A Peculiar Grace (18 page)

“I kind of stomped in and threw my sleeping bag down and told him this was my spot and he’d better scram before I kicked his ass. But he just smiled at me and told me there was room for both of us. Then goddamn he pulled a switch knife from his pocket but didn’t open it and tossed it over. All the time looking at me. I didn’t move. That thing was right up against my foot. My old razor, no matter how fast I was, was no match for that. Then he stretched out his right leg and dug into his trousers and came out with a regular old barlow jackknife and held it up. Told me he’d need that back when the meat was
cooked but that was the end of what he had. He laughed and said, ‘Go on and kill me now girl.’ I told him I expected he’d showed me maybe half of what he had and he nodded and said, ‘Ain’t half enough?’ So I tossed his mess back to him. At that point it was clear if he was going to kill me he could do it. He kept grinning at me and those yellow eyes was lit up like candles. The sort of crinkled eyes and smile that you flat have no choice but to trust.”

She went on. “He ate that meat, whatever it was. Then we shared some Southern Comfort. And he told me his story. Damn, I can still see his face. It’s all stories, isn’t it Hewitt?”

He nodded, watching her, intent on driving and her telling now, and said, “Go on.”

“He was in the war, you know the Second World War. And married to the woman he loved. He spent three years of that war living because of her. I guess he was also lucky but the way he told it, it was waiting to get home to her that kept him alive. And you know what? The war ended and he came home. He said he was in the big parade in New York City. The next day he took the train home. Chicago. And he walked in and she was still the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, just like he remembered her. But she had a baby. A little boy. Not even a year old. And he freaked. She tried to explain about how it happened. But nothing mattered. Because what he’d thought was keeping him alive hadn’t been enough somehow for her.

“So he left. He told me some of how he spent the years since. None of it pretty. But you know what Hewitt? You know how he ended it?”

Hewitt was feeling sick to his stomach. He just waited.

“He said he couldn’t forgive her but he couldn’t let her go either. He said he’d have done as well to die in the war but for one thing. That best he knew she was still out there somewhere. And it didn’t matter if she knew it or not. What mattered was that he did. And he believed because he did there had to be someway she knew it too. That he’d never betrayed her. That until his dying day he’d be true to
her. He said he knew he should’ve gone back and let things be as they were. He understood all she’d needed or wanted was solace, someone to quiet her fearful heart and the boy wasn’t the fault of anything. Except life itself. But by the time he learned that it was too late. He sat across that fire from me and drank the liquor and his eyes burnt into mine and he said that until he was cold she would live inside him always. He told me he knew he was a fool but had no choice. Because fool is just what’s in the eyes of other people. And he laughed and poured a little of the booze on the fire so blue flames jumped and then he was serious and handed me back the bottle and thanked me for listening to him. And began to roll up in his blankets. I asked him his name. He said it didn’t matter. All that mattered was he prayed he would be dead soon and released. ‘She’s an old woman now,’ he said. ‘Probably with grandchildren doting on her or ignoring her as the world works. But I’m just a crummy old bum and the last thing she’d even want to know about. So let me die,’ he said. He lifted his head from the blankets and looked at me and said, ‘It’s an awful way to live.’ Then he settled back down and within five minutes he was sleeping peaceful as if he was beside her.

“Once he was good and asleep I got my sleeping bag and went back to the Bug. The needle showed there was no gas but I drove maybe ten miles and then stopped at an all-night gas station and went in with my handful of food stamps. It was late. There was a kid behind the counter. I gathered up maybe ten dollars’ worth of food and while he was ringing it up I told him a story how I had to get somewhere that night and needed gas for the car and spread out what was near a hundred bucks of food stamps. And he came out and filled the Bug and checked the oil and shit and as I was thanking him he handed me back the food stamps but as I was getting into the car he ran his hand real slow down over my ass between my legs. I gently pushed away down into the car and started it although the driver side window was open and he had both hands on the doorframe so I looked
up at him and asked him to kiss me. I already had the car in gear. So he leaned in like I knew he would and I slammed my foot on the gas and was gone.”

They’d come all the way back and were idling in the farmyard. It was dripping hot in the car and neither of them could look at the other.

Finally Jessica said, “I always overdo it, don’t I?”

Now Hewitt looked at her. He did that for a long moment. Then said, “I wouldn’t say that. No. I would not say that at all.”

“Kiss my ass,” she said and got out of the car and walked toward the house. He watched her go.

T
HREE DAYS LATER
the Thunderbird was washed and waxed, the whitewalls scrubbed and the chrome polished like so much fun-house mirror.

“Jesus, Walter. Why didn’t you just paint
Notice Me
on the trunk?”

Walter shook his head. “I fear for you, man. I truly do. This baby is creamy. You’re going to get a lot of looks but only a citizen maintains a car like this, only a citizen takes it out on the road. Unless you do something really stupid the cops’ll leave you be. Except maybe to cruise up and pass slow as they take it in, maybe give you a wave. But remember, it’s a friendly wave. Smile and wave back. It comes with the territory. All you really have to worry about is the random accident that’s completely beyond your control. Even there, the odds are low. People pay attention to a car like this. Nobody wants to get too close.”

“That’s supposed to be reassuring, right?”

“Sure. Look at me. Just pretend you’ve got five pounds shrink-wrapped in the trunk and drive carefully. But not too carefully. I generally run about four miles over the speed limit. Never had a problem.”

“Okay. But say I do.”

Walter laughed. “I’ll just tell em you stole it.”

“Thanks, man.”

“No, seriously. Don’t sweat it. I loaned you the car. I have no idea you don’t have a driver’s license. I just thought you were one of those green weenies who go everywhere by bike.”

Hewitt was quiet a moment. Looking at the car. “You know, I appreciate this.”

“What’re you doing with your little urchin while off on this quest?”

“Leaving her in your care.”

“Ah …”

“I’m serious. The official story is she’s the daughter of an old friend of mine who’s going through a rough patch. Beyond that she’s house-sitting for me while I’m out of town on business. That’s the story. And I think she’ll be okay but I can’t say for sure. I don’t think she’d hurt herself and I think, without her exactly telling me, that she’s sort of looking forward to some time alone. She’s stocked with food. She should be okay.”

“But.”

“I’d appreciate it if you could check on her a couple times. Your jeep still running?”

Walter looked at him as if the enormous stupidity of the question was too much to bear.

Hewitt said, “So if you could swing by. And if you see any strange cars here I’d appreciate it if you came in like gas on a fire. She knows people all over the place and I’d bet a fair amount of em aren’t exactly who I’d want hanging around. There’s also the fact she really doesn’t have a clue about my dad. She’s seen the paintings but that’s about it. I haven’t talked about him to her. But I could see her thinking she was doing me a favor if some slick fuck showed up with a wad of cash.”

“All I’m doing these days is tending my tomato plants. I’ll drop by. She seems like a good shit.”

Hewitt nodded. Then he said, “Walter?”

“What is it, worried man?”

“It’s just, well, try to leave her be. I mean there’s times when she’s pretty fragile and is scared of people but wants to be comforted. I guess—”

“Hewitt, what’re you trying to say to me?” Walter’s eyes bright and hard.

Hewitt paused. “Nothing, man.”

Walter nodded. “Go say your goodbyes. You’re wasting a pretty day.”

“Already done. She’s settled in, cooking up some kind of lentil gruel. I was to go back in she’d think I was hovering.”

“Good. Then go. And I’ll walk up to the house and see if she’ll give me a lift home.”

“I could do that.”

“Hewitt.”

“Alright. Thanks Walter.”

“Is nothing. Oh, one thing. On the highway keep the top up. That’s what the serious boys do. Keeps the sun from fading the leather. But if you get that woman to go for a ride put it down. There’s nothing like it.”

T
WO HOURS LATER
he had gone over the spine of the Greens and was out on the four-lanes. Down I-87 to Albany and the thruway west. Then off into the Finger Lakes. Six hours total. It was great to be driving and his stomach was roiling. He had the windows down and the air rushed through the car. His hands slick on the steering wheel. Walter had been right—other drivers were polite, almost deferential, certainly in good humor just at the sight of the car. It was a juicy little machine. Even with his long absence from driving he could appreciate how it handled, how it felt. Some cars went from place to place—others were always moving and always exactly where they were and the T-Bird was one of the latter. He really had to watch his foot, watch the speedometer.

He couldn’t think about Emily. He had no plan. Except to get to Bluffport and find a place to stay and maybe drive around a little. There were some places he wanted to see. He certainly was not prepared to see her this afternoon. He wanted to get his feet under him. Or at least on the ground.

He was also aware plans were fruitless when it came to other people. Things worked according to a pattern or rhythm unknowable.

He was prepared for that.

What he thought he might do, unless a wild hare got into him, would be to spend that first afternoon and evening alone. First thing, once checked in and washed up, would be to locate and visit Timothy Farrell’s grave.

In his pocket was a single hand-hewn nail—a heavy one pulled from a beam in the barn and no less than two hundred years old. Not a cut nail, not a stamped nail. But a big spike with centuries-old hammer marks visible on the crown and down along the taper. Which he planned to not set on Timothy’s gravestone but with the heel of his hand drive deep into the soil before the stone. Deep enough so the cemetery caretaker would mow right over it. He knew Timothy would like having this piece of simple handwork close by, even if many years late. And the other part for Hewitt was also a gift. This one to himself. Driving a mild stake into the master to assuage as much as he might his guilt.

For while he’d learned of Timothy’s death he had made no effort to come. He’d wept but in those days weeping for Hewitt was near as thoughtless as another man’s blowing his nose. And his reasons for his absence were good—good at the time and still good now. Except for one small fact: he’d failed. His courage had failed. And Timothy’s entire life had been made from courage. Hewitt had no doubt his death had been the same.

Hewitt was near tears and screaming along the thruway beside the remains of the Erie Canal merged with the Mohawk River, with barges
and tugs moving slowly and across the river a freight train running the opposite direction when he looked in his rearview and saw the New York state trooper almost tailgating but with no lights or siren and Hewitt breathed deeply, took one hand from the wheel and stroked the nail through his khaki pants and ever so slowly allowed his right foot to lessen the flow of gas to the thrumming engine. And within a mile was down to that reasonable four miles over the limit Walter advised and they continued that way, the trooper pulled back now a bit but Hewitt didn’t know if this was response to his own slowing or to make room once the blue lights came on. And then he thought What the fuck, if he’s going to pull me he’s going to. So he lifted his right hand from the wheel and palm flat up near the rearview he waved at the man behind him. As if to thank him for drawing Hewitt’s attention to the speed.

Then the trooper pulled out in the passing lane and went by as if the Bird was already parked on the roadside. Going by the cop turned and by Jesus smiled and let loose one full round of his siren.

Welcome to New York. And Hewitt had the presence of mind to smack one sharp hoot from the Bird’s horn. Both thanks and a shared chuckle. Citizens.

His shirt was soaked through.

O
FF THE THRUWAY
, he headed south leaving the state highways almost immediately and following the grids of back roads that in this rolling land would have been near impossible to get lost on even if he didn’t already know most of them by heart. This allowed him the dubious pleasure of passing by the farm where Emily had grown up and which he guessed was being run by her older brother. Or her father in partnership with that brother. The place looked much the same. Other farms had clearly changed, neater, tighter, all available land in cultivation, often the barns in better shape than the houses and each with the telltale signals of iron-wheeled tractors and implements and horse-drawn buggies of a plain gray or black boxlike design. When Hewitt had been
here only the first half dozen or so Mennonite families from southern Pennsylvania had arrived in the area but the community had obviously flourished and grown. Several times he slowed behind a buggy with the incongruous bright orange triangle on the back. Although it seemed to Hewitt the striding trots of the retired standardbred horses drawing those buggies was a lovely and ample speed. Perhaps, however things fell out, when he was settled back in Vermont he should consider a horse and buggy. He wouldn’t need a license for that he guessed. Not to mention the figure he’d cut.

His spirits were high. Perhaps it was his goofy sense of freedom, perhaps it was some jog of memory brought on by what lay about him or perhaps even mild humor underlying the bizarre nature, the uncertainty of this journey.