The Traveller (9 page)

surge of the car and he watched with some delight as the

scenery fled past beyond the windows. He had the odd

sensation that he was standing still and that the world was

careening past him. He gripped the wheel tightly as the car

shuddered, swooping past a tandem-semi-trailer truck,

caught for an instant in the conflicting velocities of the two

vehicles. He felt the wheel beneath his fingers twitch, as

if registering a mild complaint or warning. But the engine

seemed to him to be roaring in excitement, basso profundo,

as it swept up the miles. He looked down at the speedometer

and when the needle touched ninety-five, he abruptly took

his foot off the gas until the car had slowed to a modest sixty—

five miles per hour. He fiddled for a moment with the radio

dial until he got a clear signal out of Florence, Georgia,

country and western twangy-thump, thump. The deejay was drawling a request, a tune ‘for all those striking school bus drivers in Florence, listening out on the picket line …’ And he cued up Johnny Paycheck singing,’ … now you can take this job and shove it, I ain’t working here no more …’

Jeffers joined in the refrain and thought about the meeting two days earlier with his brother.

He waited patiently at a small table in a corner of the hospital cafeteria until Marty finished morning rounds and entered. ‘I’m sorry I kept you waiting,’ the younger brother started, but Douglas cut him short with a quick shrug of dismissal. They made small talk for a few minutes, ignoring the clatter of dishes and the voices that surrounded them. Fluorescent lighting filled the room, giving both brothers a pale and sickly appearance.

‘The light here makes everyone look pre-psychotic,’ Douglas Jeffers said.

Martin JefFers laughed.

‘How long has it been?’ he asked.

‘A couple of years. Maybe three,’ Douglas JefFers replied.

‘It doesn’t seem that long.’

‘No, not really.’

‘Busy?’

‘Both busy.’

‘True enough.’

Douglas JefFers thought of his younger brother’s laugh and how rarely he’d heard it. His younger brother, he thought, was prone to a quiet seriousness. Then, that was what one would expect from a psychiatrist, even one that spent his days surrounded by the clanging noises and abrupt, disjointed screams of a large state mental hospital.

‘Why do you stay here?’ he asked.

Martin Jeffers shrugged. ‘I don’t exactly know. I’m comfortable here, the pay is good, there is the thought that I’m actually doing something good for society … a lot of factors.’

Penance, Douglas Jeffers thought.

But he failed to speak the word out loud.

My brother, he thought, sees too much. And, consequently, sees little.

When his brother drank coffee, his little finger extended

from the cup, like some dowager aunt daintily drinking tea.

His brother had busy hands. He was forever plucking at the

name tag he wore on his white hospital coat, or seizing a pen

from his pocket, chewing the end for a few moments, then

slipping it back out of sight. When he was considering a

question, he would often slip his hand behind his head and

twirl his finger around a strand of hair. When the strand

tightened sufficiently, he would reply.

‘So, how’s the shrinking business? Keeping up?’ Douglas Jeffers asked.

‘A growth industry,’ Martin Jeffers replied. ‘But only in numbers. It’s always the same stories, over and over again, told in different tones and different language, but the same, only individualized. That’s what makes it interesting. Sometimes, though, I envy the variety you have …’ The older brother frowned.

“It’s not that different,’ he said. ‘In a way, for me, too, the

stories are always the same. Does it really make a difference

if it’s Jonestown or Salvador or the Miami riots or the barrio

in East LA? The misery is the same, whether it’s a 727 crash

in New Orleans or the boat people in the Philippines. One

after the other. A tragedy a week. A disaster a day. That’s

all I do, really. I follow on the heels of evil, trying to catch

a little glimpse of it before it heads off to some new location.’

He smiled. He liked that description.

His brother, of course, shook his head.

“When you put it that way,’ Martin Jeffers said, ‘it sounds … unattractive. More than that, really, it sounds

exhausting.’

‘Not really.’

“You don’t tire of it? I mean, I get angry with my

‘No. I love the hunt.’ His brother did not reply.

Douglas Jeffers looked ahead down the roadway and saw the

two-lane blacktop shimmering with heat. The sun reflected harshly off the hood of the car, spinning light into his eyes. The road was empty ahead and he let his eyes wander, registering the colors and shapes of the Georgia countryside. Tall pine trees leaped up a hundred yards back from the breakdown lane, throwing cool shadows onto the earth. The shade looked inviting, and for a moment he longed to stop and sit beneath a tree. It would be pleasant, he thought, to do something simple and childlike. Then he shook his head and stared straight down the road, measuring the miles between his car and the dark hump on the highway ahead of him. A minute passed. Then another and he came on the rear of a station wagon. It was a large American wagon, filled with children, suitcases, the family dog, and parents. A tarp that covered the bags tied to the roof flapped in the wind. Douglas Jeffers’ eyes met those of a young boy, who was sitting in the rearmost seat, his back to the front, as if ostracized by the rest of the family. The boy lifted his hand in a tentative way to Jeffers, and Jeffers waved back, smiling. Then he pulled out into the left-hand lane and accelerated past.

‘Do you remember,’ his brother asked him, ‘the books we read when we were young?’

‘Of course,’ Douglas Jeffers replied. ”The Wizard ofOz-Robinson Crusoe. Captains Courageous. Ivanhoe. The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings …’

‘The Wind in the Willows. The Wonder Clock. Treasure Island…’

‘Peter Pan. Just think happy thoughts …’

‘And you can fly.’

They laughed.

‘That’s what I call them,’ Martin Jeffers said.

‘Who?’

‘The men in my program. It’s a hospital in-joke. The men in the sex-offenders program. We call them the Lost Boys.’

‘Do they know?’

Martin Jeffers shrugged. ‘They feel special enough.’

‘True,’ said Douglas Jeffers. ‘They aren’t your ordinary types.’

‘No, not at all.’

They were silent for a moment.

‘Tell me something,’ his brother asked. ‘What is it that you like the best about photography?’

Douglas Jeffers considered the question carefully before replying. ‘I like the idea that a picture is indelible, with a pristine quality. Almost a sanctity. It does not, it cannot, lie. It captures time and events perfectly. When you need to remember, in your business, you need to delve into the past that is knotted by emotions, anxieties, tangled memories. Not me. I need to see the past, I can flip to a file, pick out a picture. Clear. Unencumbered. Truth.’

‘Can’t be that easy.’

But it is, Douglas Jeffers thought.

‘I’ll tell you what I don’t like,’ he said. ‘It always seems that your best work is in the rejection pile. Photo editors always look for the best illustration of events. It is rarely the best photo. Every photographer has his private gallery, his secret stash of pictures. His own recollections of truth.’

They were quiet again. Douglas Jeffers knew exactly what his brother was going to ask next. He wondered how he had held back so long.

‘So why now?’ Martin Jeffers said. ‘Why come visit?’

‘I’m going on a little trip. I want to leave the key to my place with you. That all right?’

‘Yes, but - where are you heading?’

‘Oh, here and there. Back to some memories. I thought I’d revisit some past experiences.’

‘Can you stay for a bit? We could talk over old times.’

‘You will recall that our old times weren’t so damn fine.’

His brother nodded.

‘Okay. But where exactly are you going?’

Douglas Jeffers remained silent.

‘You won’t say or you can’t say?’

‘Let me put it this way,’ he finally replied. ‘It’s a sentimental journey.’ He mock-crooned the words. ‘To disclose the route would remove some of the, well, adventure.’

Martin Jeffers looked perturbed.

‘I don’t get it.’

You will.’ Douglas laughed harshly. Heads turned at the sound. ‘Look, I just wanted to say goodbye. Is that so mysterious?’

‘No, but…’

The elder interrupted. ‘Indulge me.’

‘Of course,’ replied the younger instantly. The two men walked down a hospital corridor in silence together. Light from a bank of plate-glass windows reflected off the white walls of the hospital, giving the two men a luminescent glow. They reached the hospital’s main entrance and paused. ‘When will I see you again?’ Martin asked.

‘When you see me.’

‘You’ll stay in touch?’

‘In my own way.’

Douglas Jeffers could see his brother was on the verge of asking more questions, but instead he bit back the query, keeping his mouth shut.

‘Maybe you’ll hear from me,’ Douglas Jeffers said.

The younger nodded.

‘Maybe you’ll hear about me.’

‘I don’t get it.’

But the elder shook his head and gave his brother a fake punch on the chin instead. Then he turned and started through the exit. But before walking through the doors, he turned, expertly seizing the camera from his shoulder bag and raising it to his eye in one fluid motion. He crouched, framing his brother quickly, then snapping off a series of shots. Douglas Jeffers lowered the camera and waved jauntily. Martin Jeffers tried to smile, and tentatively, awkwardly, lifted his arm in half-salute.

That’s how he had left him. Douglas Jeffers laughed out loud remembering the look on his brother’s face. ‘My brother,’ he spoke to himself, ‘sees but cannot see, hears but cannot hear.’

For an instant he slid into sadness. Goodbye, Marty. Goodbye for good. When the time comes, take the apartment key and learn, if you can. Goodbye.

His attention was suddenly swept away by the sight of a police cruiser parked adjacent to a stand of trees. He quickly

looked down at the speedometer. He was doing sixty-three. Then he thought. What difference does it make?

After Tallahassee, he warned himself, he would have to pay much more attention. The idea that his trip would be cut short by the accidental encounter with a police officer made him slow further. However, he thought a slow car draws as much attention as a speeder. Stick to the median. He reached down under the seat of the car and felt for the leather case he’d stuck in the hollow. It was where he’d left it. He pictured the short-barreled gun. Not as accurate as the 9-millimeter packed away in his suitcase, nor as well tooled as the Ruger semiautomatic 30-caliber rifle in a case in the trunk. But at close range it was very efficient. And it fitted nicely into the pocket of his jacket, and that was an important consideration. It would not do to wander about the campus with a gun bulging beneath his coat. He passed a sign. The Florida border was ten miles ahead. Closing in, he thought.

He felt a delightful rush of excitement, like awakening on the first morning of summer vacation. He rolled down the window and let the hot insistent Southern air blow through the car. The heat swirled around him, and into him, filling his bones with lassitude. He felt sweat start to form in his armpits and he rolled up the window again, letting the air conditioner take over.

He drove on, leaving the memory of his brother behind,

concentrating on the highway, turning off the interstate and

cruising through the Panhandle on his way to the state

capital. The trees, he thought, looked less stately, shorter, as

if beaten by the heat, shrunken by the sun.

He found a motel about ten miles out of town. It was a

run-down, forgettable place called the Happy Nites Inn. He

started to remark on the spelling to the tired woman with

stringy gray hair behind the counter of the small office

building, but then thought otherwise. He signed with a false

name, ready to provide proper identification, but she didn’t

ask for it. He paid in advance for five nights and took the key

to the furthermost bungalow in the rear of the motel. He

suspected that he would not be bothered there. No need even

to ask. The rooms cost $18 a night and he got what he paid for. The bed was shaky, sagging, with gray sheets and a threadbare blanket. But for the most part, the room was clean, and, he thought, perfectly isolated. He slipped the weapons beneath the mattress, showered, and turned on the television, but he wasn’t interested and within a few minutes decided to sleep.

As he lay in bed, however, indecision pummeled him.

He went over all the arguments that had filled his imagination for weeks. Once again he considered a history major. One of them would provide context, he thought, a sense of continuity, able to fit the actions into the larger scheme of things. But could they write? Would they have the necessary quick-wittedness to stay alert, instantly prepared to document what he had in mind? He hesitated. Perhaps a sociology major. They would have a better concept of trends and would see the statement in proper social perspective. But again he paused, concerned more about individual flexibility. He dismissed a psychology major out of hand; he would be forced to perform with a kind of clinical exactitude that he did not care for. It was easy to rule out the sciences and government. They would be dogmatic and probably uninformed. And he certainly didn’t want to spend his free time talking politics. He knew, too, he didn’t want a mathematician, or, for that matter, a musician or a linguist. They would be too wrapped up in their own particular specialities to appreciate the events.

His first instincts were probably the right ones: that he would seek either a literature major or a journalism major. Someone with an interest in journalism would be helpful; he would be able to discuss the many stories he’d covered, and in that way deflect some of the natural fear and anxiety. But, in the same respect, he reflected, a budding journalist might not understand the full picture, settling for an unfortuante recounting, producing a single-minded narrative of the events and missing some of the subtleties that he envisioned. What I’m going to do, he thought, could fill a book, so it is a book-child I must get. Someone from the English Department, he decided. He felt a surge of pleasure at having made