Everything's Eventual (59 page)

Yeah, it is, fucking famous. So the kid's looking for a car and he sees an almost brand-new Cadillac on this guy's lawn.

I said I

Yeah, and there's a sign that saysFOR SALE BY OWNER in the window.

There was a cigarette parked behind his ear. He reached for it, and when he did his shirt pulled up in the front. I could see another puckered black line there, more stitches. Then he leaned forward to punch in the cigarette lighter and his shirt dropped back into place.

Kid knows he can't afford no Cadillac-car, can't get within ashout of a Caddy, but he's curious, you know? So he goes over to the guy and says, 'How much does something like that go for?' And the guy, he turns off the hose he's got cause he's washin the car, you know and he says, 'Kid, this is your lucky day. Seven hundred and fifty bucks and you drive it away. '

The cigarette lighter popped out. Staub pulled it free and pressed the coil to the end of his cigarette. He drew in smoke and I saw little tendrils come seeping out between the stitches holding the incision on his neck closed.

The kid, he looks in through the driver's-side window and sees there's only seventeen thou on the odometer. He says to the guy, 'Yeah, sure, that's as funny as a screen door in a submarine. ' The guy says, 'No joke, kid, pony up the cash and it's yours. Hell, I'll even take a check, you got a honest face. ' And the kid says

I looked out the window. Ihad heard the story before, years ago, probably while I was still in junior high. In the version I'd been told the car was a Thunderbird instead of a Caddy, but otherwise everything was the same. The kid saysI may only be seventeen but I'm not an idiot, no one sells a car like this, especially one with low mileage, for only seven hundred and fifty bucks. And the guy tells him he's doing it because the car smells, you can't get the smell out, he's tried and tried and nothing will take it out. You see he was on a business trip, a fairly long one, gone for at least

a coupla weeks, the driver was saying. He was smiling the way people do when they're telling a joke that really slays them. And when he comes back, he finds the car in the garage and his wife in the car, she's been dead practically the whole time he's been gone. I don't know if it was suicide or a heart attack or what, but she's all bloated up and the car, it's full of that smell and all he wants to do is sell it, you know. He laughed. That's quite a story, huh?

Why wouldn't he call home? It was my mouth, talking all by itself. My brain was frozen. He's gone for two weeks on a business trip and he never calls home once to see how his wife's doing?

Well, the driver said, that's sorta beside the point, wouldn't you say? I mean hey, what a bargain that'sthe point. Who wouldn't be tempted? After all, you could always drive the car with the fuckin windows open, right? And it's basically just a story. Fiction. I thought of it because of the smell inthis car. Which is fact.

Silence. And I thought:He's waiting for me to say something, waiting for me to end this. And I wanted to. I did. Except what then? What would he do then?

He rubbed the ball of his thumb over the button on his shirt, the one readingI RODE THE BULLET AT THRILL VILLAGE, LACONIA . I saw there was dirt under his fingernails. That's where I was today, he said. Thrill Village. I did some work for a guy and he gave me an all day pass. My girlfriend was gonna go with me, but she called and said she was sick, she gets these periods that really hurt sometimes, they make her sick as a dog. It's too bad, but I always think, hey, what's the alternative? No rag at all, right, and then I'm in trouble, we both are. He yapped, a humorless bark of sound. So I went by myself. No sense wasting an all-day pass. You ever been to Thrill Village?

Yes, I said. Once. When I was twelve.

Who'd you go with? he asked. You didn't go alone, did you? Not if you were only twelve.

I hadn't told him that part, had I? No. He was playing with me, that was all, swatting me idly back and forth. I thought about opening the door and just rolling out into the night, trying to tuck my head into my arms before I hit, only I knew he'd reach over and pull me back before I could get away. And I couldn't raise my arms, anyway. The best I could do was clutch my hands together.

No, I said. I went with my dad. My Dad took me.

Did you ride the Bullet? I rode that fucker four times. Man! It goes right upside down! He looked at me and uttered another empty bark of laughter. The moonlight swam in his eyes, turning them into white circles, making them into the eyes of a statue. And I understood he was more than dead; he was crazy. Did you ride that, Alan?

I thought of telling him he had the wrong name, my name was Hector, but what was the use? We were coming to the end of it now.

Yeah, I whispered. Not a single light out there except for the moon. The trees rushed by, writhing like spontaneous dancers at a tentshow revival. The road rushed under us. I looked at the speedometer and saw he was up to eighty miles an hour. We were riding the bullet right now, he and I; the dead drive fast. Yeah, the Bullet. I rode it.

Nah, he said. He drew on his cigarette, and once again I watched the little trickles of smoke escape from the stitched incision on his neck. You never. Especially not with your father. You got into the line, all right, but you were with your Ma. The line was long, the line for the Bullet always is, and she didn't want to stand out there in the hot sun. She was fat even then, and the heat bothered her. But you pestered her all day, pestered pestered pestered, and here's the joke of it, man when you finally got to the head of the line, you chickened. Didn't you?

I said nothing. My tongue was stuck to the roof of my mouth.

His hand stole out, the skin yellow in the light of the Mustang's dashboard lights, the nails filthy, and gripped my locked hands. The strength went out of them when he did and they fell apart like a knot that magically unties itself at the touch of the magician's wand. His skin was cold and somehow snaky.

Didn'tyou?

Yes, I said. I couldn't get my voice much above a whisper. When we got close and I saw how high it was how it turned over at the top and how they screamed inside when it did I chickened out. She swatted me, and she wouldn't talk to me all the way home. I never rode the Bullet. Until now, at least.

You should have, man. That's the best one. That's the one to ride. Nothin else is as good, at least not there. I stopped on the way home and got some beers at that store by the state line. I was gonna stop over my girlfriend's house, give her the button as a joke. He tapped the button on his chest, then unrolled his window and flicked his cigarette out into the windy night. Only you probably know what happened.

Of course I knew. It was every ghost story you'd ever heard, wasn't it? He crashed his Mustang and when the cops got there he'd been sitting dead in the crumpled remains with his body behind the wheel and his head in the backseat, his cap turned around backward and his dead eyes staring up at the roof and ever since you see him on Ridge Road when the moon is full and the wind is high, wheee-oooo, we will return after this brief word from our sponsor. I know something now that I didn't before the worst stories are the ones you've heard your whole life. Those are the real nightmares.

Nothing like a funeral, he said, and laughed. Isn't that what you said? You slipped there, Al. No doubt about it. Slipped, tripped, and fell.

Let me out, I whispered. Please.

Well, he said, turning toward me, we have to talk about that, don't we? Do you know who I am, Alan?

You're a ghost, I said.

He gave an impatient little snort, and in the glow of the speedometer the corners of his mouth turned down. Come on, man, you can do better than that. FuckinCasper 's a ghost. Do I float in the air? Can you see through me? He held up one of his hands, opened and closed it in front of me. I could hear the dry, unlubricated sound of his tendons creaking.

I tried to say something. I don't know what, and it doesn't really matter, because nothing came out.

I'm a kind of messenger, Staub said. Fuckin FedEx from beyond the grave, you like that? Guys like me actually come out pretty often whenever the circumstances are just right. You know what I think? I think that whoever runs things God or whatever must like to be entertained. He always wants to see if you'll keep what you already got or if he can talk you into goin for what's behind the curtain. Things have to be just right, though. Tonight they were. You out all by yourself mother sick needin a ride

If I'd stayed with the old man, none of this would have happened, I said. Would it? I could smell Staub clearly now, the needle-sharp smell of the chemicals and the duller, blunter stink of decaying meat, and wondered how I ever could have missed it, or mistaken it for something else.

Hard to say, Staub replied. Maybe this old man you're talking about was dead, too.

I thought of the old man's shrill handful-of-glass voice, the snap of his truss. No, he hadn't been dead, and I had traded the smell of piss in his old Dodge for something a lot worse.

Anyway, man, we don't have time to talk about all that. Five more miles and we'll start seeing houses again. Seven more and we're at the Lewiston city line. Which means you have to decide now.

Decide what? Only I thought I knew.

Who rides the Bullet and who stays on the ground. You or your mother. He turned and looked at me with his drowning moonlight eyes. He smiled more fully and I saw most of his teeth were gone, knocked out in the crash. He patted the steering wheel. I'm taking one of you with me, man. And since you're here, you get to choose. What do you say?

You can't be seriousrose to my lips, but what would be the point of saying that, or anything like it? Of course he was serious. Dead serious.

I thought of all the years she and I had spent together, Alan and Jean Parker against the world. A lot of good times and more than a few really bad ones. Patches on my pants and casserole suppers. Most of the other kids took a quarter a week to buy the hot lunch; I always got a peanut-butter sandwich or a piece of bologna rolled up in day-old bread, like a kid in one of those dopey rags-to-riches stories. Her working in God knew how many different restaurants and cocktail lounges to support us. The time she took the day off work to talk to the ADC man, her dressed in her best pants suit, him sitting in our kitchen rocker in a suit of his own, one even a nine-year-old kid like me could tell was a lot better than hers, with a clipboard in his lap and a fat, shiny pen in his fingers. Her answering the insulting, embarrassing questions he asked with a fixed smile on her mouth, even offering him more coffee, because if he turned in the right report she'd get an extra fifty dollars a month, a lousy fifty bucks. Lying on her bed after he'd gone, crying, and when I came in to sit beside her she had tried to smile and said ADC didn't stand for Aid to Dependent Children but Awful Damn Crapheads. I had laughed and then she laughed, too, because you had to laugh, we'd found that out. When it was just you and your fat chain-smoking Ma against the world, laughing was quite often the only way you could get through without going insane and beating your fists on the walls. But there was more to it than that, you know. For people like us, little people who went scurrying through the world like mice in a cartoon, sometimes laughing at the assholes was the only revenge you could ever get. Her working all those jobs and taking the overtime and taping her ankles when they swelled and putting her tips away in a jar markedALAN 'S COLLEGE FUND just like one of those dopey rags-to-riches stories, yeah, yeah and telling me again and again that I had to work hard, other kids could maybe afford to play Freddy Fuckaround at school but I couldn't because she could put away her tips until doomsday cracked and there still wouldn't be enough; in the end it was going to come down to scholarships and loans if I was going to go to college and Ihad to go to college because it was the only way out for me and for her. So I had worked hard, you want to believe I did, because I wasn't blind I saw how heavy she was, I saw how much she smoked (it was her only private pleasure her only vice, if you're one of those who must take that view), and I knew that someday our positions would reverse and I'd be the one taking care of her. With a college education and a good job, maybe I could do that. Iwanted to do that. I loved her. She had a fierce temper and an ugly mouth on her that day we waited for the Bullet and then I chickened out wasn't the only time she ever yelled at me and then swatted me but I loved her in spite of it. Partly evenbecause of it. I loved her when she hit me as much as when she kissed me. Do you understand that? Me either. And that's all right. I don't think you can sum up lives or explain families, and wewere a family, she and I, the smallest family there is, a shared secret. If you had asked, I would have said I'd do anything for her. And now that was exactly what I was being asked to do. I was being asked to die for her, to die in her place, even though she had lived half her life, probably a lot more. I had hardly begun mine.

What say, Al? George Staub asked. Time's wasting.

I can't decide something like that, I said hoarsely. The moon sailed above the road, swift and brilliant. It's not fair to ask me.

I know, and believe me, that's what they all say. Then he lowered his voice. But I gotta tell you something if you don't decide by the time we get back to the first house-lights, I'll have to take you both. He frowned, then brightened again, as if remembering there was good news as well as bad. You could ride together in the backseat if I took you both, talk over old times, there's that.