thought he was dead when they first met.

He had awakened to the smell of Waylon making coffee and the sound of Wayne coughing softly.

They had a small breakfast of leftover stew and a doughnut each, then fired their engines and started driving. The camper was still there and Terry thought they must have been awakened by the Harley's motor, which rumbled like thunder in the morning mist, but there was no sign of life.

He still had no idea of where they were going and followed Wayne and Baby while they stopped at a grocery store and Waylon went in to buy provisions. Then they drove on, Terry expecting to drive all day, but at midmorning Wayne suddenly slowed and took a gravel side road.

It was rough and the Cat bounced enough to cause the hood to make a rattling sound where it hit the body, and Terry slowed to a virtual crawl, let Wayne get out well ahead, and just followed the dust plume from the back wheel of the Harley.

Hie gravel went for nearly seven miles, then turned into a two-rut road that kept Wayne active on the bike and twice snatched the wheel out of Terry's hand when the front tires caught the ruts.

“If it rains we aren't getting out of here,” he said, looking at the dirt tracks. “This will turn to mud.”

Waylon nodded but said nothing.

They were by this time well out into the South Dakota prairie. Terry could see for miles and there didn't seem to be anything worth going to—just grass and softly rolling hills.

But they rounded a curve and in the distance he saw what looked like a dump with an old trailer house sitting in front of it.

“Is that where we're going?” he asked Waylon.

Waylon nodded. “Samuel.”

They hit a bump and Terry was thrown up and forward so hard he thought if he hadn't been belted in he would have been flipped out of the car. “I hope he's worth all this.”

Wayne turned Baby into a track leading up to the trailer and Terry nosed the Cat in after him, bouncing to a stop in front of the trailer.

Close up, the place looked even worse. There was junk and garbage everywhere—old beer bottles, food containers, trash. And the trailer was well past its prime, covered with peeling tar paper that had once been painted silver but had turned to gray.

In front of the trailer, to the side of the door, was an old recliner chair, weather-beaten with stuffing coming out of it, and sitting in the chair was a man so old he didn't look alive.

“Samuel?” Terry asked, getting out of the Cat and stretching.

Waylon nodded. “The very man.”

Terry studied the old man. There was no hair left, and the face was a mass of interlocking small wrinkles, impossibly close together and so thick they almost made a texture.

Samuel gave no indication that he had seen them arrive but sat, looking out across the prairie, while Wayne went up to him.

“Hello, old friend. How are you?”

Samuel's head turned slightly and very, very slowly, and his eyes—small and dark brown but bright—peered up at Wayne.

“Who is that?” Samuel asked. The voice was as old as the body, cracked and strained and seemed to be on the edge of a hiss.

“Wayne—and Waylon. And a friend.”

“It's good to have friends.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Did you bring sugar?”

“Yes, we did.”

“It's good to have friends, but it's better to have friends with sugar.”

Wayne stepped into the trailer as if he'd been there all his life, and Terry heard pots rattling and followed him in. He was still starved—couldn't seem to get enough food—and thought Wayne might be cooking.

The inside of the trailer looked like the outside. There were bits of junk everywhere, an old bunk at the end, and dozens and dozens of pictures of girls from magazines. They were taped on the walls, the ceiling, lying on the crusted table—everywhere.

Terry stopped inside the door, looking. “What . . .”

Wayne was at the stove, knocking some residue from a pan, then moved to the dish-filled sink to get water to heat in the pan. “Yeah—cool, isn't it? I could use this place for research to paint tanks. Man, some of these pictures go back a ways. Look, here's Miss August 1963—dig the hair. She'd be fifty years old or better now.” He laughed. “Like me.”

A million questions seemed to come at Terry but he held them, not knowing exactly where to start. Wayne put the water on the stove and then rummaged through a cupboard until he found instant coffee and a cup. He blew the cup clean, or cleaner than it was, and poured hot water and then a small spoon of coffee crystals in it. “Samuel, he likes his sugar.” He turned to the screen door and yelled, “Waylon—bring the sugar.”

Waylon brought a five-pound sack of sugar in, and Wayne put six heaping spoonfuls in the coffee, stirred it once, and took it out to Samuel.

Terry followed and watched the old man take the cup and drink the thick syrup down in one long draught.

Terry almost threw up, watching, but the old man smacked his lips and held the cup up to Wayne. “More.”

Wayne disappeared back into the trailer. This time Terry stayed outside. Waylon kneeled on the ground in front of Samuel and waited, resting on his haunches, and Terry did the same. The sun baked the back of his neck and he felt the heat go throughout his body.

Samuel said nothing but sat breathing loudly, eyes half closed, staring out at the prairie once more.

Terry caught Waylon's eyes with his own and raised them in question, but Waylon gave an abrupt shake of his head and ended it.

Wayne came back outside with another cup and Samuel drained it as he had the first, in one long swallow, some of the fluid dribbling down his chin onto his flannel shirt. This time he did not hand the cup back but set it on the ground next to the recliner and leaned back with his eyes closed.

Terry thought he had gone to sleep, but in a moment he heard a keening sound, almost a song, very soft, almost delicate, and realized it was coming from Samuel.

Terry held his breath, listening. They were words but so faint they were nearly not there, a tiny sound.

A song?

He saw that Waylon and Wayne were smiling. So this was what they wanted? This song sound? This was what the big mystery was all about?

“. . . came a row of pale riders . . .”

Terry caught some words, part of a phrase, almost music.

“. . . borne in the light . . .

. . . a row of pale riders . . .

. . . passing through the night . . .”

It made no sense to Terry and he wondered if it was supposed to, was thinking he would try to get Waylon's attention again and take him aside and ask him if he was missing everything, when Samuel's voice changed.

Low, husky, it seemed to grow younger. Samuel was still old, still bent in the chair, his eyes still closed and his head thrown back, but the voice, the voice grew in strength, intensity, depth, volume.

It startled Terry and he nearly jumped back.

“. . . they came
right
here, past here, all of them, one upon the other upon the other through here out there where the sun goes, horses dead and dying. . . .”

His voice trailed off, ended.

Terry couldn't stand it. “Who? Who came through here?”

Waylon snapped him a look—Terry couldn't tell if it was in anger or surprise—but it didn't matter.

“All the Sioux,” Samuel said. “The People—they came through here and passed on horses dead and dying one step ahead of the soldiers, running, running from the blue men on gray horses, through here while the farmers shot at them. . . .”

Again he trailed off, seemed to doze.

“When did this happen?” Terry asked again.

“During the big war.”

“He means the Civil War,” Waylon said. “The Sioux rose up in 1861 and the army went after them.”

“. . . caught them, caught them and put them in chains and boxes and took them back to hang; three hundred of them to hang. . . .” Samuel took several breaths. “Three hundred to jerk on ropes, swing in the Minnesota sun. . . .”

This time he stopped, or seemed to, and Waylon finished it. “They wanted to hang three hundred. Lincoln stepped in and commuted sentences to let them off. But they still hung thirty-seven. All at once.”

“Here?”

Waylon shook his head. “No, back in Minnesota. But they came through here. This is where the army came for them, caught them, took them back.”

“And he
saw
them? A hundred and thirty years ago?”

Waylon shook his head. “No. But he remembers.”

Terry stared at Samuel, then back at Waylon. “But that was before he was born—how can he remember?”

Wayne stood. He'd been squatting near the trailer, listening. “He just does. . . .”

“. . . things don't die,” Samuel said, his voice soft again, singsongy. “They just change. The earth that was here then is still here, the rocks are still here, the dirt, the sky, the sun—it is still here, all here. So, then, are they—the ones on dead and dying ponies. Their cries are still here, it is just a matter of listening for them, hearing them. . . .”

And he grew silent.

This time Terry did not question him but sat, looking as Samuel had looked, out across the prairie, trying to see it, hear it, but he could not.

Samuel's breathing grew even and Waylon stood and whispered, “He's sleeping.” He moved away from Samuel and up to the trailer, motioning for Terry and Wayne to follow him.

“Let's clean the place up,” Waylon said. “And cook some food for him. It doesn't look like he's eaten in a long time.”

So while Samuel slept they cleaned the trailer—Terry thought it should have been hosed out—washed dishes, mopped the floors, and wiped everything down, working around the pictures.

When they finished, Terry thought it still looked pretty rough but was glad to stop. Waylon had found cans of spaghetti and was heating up a big pot of it, mixing in some stewed tomatoes he'd brought from the store, and he left it simmering while they went outside to take a break.

Samuel was still sleeping soundly; the afternoon sun coming back over the trailer put him in the cool shade of the wall, and the three of them went out away from the trailer and sat in the grass, relaxing.

Waylon had also made coffee—he seemed to live on coffee—and he and Wayne sipped it while they sat. Terry poked at the dirt with a stick.

“I don't get it,” he finally said.

“Which part don't you get?” Waylon asked.

“Well, any of it. I don't know why we're here, why we're talking to this crazy old man. . . .”

“He's not crazy,” Waylon said, his voice sharpening. “Not even a little bit.”

“But he talks about things like they just happened, and he couldn't know all that, all that he talks about.”

“He does know it though.” Wayne shrugged. “I was like you when I came—didn't believe. But he's right. He sees things, knows things, hears things. And if you listen to him you can learn.”

“Is that why we're here—to listen to him?”

“Exactly.” Waylon nodded. “That's it exactly. He's like . . . like a living book. He'll tell you stuff that hasn't been written, will never be written, but you can learn from it. We came here back in seventy-three—twenty years ago. Came from the 'Nam. Came from all that. Mean and hard and looking for something, some way to live. They told us about him then, and we came.”