just above the knuckles, but the sensation was distant, news from
another country. I couldn't let him know, that was the thing. The
woods were all around us, the only light was the heartless bone-glow
of the moon, and I couldn't let him know that I knew he was dead.
Because he wasn't a ghost, nothing so harmless. You might see a
ghost, but what sort of thing stopped to give you a ride? What kind
of creature was that? Zombie? Ghoul? Vampire? None of the above?
George Staub laughed. "Do it twice! Yeah,
man, that's my whole family!"
"Mine, too," I said. My voice sounded calm,
just the voice of a hitchhiker passing the time of day--night, in
this case--making agreeable conversation as some small payment for
his ride. "There's really nothing like a funeral."
"Wedding," he said mildly. In the light
from the dashboard, his face was waxy, the face of a corpse before
the makeup went on. That turned-around cap was particularly horrible.
It made you wonder how much was left beneath it. I had read somewhere
that morticians sawed off the top of the skull and took out the
brains and put in some sort of chemically treated cotton. To keep
the face from falling in, maybe.
"Wedding," I said through numb lips, and
even laughed a little--a light little chuckle. "Wedding's what I
meant to say."
"We always say what we mean to say, that's
what I think," the driver said. He was still smiling.
Yes, Freud had believed that, too. I'd
read it in Psych 101. I doubted if this fellow knew much about Freud,
I didn't think many Freudian scholars wore sleeveless tee shirts
and baseball caps turned around backwards, but he knew enough. Funeral,
I'd said. Dear Christ, I'd said funeral. It came to me then that
he was playing me. I didn't want to let him know I knew he was dead.
He didn't want to let me know that he knew I knew he was
dead. And so I couldn't let him know that I knew that he knew that
. . .
The world began to swing in front of me.
In a moment it would begin to spin, then to whirl, and I'd lose
it. I closed my eyes for a moment. In the darkness, the afterimage
of the moon hung, turning green.
"You feeling all right, man?" he asked.
The concern in his voice was gruesome.
"Yes," I said, opening my eyes. Things
had steadied again. The pain in the backs of my hands where my nails
were digging into the skin was strong and real. And the smell. Not
just pine air freshener, not just chemicals. There was a smell of
earth, as well.
"You sure?" he asked.
"Just a little tired. Been hitchhiking
a long time. And sometimes I get a little carsick." Inspiration
suddenly struck. "You know what, I think you better let me out.
If I get a little fresh air, my stomach will settle. Someone else
will come along and--"
"I couldn't do that," he said. "Leave you
out here? No way. It could be an hour before someone came along,
and they might not pick you up when they did. I got to take care
of you. What's that song? Get me to the church on time, right? No
way I'm letting you out. Crack your window a little, that'll help.
I know it doesn't smell exactly great in here. I hung up that air
freshener, but those things don't work worth a shit. Of course,
some smells are harder to get rid of than others."
I wanted to reach out for the window crank
and turn it, let in the fresh air, but the muscles in my arm wouldn't
seem to tighten. All I could do was sit there with my hands locked
together, nails biting into the backs of them. One set of muscles
wouldn't work; another wouldn't stop working. What a joke.
"It's like that story," he said. "The one
about the kid who buys the almost new Cadillac for seven hundred
and fifty dollars. You know that story, don't you?"
"Yeah," I said through my numb lips. I
didn't know the story, but I knew perfectly well that I didn't want
to hear it, didn't want to hear any story this man might have to
tell. "That one's famous." Ahead of us the road leaped forward like
a road in an old black-and-white movie.
"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 SAYS
FOR 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 a shout 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. I had 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 says
I 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's
the 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 in this
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 reading I 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
