Gravity Box and Other Spaces (8 page)

The ridge above the house looked as if it had gone bald, but by the following spring he saw green dotting the gray-brown crown. Egan walked up to the top once a week, anxious and expectant, not sure how he could do what he wanted to, whether he had it in him to stand in the way of fierce momentum, not even sure what it was he intended.

Love, protect, and teach
, he thought.
Of course, yes—

And when he saw the woman walking down the slope, through the adolescent saplings, on the first day of spring the fifth year after the fire, he knew that this is what he had waited for, why he had stayed, and the source of everything new that he felt. She was naked and clean and whole and everything he thought he could aspire to equal.

Love, protect, and teach. Of course, yes, yes
—

“Do you want me to leave?” Bert asked, watching him.

Egan looked at her, puzzled, then shook his head.

“No.” He held his hand out to her. “Things are going to be done differently this time. I mean, what did Saletcroix ever do to deserve this kind of treatment?”

Bert laughed sharply, took his hand and waited with him. They shared a vague sense of accomplishment, diluted by a distant anxiety that, having come this far, they now had to do something new.

Devon had wanted to reach Cheyenne County and see the Republican River, to see what chaos the Depression caused there, but the bulls rousted everyone outside the town of Achilles, and he jumped off in company with four others to sprint into the formless night; the hissing of the train behind them mingled with the shouts of railroad cops with sticks and the cries of slower 'bos.

Branches caught him across the face as he ran, and he shoved his roll out before him to act as a shield. Running like this, into pitch black, was always a risk, especially over new ground, but Devon felt confident as he always did when circumstances forced him to act. He broke through into tall grass and turned, dropping to one knee to look back toward the train. Others ran past him; he heard their heavy tread and panicked breathing. He waited to see if any bulls would follow. They rarely ever did, but once in a while, if the train was going to be at rest for a long stretch, they came out with flashlights and lanterns, shotguns and bats.

Nothing. He waited until the train pulled out, slowly leaving Achilles, free of its unwanted, nonpaying passengers. He laughed from the exhilaration of the
moment, soaking in the delight of danger. Devon thought about running back and hopping aboard again. He stood and gauged the distance and how much noise he could get away with, unheard over the iron breathing of the train, and the odds of grabbing hold without being seen.

Then—

Somewhere to the left, back down the line, he felt—

There was a dip in the land where—

He stopped, raised his head as if to sniff the air, unsure if he should trust the sensation now drawing him. It had been so long since he had felt it, like a tremor in the deep substratum, unnoticed by all but a few, recognized by even fewer.

One of us? he wondered, or something a-borning—

A tingle of expectation in his belly, Devon slung his roll over his shoulder and started walking; no place could he think of that he would rather be just now than where he was going. The train gathered speed in the other direction, filling the night air with its alien scream, crowding out the crickets and cicadas and the hushed ripple of wind through grass. Devon smelled the smoked tang of oil, hot metal, coal, and beneath that, close by, the summer reek of hot asphalt, tar, and creosote. Devon strode over dry earth toward the better odor.

He almost missed the camp. It was only a faint brightness off to the left, dusting a ridge of bare rock with orange light, too dim to compete with a sky full of stars overhead. But a sound caught his attention, an indistinct, human sound, like a ladle stirring in a pot, and he looked.

He stopped on the edge of the drop. The camp spread down the shallow slope of a dry wash. Maybe ten people gathered loosely around a fire that snapped weakly within its circle of stones. They looked up at him with some expectation, like refugees dispossessed by flood, fire, or
earthquake waiting to be told they could go home now, but knowing there was no home left to them.

“Ho,” he said just above a whisper.

A couple of people nodded agreeably; a few more raised a hand.

A tiny, frail cry came from somewhere outside the firelight. Devon's heart swelled. He glanced in the direction of the receding train and thought vaguely of Cheyenne County. It would still be there. He would still see the Republican River one day. It would keep another for another time, another hundred days, another thousand. There was time to see it all.

Devon reached into his pocket and pulled out a can of peaches. He came down into the camp, holding it out. One of the men closest to the fire stood and accepted it. He waved at the spit and pot.

“Plenty o' rabbit,” he said, voice gravelly. “We got coffee.”

“Coffee. That's—”

“Folks 'round here ain't too bad, long as we don't come into town often. Soonie over there, he does carpentry. He goes in.” He ducked his head briefly, his eyes sliding past Devon and on into the dark. “Then there's—well—he'p yourself—”

“Devon,” he said, extending a hand.

The hobo took it in a light grasp, barely closing his fingers, ready to let go immediately. Devon tightened his grip and—Devon drew sensation through the skin, tasting it finally on the back of his tongue. The hobo started, eyes large, surprised. The fear permeated every other feeling Devon read in the man, but the rest was still there, from better times and worse.

The connection moiled between them, spreading and unnamed, part Devon's gift, part an energy he had not felt so richly in decades—

“We got a new one,” the old man told him, pulling his hand away. He nodded toward the shadows. “Just arrived last night. Set up such a holler, we thought it'd bring the sky down.” He frowned, then, as if puzzled that he was telling a stranger this.

Devon stared at the man, smiling. He wanted to ask him what he was so afraid of, but the fear had stepped back a few paces and for the moment he was free of it. Devon did not want to disturb that, not yet, not till he knew whom he was here for. He looked where the man indicated and saw the vague outline of a hovel, out near the extreme edge of the camp.

“Coffee?” Devon asked.

“Um—yeah—” The old man hefted the can of peaches. “I'm Jeffin, by the by. Good to know you, Devon.”

From the awkward way his face twisted, Devon guessed that it had been a long time since Jeffin had smiled easily, unencumbered by suspicion and doubt. But Jeffin seemed unwilling to give up his grin as he led Devon to the fire.

An assortment of tin cans served as cups and Jeffin dipped a makeshift ladle into the big pot and filled one with black liquid. He held it gingerly by the rim and passed it to Devon. Devon pulled a rag from his back pocket and wrapped it around the can before he took it from Jeffin. He could feel the heat even through the fabric. The coffee smelled acid and bitter.

“Thanks.” He took a tentative sip and winced at the bite. “Where did you say?”

Jeffin pointed toward the shadow-hovel. Devon moved toward it.

The hovel was made from a collection of boxes, boards, and a single metal sign whose message had been effaced by rust. From within Devon could hear the small sounds of new life working at maintaining. Devon knelt by the opening, pushed up the flap.

“May I come in?”

He heard no reply and ducked his head low to crawl inside.

A kerosene lamp glowed in one corner, illuminating a brief landscape of blankets and rags. A young face peered at him, her hair dirty, kinked across her brow in dried-sweat tangles. Her eyes were two bright points catching the yellow lamp light.

Her shirt was open and Devon saw a smaller head held breast high, turned from him, unaware of anything beyond the nipple at which it hungrily sucked.

“Hi. I'm Devon.”

“I'm Lucy.”

He studied her face. She was wary but unafraid, perhaps too tired to be scared. She had been scared before, for a long time, and it had worn at her. She held her baby gratefully, as if it were a reward for everything she had been through. But another face seemed to peek at him from behind this first one, a younger face that showed none of the small, etched traceries of sun, road, and abuse, one with large, curious eyes and a smattering of freckles. Devon glimpsed it, like a memory overlaid on the present, and for a moment the two faces merged in an expression of expectation and hope—

“No,” he said. “Not Lucy. Now maybe—but—Elle—”

Lucy stared at him. “I ain't—Lord, it's been years. I ain't heard that name since—” Hesitantly, she smiled. “I used to have a friend, Peg. We'd go swimmin' every summer, twice a week, ‘whether we needed to or not' she'd
say, and she'd call me Elle. I asked her why she never called me Lucy. That was my name, and she said no, it weren't. It was just a tag my parents give me so they'd remember I was theirs. ‘Elle,' she said, that was what I shoulda been called, 'cause she seen it in a magazine story about a woman livin' in Paris, and I reminded her of that woman—I ain't thought of Peg in too long.”

Lucy Elle looked at him with damp eyes. “You know Peg?”

“No, sorry. You should go by Elle, though. It's what you are.”

Elle nodded and sniffed. “I forgot—” She gazed down at her baby for a time, then looked at Devon. “I ain't named her yet. Would you—?”

Devon scooted across the blankets until he sat beside Elle. She turned so the light fell on the baby. The small face was compressed with concentration, its mouth firmly attached to Elle's breast. Devon prodded one tiny hand and felt it reflexively close around his finger, felt the jolt leap through his nerves.

“A name's no small matter,” he said, gazing at the small face. “Got to be careful. A name can give direction, make a life, change the world.”

The flap over the entrance to the hovel snapped back then and a face glared in.

“What are you doing?”

Devon could not look away from this new face. It seemed incomplete, soft, and yet unmalleable at the same time. Formless strength. The eyes, widespread, caught no light from the lamp, and looked like empty holes punched in the fleshy cheeks. The short hair lay limply on the round skull, and the chin and jaw formed a kind of parenthesis lying on its side. The only feature that possessed any solidity, any distinction, was the mouth: small, petulant, it
reminded Devon of the florid lips on Renaissance statues. The skin seemed gray even in the wan yellow light.

“Lucy?” the man asked. He spoke softly, but Devon heard the suspicion, the barely confined confusion. It twisted the voice so that it sounded like a threat.

Devon heard the girl swallow. “My name's Elle,” she said, managing to keep the quaver out of her voice.

The man blinked then smiled at Devon. “I see.” He crawled the rest of the way into the hovel.

He was a small man, Devon saw, although in the confines of the Hoover Hotel he seemed enormous. The lamp was inadequate to properly light him, but Devon wondered if even bright noonday sun would be enough. He studied Devon and suddenly all the features coalesced into an expression of pleased recognition.

“Welcome,” he said. “I been lookin' forward to meetin' you, Name Giver.”

“I'm Devon.”

“Sure you are.” He extended a hand. “Pleased to meet you. Can you guess my name?”

Devon looked at the hand. “If I thought about it long enough.”

“Who am I, then?”

In the uncertain light Devon imagined the hand larger, resolute, and scaled. Long fingernails gleamed ivory, yet beautiful for all their alien topography. The flickering lantern threw its shadow across the cardboard and rags and set the space apart from what happened within it, as if it were only a backdrop to a stage. Devon looked up at the man's indistinct face.

He waited expectantly, not at all impatient for the time Devon took, knowing that in the next second or the one after that everything he wanted from Devon would come into that calloused paw that he held out with palm
upturned, less in greeting than in request. He expected Devon had something, and he expected it to be handed over; perhaps it was something of his, something till now he had gotten along without, something he had managed to work around, something which would, once obtained, make his life much easier, bring his goals closer, give him form and purpose and energy.

“I don't know,” Devon said and moved toward the draped opening.

A hand closed on his coat, and Devon felt himself thrown back against the blankets. The hovel trembled precariously. The man landed on top of Devon.

“Jude!” Elle cried.

The man—Jude—hesitated. Devon closed his own hands around Jude's and pulled them free of his coat. Suddenly Jude laughed, patted Devon on the face playfully, and drew back. He gestured at Elle and the infant.

“What do you think? Looks like her mother, doesn't it? We haven't named her yet. Seems we were waiting for you.”

Devon sat up uncertainly and tugged at his lapels, watching Jude. “‘We?'”

Jude cocked his head to one side, watching, a question in his eyes.

“Jude's been takin' care of us,” Elle volunteered.

Devon looked around for his can of coffee and found it overturned near the entrance. He reached for it, and Jude snatched it up.

“I'll get you some,” he said and backed through the flap.

Devon looked at Elle. She gave a little shake of the head. “She ain't his,” she said. “He's been havin' me, but she ain't his. I'd know.”

“Then he doesn't get to know her name.”

Elle looked at him anxiously. “Do you know her name?”

“I—”