Snakeskin Road (2 page)

June 22, 2044

Dear Mama
,

The bus is on its side, and we’re trapped within it, trapped within a dust storm. One man has already died because he fell against the window—we all fell against the windows or into the gray ceiling—but it was the way he struck the glass, somehow, some place on his skull vulnerable, rattling. It’s not that there was blood, Mama, not from him anyway. He just didn’t move again. I grabbed my stomach, but there was no cramp, nothing there, nothing that made me feel the baby had been hurt, thank goodness. Yes, Mama, I’m pregnant. I wanted to surprise you with the news when I got to Chicago. And I’m okay but alone. Mathew didn’t come with me. I was dizzy. That’s
all. I kept grabbing at the seat, the side of it like I was drowning, trying to lift—I felt that way—waiting for the sky to turn upright
.

Then this man crawled around me, his name’s Darl, he went over to the other man and said, Are you okay, buddy? Come on, buddy
.

Darl shook the man’s shoulder, but he didn’t move. His face was pressed up against the glass, and just outside, the desert floor that wouldn’t give, holding us up, the man’s neck bent at the wrong angle
.

I think he broke his neck, Darl said
.

Everyone wanted it to be a broken neck—not something that happened to his mind, because we had all hit the windows or fallen over the seats like tossed clothing, like clowns, bumped into something, and we were okay and wanted to continue to be okay. Yes, there was one person with a cut ear, glass still in her hair, the skin stretched over the bones of her face, but nothing deep, nothing that couldn’t be fixed. A woman named Lavina had a pair of tweezers and she picked at the glass, the pieces that had gotten down into the cuts, while her daughter held the flashlight and a small jar
.

Be still, honey, Lavina said to the woman whenever she flinched, then dropped a sliver into the jar. You be still, too, she told her daughter. The girl’s hands kept shaking
.

Two people with concussions were carried to the
rear and set down on the windows, heads stretched on the bubble of the ceiling so they could breathe, revive. We all thought if they were turned a certain way, if they were left alone long enough, then maybe, maybe something in them would reconnect and be fixed. They mumbled and shook. It was dark. We all moved to the front so we didn’t have to see them except for Darl—he moved back and forth from the hurt ones to us
.

Next morning, Darl and the driver took the dead man to the front and the other men helped. They pulled open the doors facing the sky, creaked them open, and hauled him up into the wind, the blowing dust falling, this crazy wind that had, the night before on our way to Birmingham, curled the sand to the sky, hit the windshield with the tiniest of rocks, flashes like shooting stars, thousands coming on. The driver tried to swerve out of the storm’s way, and the bus flipped—there was so much dust, anger—the air dry, always dry, and diesel, everyone coughing
.

We reached up, crawled toward the new ceiling, those other windows, and opened them slightly too much—the sand fell down. So we took handkerchiefs and tore pieces of our clothing, stuffed the windows, leaving only cracks for the wind. The wind had upturned us; maybe now it would keep us alive
.

Twelve—that’s how many I counted—twelve people coughing, trying to find a steadiness. But the inside lights didn’t work, and no one had any except for matches
someone had brought, and Mazy, Lavina’s girl, she held a flashlight on the woman with the glass cut into the bones of her face like jewels, her ear, and it was so dark because of that wall of sand that had curled over us and wouldn’t leave. Then Darl found the one man dead. He was convinced the man had broken his neck, but I didn’t believe it. He had smashed his head against the window. That’s what killed him
.

Beyond the glass was the ditch we had fallen into, the desert floor. Don’t worry, Mama, I used my hands on my face—used them—I don’t know how, but they were there, so I had a cushion when I fell the man didn’t have. He hit the glass, and nowhere to go beyond it—just a ditch of hard sand
.

When the sun came out, barely like it does on these days, the blowing dust adding a second and third tier of clouds, Darl and the driver and the other men took the dead man’s body and lifted him through the doors, a shadow, clothes wrapped over blood and flesh and bone that was none of these things, a shadow of a body. They pushed him, scraping against the stairs—headless, shoulderless, his belt buckle hung for a moment, then up, and from there, he rolled and fell to the ground. But the bus was on its side, and all the windows faced into the ground or up at God. We could not see him fall. We could not hear him fall because the wind didn’t want us to—a shadow, Mama—because the wind and the sand were busy sweeping and covering everything
.

June 22, 2044—Night

Dear Mama
,

It’s night, and the wind has finally died some. We get lulls, stretches, like the easiest breathing I thought I’d never have again. The dust kept the sun black all day, kept the heat off. It’s gone now, the sun has left us for a while, and the wind, too, looking for other places to smother
.

The two people in back—Lavina and Darl have them quarantined—they moan and sleep, whisper in tongues—at least that’s what happens to their voices when I dream. Lavina’s afraid they’ll never come to and Darl won’t say much about it, except that they’re trying to stay alive, fighting, then he goes to them. He whispers, Help is coming. Okay now
.

They cry through his words, whatever he says or touches or moves
.

Lavina’s daughter, Mazy, is always close to her mama. She’s fifteen. Just turned fifteen last week. Lavina smiled when she said this, her mouth full of teeth just like her daughter’s, which is a silly thing to notice, Mama. Beautiful smiles, both of them, though Mazy doesn’t say much. She loaned me her flashlight so I could write you, and I brushed a knot out of her hair. She has thick hair like us, though hers is a chestnut-brown. I rubbed her neck a little and she seemed to relax. Wish you were here. Or I were in Chicago, or Mathew were here
.

There are only a few gallons of water to ration between us. The driver keeps them next to his foot. He’s
wide as the seat backs, has a bruise on his face where the radio fell and hit him. Then the radio smashed against the ceiling. He took the pieces, crammed them, shoved the wires and pushed, but it flung apart, cut his hands
.

No damn good, he said, and kicked the receiver. Nothing—that’s the only other word he’s offered. He turns away from us constantly to look at his driver’s chair stuck above the ground and the panel of numbers as if he still can’t believe what happened, as if it were his fault. It wasn’t—what could any of us have done differently?

It’s a little funny, too, the driver’s chair flipped on its side, the gearshift on its side, round panels with white numbers frozen still, and the bus driver standing on a window, fidgeting, scuffing up glass pieces in the heels of his boots, just staring at his seat parallel with the horizon, the windshield slung with dirt, alone, empty
.

June 23, 2044

Couldn’t sleep last night, Mama. None of us could. At times the two in back started moaning—one of them is a man but he cries so hard and high-pitched—I heard Lavina shush him. It was a soothing hush-hush like you used to do for me. Maybe, I thought, I could go to sleep, but then came the crash. All around us, Mama, a crashing like waves against rock, getting closer to the bus
.

What the hell? the man next to me said—we had aligned ourselves across the unbroken windows, leaning against the roof, legs stretched out between the seats. Or
some had curled against the hard green backs, using them as pillows, shirts as pillows, and one woman had gone the other way, stretched her feet to the dome light that flickered when she touched it. None of it comfortable, and all around us this crashing
.

The driver said the crashing was the trees. He had gotten tired of looking at his drivers chair and taken off his blue Greyhound cap and was using it on his knee as a place to cross his arms and bear down. Occasionally he’d dip his hand at the broken window next to him as if he wasn’t sure what to do with the fragments—the driver wanted to grab them or press them—he couldn’t sit on top of the window. Then he wiped the sweat from the bruise on his face that was dark purple now. He has a squat face, Mama, a nose that sticks out further than you’d think. His hair was curled on the edges, greasy with sweat; all of our hair was the same way
.

Another man chuckled, said that all the trees were gone in the desert, especially the big ones
.

Not here, the driver insisted and told us we were in the Talladega Forest. He drove to Birmingham all the time, saw trees crashing or heard them coming
.

He said sweetbays broke first in a black roller. He said, Used to, they had a smell like magnolias, but no longer. There were a lot of oaks in Talladega and huge tulip poplars, some of the biggest in the South. If one of those snapped and fell across the road, you might as well turn around
.

You’re not getting through it, he said. That’s for sure. But he promised that all the poplars had been cleared
.

What if the wind carries too strong? someone asked and the driver told him there was no wind tonight
.

Besides, the black roller’s gone and nothing’s touched us. I’ve driven this. I know. We’re okay
.

Then he patted the hat on his knee
.

Another voice started up with thanks to God but she had to clear her throat. Someone else continued with Oh Lord, thank you for keeping the trees away. Amen. Amen
.

I wanted to believe in God, Mama. Not the first time I wanted to
.

None of us could sleep easily after that, and when I did, I slipped into dreams, half dreams where the crashing woke me, and suddenly a large burnt poplar flared across, fell down, fell through the windows into me, until my eyes closed hard enough to make the illusion disappear for good. Over and over I had to make it disappear for good. The windows, the ones facing the sky, were black, vacant, no matter what I saw and felt
.

I’m not that far from Mathew, a few hours, and all night I wanted him to drive north from Miller’s Ferry, but how could he? He doesn’t know about the bus. Our radio’s broken. We’re trapped. After they rolled the dead man out of the cab, no one asked, What’re we going to do? We had to wait out the storm, so we did. Mathew’s probably doing the same. That dead man—I know what the storm did to his body. Roughed it, buried it. At least he’s deaf to the crashing
.

Every time I woke, my stomach clenched, and it made me worry about the baby. All my nervousness couldn’t be good for her. I’m so hungry. But all this thinking—I had to stop, Mama. I had to sleep. Eventually I managed to, until now because the sun’s coming over, and it’ll be over us fully, coming through the glass, burning. We’ll die if we stay here, but we can’t stay in the desert either
.

What’re we going to do? someone finally asked. A blue glow filled the whole shell of the bus, our skin no longer the color of skin
.

What’re we going to do?

In back, Mama, those people whispering
.

June 23—Night

Dear Mama
,

Finally it’s dark and we’ve returned to the bus, the eleven who made it through the day undamaged
.

It grew too hot once the sun began to lift this morning. You know how it is—the heat, the fine, fine sand, the haze of it all. The driver had warned that staying inside the bus meant we’d cook to death. He kept stepping over the broken glass, that one square, bearing his heels down. Already, we had raised the windows, but it didn’t cool us any—how could all that wind just vanish? We found the shadows between the windows, kept ourselves out of the light
.

It’s no better out there, one of the older women answered—
a contractor. She had on one of those brown sandsuits, the ones with the zipper that goes from the ankle past the hip, around the arm to the neck. Long-sleeved wicking. Why would anyone wear something long-sleeved in the desert? You always said that was crazy. Foolish
.

The driver wouldn’t let up, said we had to take our chances outside, and Darl agreed with him. Darl said all we needed was a canvas to give us shade from the sun. Something to put over, so the wind could blow through. We’d be okay if we kept ourselves sheltered
.

But the wind had left us, and we had nothing really—no canvas—just shirts, luggage. Fortunately, everything we brought was stowed in the side of the bus facing the sky
.

The contractor said again that the sun would end us quicker
.

I’m going out, the driver nodded one stroke at her. And we’re not taking the sick ones
.

He didn’t move at all when he said this. Just looked straight at Darl, the bruise on his face, a long-knotted coal
.

And Darl’s so thin, Mama, like Terry was. I’d never noticed before
.

We’ve got to take them, he argued
.

We’ve already emptied out one dead man, the driver said. That was hard enough. That’s it. Those two are going to die
.

He pointed to the back where it was shaded still, cool-looking, even with the light coming in. And Darl leaned toward the driver’s arm until he took it down, and they stood at each other, not moving, a pause in the air, sinking our voices, our hands. We could’ve helped Darl some, but the driver was the strongest. Without him, there was no way to get the bodies through the doorway
.

Then the driver turned away from the crowd and pulled the metal handle. The doors swung open and a sweep of sun, the heat of it, rushed in, a cloud of sand was just left there floating, sifting down for us to slowly breathe. He grabbed hold of the door, the metal bars, lifted himself, and grunted. No way he’d make it. So two men and some of the women, they went over to help push
.

I looked for Darl. He was already in the back talking to those people, the hurt ones who mumbled as if they were talking to God, as if God was talking through them. As if God was still in this place
.

But I knew better. The others, I could tell they knew it, too, sucking in dust and glints of light, closing our eyes to one another, then opening them toward the entrance, shifting that way, shifting to get out into the sky. The bus driver reached his hand down, gestured for the jugs of water. He helped the contractor in the brown suit. Then Lavina and her daughter, Mazy. One by one we left that place except for Darl
.

•••

The bus itself was like a sundial and only at twelve and one, with the sun perfectly overhead, did the shadows dry up from the ground with the humidity. I thought about running to the trees—you could make out a sketch of them—black trunks shooting through the white haze—the branches were all broken, gone, buried under sand, and like the driver had promised, they stood far from the road. It was hard to tell the real distance
.

As the wind picked up, the bare, thin tops knocked against one another. Then, a separate rhythm, the crashing, yet the landscape didn’t shift—just huge whalebacks of sand, black trunks through a gauzy white, the sun above us and no way to pinpoint where. No real shade either. But the contractor and a woman, her name was Iona, had pulled clothes from their luggage. We were holding the clothes over our heads and pieces to our mouth to breathe through. The driver stretched a gunnysack from his wide head to his knees—he had dumped out the mail inside—then sat down and made his awning. I watched those letters flitter to the earth, slip into the white with the tree rows. I wondered if any were the ones I had sent you before I left
.

I packed all the letters you had written me. That’s right, Mama, an entire suitcase full. A few I keep in the stationery box, so I can look at them whenever I want—like my birthday, the flicker-photograph of you clapping as the candle lights go out. I read them over and over, until the presence of your voice is impossible to lose
.

I’m sorry I’ve written so many pages—the government will mark through them for sure, mark these passages clear until what I’ve put down, most of my words, their realness is erased. I don’t know what to do about that, how to tell you this truth. I don’t even know if I can send this letter. I know if you read these pages, you’ll worry, and the ones from yesterday, you’ll worry more. But I don’t know how else to tell you that despite it all, I’m okay. So I will send them. I will keep the letters until I’m in the Saved World, then I’ll send them. I still have hope that I’ll arrive in Birmingham, and even smile when I get in the city. From there, I’ll come to you in Chicago because I can’t believe the other—that we will die here
.