Prodigal Blues (25 page)

"This is really exciting so far," said Arnold.
 
"Suspenseful, even."
 
He caught Christopher's look.
 
"What?
 
I'm not laughing."

"May I continue?"

"Wish you would.
 
Can't hardly stand waiting to hear the next part."

Christopher sighed.
 
"I wasn't feeling too good that day, but it was my job to go along with Dad on these supply runs.
 
My younger brother, Paul, he stayed to help Mom with the receipts and cleaning and inventory—he was always a lot smarter than me when it came to numbers and organization, but I had him beat when it came to stamina for physical labor, so it worked out pretty well.

"Like I said, I wasn't feeling too good that day.
 
It was October and it was cold—Jesus, it was cold.
 
And raining.
 
It took us almost two solid hours to make it to the store, and of course this was the day when everybody and their brother was in there shopping, so the aisles were crowded and
nobody
was in a good mood.
 
I kept getting weaker and weaker the whole time we were there—we didn't know it then, but I was coming down with pneumonia.
 
We were about half finished with the shopping when I almost passed out, so Dad takes me to this little place they had in there to eat.
 
He buys me a hot dog and a lemonade and sits with me while I eat, then tells me to go out and lay down in the back seat, he'll finish up the shopping.
 
Dad was real good like that.
 
He didn't want any member of his family doing anything if they were sick.
 
I really loved him for that on that day.
 
I don't remember if I told him so or not.

"Anyway, I stumble out to the parking lot and find the car—we'd parked all the way at the far end, so it felt like I was hiking halfway to Washington.
 
But I make it there and I climb inside and curl up on the back seat and fall asleep.
 
I don't know how long I'd been laying there.
 
I kept waking up for a few minutes and trying to lift my head but I felt too sick, so I'd just stay like I was until I fell asleep again.
 
Somewhere in there I remember feeling the car getting loaded up, and then Dad climbed in the front and felt my forehead.
 
He covered me with a blanket and then started driving."
 
His voice had become tight and angry during the last few moments, and as he stared out at the road, I had the feeling that what was about to come was utterly humiliating for him.

"I was really sick.
 
You guys need to understand that, all right?
 
Whenever I opened my eyes, everything was hazy, like I was seeing the world through a fog.
 
I remember the long drive, and I remember the car stopping and Dad picking me up and carrying me inside and putting me in my bed.
 
I remember every once in a while someone waking me up to give me medicine or something.
 
That's about all I
do
remember.

"Then one day I woke up and the fog was gone.
 
I could see really well.
 
And I wasn't in my room.
 
I did not recognize this place—at first I thought maybe I was in the hospital, but I'd never seen a hospital room with a wood dresser and locks on the doors and chains hanging from the walls.
 
Then I look down at the foot of the bed and see this man who is not Dad sitting in chair and staring at me."

"Grendel?" I asked.

He nodded.
 
"The one and only."

"Wait a second," said Arnold.
 
"How did the Big Ugly get you out of your parents' house?"

"He didn't."

"Then… what?"

"My folks owned a 1968 VW microbus, is what.
 
It was gray, but that day in the parking lot, as sick as I was, and with all the rain, I couldn't tell the difference between gray and silver, is what."

Arnold shook his head.
 
"Holy shit."

"That's right:
 
I climbed right into the back seat of this very bus and fell asleep, and when Grendel found me, he took me home like some lost puppy."
 
He shifted in his seat, then stretched his neck.
 
"So you might understand now why I haven't wanted to talk about it.
 
He didn't have to do any work or planning or reconnaissance to get hold of me.
 
I just dropped myself right into his lap.
 
Stupid!
 
Goddamn stupid, is what it was.
 
And I can't help sometimes but think I got exactly what I deserved for being so stupid."
 
He shook his head.
 
"And I'll bet not a day has gone by since that Dad hasn't blamed himself for it.
 
Hence, my cheery nature."

"You were sick," I said.
 
"You can't hold yourself responsible for mistaking one vehicle for another."

"Bull
shit
.
 
Do you have any idea how many 'what-ifs' I've thought up since then?
 
What if I'd been smarter, better with figures, better at organizing things than Paul?
 
Paul wasn't sick that day—hell, Paul
never
got sick!
 
What if I'd been the one to stay with Mom and Paul had gone along instead?
 
What if I'd been stronger that day?
 
What if I'd've told Dad that I'd just wait at the table with my hot dog and lemonade?
 
I could've just sat there for a while, he'd've let me do that if I'd asked.
 
Hell, he probably would've let me ride in the fucking shopping cart if I wanted.
 
But, no, I had to be weak!
 
I had to go lie down like some wimp who couldn't take it.
 
Fuck!"
 
He banged the steering wheel with his fist.

"Take it easy," said Arnold.
 
"Don't wake up Rebecca."

Christopher glanced over the seat and saw that she was still asleep.
 
"I was just like that when he found me."
 
He looked back at me and Arnold.
 
"Sorry.
 
It just… pisses me off
so much
, you know?"
 
He voice cracked on the last few words.
 
"All those years just… gone.
 
Gone.
 
And I'll never get them back."

"You'll be home soon," I said.

He wiped his eyes.
 
"Yeah, I suppose so.
 
You'll put on a good show for my folks too, won't you?"

"Of course."

"Man," said Arnold, "I had no idea, y'know?
 
Dude, I'm sorry.
 
Really."

"Wasn't your fault."

"Wasn't yours, either.
 
How come you never told any of us?
 
We wouldn't have made fun of you or nothing."

Christopher shrugged.
 
"Hell, I don't know."
 
He looked at Arnold.
 
"Still buds?"

"I don't answer dumb questions."

They smiled at each other.

"That was pretty slick, by the way, Mark," Christopher said.
 
"That makes—what?— twice or three times now you've gotten us off the subject of dear old grandma."

"I almost forget," said Arnold.
 
"Yeah, you're right—that was slick."

I parted my hands in front of me, all innocence.
 
"What can I say?
 
It's a gift."

Arnold laughed.
 
"Listen to him—Mr. Humble."

"It's 'fess-up time," said Christopher.
 
"I'm bored with my stories and I've heard all of Arnold's, so now it's your turn.
 
No changing the subject, nothing can get you out of—"

And that's when we blew a back tire.

I burst out laughing; I couldn't help it.
 
"Someone doesn't want you to hear about this."

"Shut up!"
 
Christopher did an expert job of getting us over into the emergency lane, despite the wobbling and jerking caused by the flat.
 
He put the bus in park, killed the engine, turned on the blinkers, then reached under his seat to produce a set of road flares.
 
"Can you tell I was once a Boy Scout?
 
Come on, Mark—you don't get to sit this one out."

"Got that right," said Arnold.
 
"I about busted a finger helping him last time.
 
Need all my fingers."
 
He wiggled all ten of them.
 
"I'm gonna be a pianist."

I looked at him.
 
"Seriously?"

"Serious as a heart attack.
 
I'd been taking lessons for three years before Grendel came along.
 
I was getting pretty good, too."

"I'll bet."

Christopher opened his door and sighed loudly.
 
"Are you two finished with this little bonding moment?
 
In case you forget, Arnold, we've got a schedule to keep."

"How could I forget about 'the schedule'?
 
That's all you talk about half the time, gotta stick to 'the schedule,' 'the schedule's' gotta be stuck to, God forbid we should fall behind 'the schedule,' world might come to an end if we screw up 'the schedule'—
damn
, Sam, write a new verse, will you?"

Christopher blinked.
 
"Got it all out of your system?"

"Not yet—oh, my gosh, look at the time!
 
According to 'the schedule,' it's time for me to talk about 'the schedule', just in case you've forgotten about 'the schedule.'
 
There.
 
Now I'm done."

"You're sure?"

"Give me a couple of seconds and I might come up with another one."

Christopher looked at me.
 
"See what I have to put up with?"

"Poor widdle baby," said Arnold.

I laughed, then climbed out.
 
Christopher ignited one of the flares and set it near the back of the trailer; the second one went near the front of the bus.
 
They seemed incredibly bright.
 
It had to be close to four-thirty in the morning; the highway was practically deserted, save for the occasional semi that passed by, its driver giving us not so much as a glance.

"Here," said Christopher, tossing something toward me.
 
"You hold this, I'll do the deed."

I turned on the flashlight and followed him around; the flat was on the driver's-side rear tire, so we were going to be sticking our butts half into the road; the sooner we got this fixed, the better.
 
Christopher threw open the hatch in back of the bus and pulled out the jack and tire iron.
 
It was only as we headed to the back of the trailer—where the spare tires were attached—that I noticed for the first time that the all the windows of the trailer had been sealed around the edges with wax.

"What gives with the wax?" I asked.

Christopher glanced at where I was pointing the flashlight beam.
 
"Huh?
 
Oh—that's to try and keep the stink sealed in.
 
Bodies tend to swell up and burst a lot faster in this weather."

I nodded my head.
 
"Right.
 
Did you say 'bodies,' as in plural?"

"Told you—he's got five distributors.
 
You think that guy back there was the first one?"

"Actually, yes."

"Could we not talk about this right now?"

"Fine by me."

Good God; I was standing by the side of the road at four-thirty in the morning casually discussing the best way to seal in the stench of dead bodies piled up inside a trailer:
 
was my life working out, or what?

"A little help here?"

I looked up.
 
"Huh?—oh, yeah, sorry."

Christopher was having trouble getting the brace mechanism loosened; between the two of us and the tire iron, we got it opened, but then the tire decided it didn't want to come down just yet.
 
Christopher told me to stand on the bumper and press down-and-out on the top of the tire.
 
It took some graceful balancing on my part—at one point I almost did a spill to make Buster Keaton proud—but I managed.
 
It was as the two of us worked the tire that I happened to glance down at the back window of the trailer.

The cardboard that had been duct-taped over the inside of the window had come loose on one side; nothing you could see from a passing car, but at this angle I got a fairly good look at what set directly beneath the window.

An aluminum barrel strapped to a dolly; around the barrel were buckets of ice—both the wet and dry variety (though the wet ice had mostly long since melted); the outer rim of the barrel was covered in something that looked like foam; interspersed at even intervals around the foam were a series of plastic-looking plugs (or maybe fuses, it was hard to tell); out of each plug snaked what I first thought was thin copper tubing (they had a
still
?
 
Grendel did a little bootlegging on the side?) but on closer examination I saw was actually electrical wire; these wires merged above the center of the barrel where they connected into what appeared to be a modified computer motherboard; the motherboard, in turn, had two thicker wires dangling from its underside; one went directly into a hole that had been drilled, poked, or pounded into the barrel; the other wire just hung in the air, end exposed.