Unpossible (39 page)

Father chewed slowly, his eyes on his plate.

I pulled out my chair. The scrape sounded deafening. I sat down. There was not much food on the table.

I wanted a confrontation. I wanted screaming, yelling. I wanted punishment, hard labor in the fields. They gave me silence.

When they had finished eating, each person drifted away from the table and went to their rooms.

Much later I heard a timid knock at my door. Just as I covered myself Sara stepped in. She was holding a plate of beans and cornbread.

"I thought you might want some," she said.

"Thank you." I tore of hunks off cornbread and sopped them in the beans. It was delicious. Sara watched me eat.

"When is it coming?" I said after awhile.

"December twenty-third," she said. "His name will be Elijah."

"You seem pretty sure."

"I am sure. A mother knows these things."

When I finished she took the empty plate from me and touched the back of my neck. "You’d better get some sleep."

I woke up just before dawn feeling warm and comfortable beneath the blanket. I could hear my Father moving around in the kitchen. It was time for chores, then school, and then maybe a walk with Zeke out to the City ... .

No.

It suddenly felt very cold in the room. I pulled on my clothes and stepped out into the kitchen. The first light glowed through the frosted windows. First frost, and the crops not even half in. I heard the front door bang shut. I followed Father out into the yard.

He was gazing at the husks glistening like a glassblower’s interpretation of corn. His back was stiff, straight. I stood next to him and stared into the fields.

"I know it’s too late," I said, "but I would like to help."

He was silent for a long while. "What happened to Zeke?"

"He ... died. In a wreck."

Father looked at me, his eyes squinted tight. "Ain’t there something you should be doing?" He jerked his head toward the Lander’s place. "Get back here before noon or don’t come back."

"Father, I’m ... "

"Go." I took off at a jog.

In the daylight the house looked like a wreck. I stepped up onto the porch, boards creaking beneath my feet, and knocked on the door. It swung open. There was no answer. I knocked again, taking a step inside. "Mr. Landers?" I said quietly. "Frank? It’s me, Sam’s boy, Joseph."

I walked further into the house. The rooms were strewn with garbage, and there was a terrible stink from the kitchen. I found him in the back bedroom. At first I though he was dead.

"Frank?"

One eye slid open, then slowly closed. I waited a minute, and then said again, "Mr. Landers?"

Without opening his eyes, he said, "I know, boy. I know. I’ve known for a week." His voice was hoarse.

He was drunk. I pressed on. "Mr. Landers, Zeke was in an accident." I told him what some of the spectators had said. I did not mention the tracks of blood.

Finally Frank’s eyes opened again. "I know what happened. I felt it the minute he went. I guess you ain’t so lucky after all, huh? Now get the hell out of my house."

His eyes closed again. I left.

The harvest came in, most of it. The snows came a week later, and on December 24th Sara gave birth to Elijah.

On Christmas Eve Firstmother killed one of the chickens and wrapped it up. She handed it to me and told me to take it over to the Landers’ place.

"Even sinners must eat on Christmas," she told me. I headed out into the cold, the chicken heavy under my arm.

I had been visiting Frank about once a week. We had talked about everything except Zeke, and racing. So in a way we’d been talking about nothing at all.

The snow was drifted up onto the porch. There were no lights on in the house. I went in, half expecting in each room to see Frank’s frozen body curled up in a corner. The house was nearly as cold as outside. He was not home. I thought he might be in the outhouse, so I went out the back door.

There was a light on in the shed.

I stepped into the warmth of the place. Every lantern was lit and a fire burned in a shallow stone pit to one side of the room.

Frank was working on the Pontiac. He was moving quickly, scrubbing the old black and silver paint off the car. He had already cleared most of the hood.

When the frigid wind blasted in he turned to me with eyes that were clear and stone-cold sober. "Shut the damn door," he said. "We’ve got to talk, Lucky Joe."

It was only June, but already corn crowded the embankments. Ahead of us, heat shimmered on the white highway.

The Engine roared like the wind in your ears and screamed like a calf at the slaughter. It was a mean, rage-filled sound.

It sounded like Zeke.

Frank turned at the noise. He slammed the hood of the car down with a bang. He frowned. He looked completely calm, like the Brujo, or Naomi.

Frank the Crank was a pro.

I was scared shitless.

"Do you think we can take him?" I said.

I could make out the shiny grillwork, the headlights reflecting like cat’s eyes in the sun, the silver rectangle of windshield. The engine grew louder. The familiar patterns of the car were just becoming clear. Frank’s voice was rough. "We will." He looked me in the eye. "How are you doing?"

"Fine," I lied.

"Bullshit, Joseph. But it doesn’t matter. Just remember to concentrate."

"Frank, you—"

He looked away.

"—you should be the driver. Let me—"

"Shut up, son." The car was suddenly there, bearing down on us. For a moment I thought it was going to run us down. At the last moment the car braked hard, went into a skid, and sprayed gravel at me and Frank. The car slid to a stop with the driver’s side door facing us.

The engine wound down from a howl to a rumbling growl, and then was silenced. An ugly knot of fear tightened in my stomach. "Father, Son, Spirit, Lord ... " I heard myself saying, and then shut my mouth. It was too late for prayers now, and I was certainly in no position to ask.

The door cracked open.

The overpowering smell of shit and blood nearly made me puke.

The door swung wide, and I saw first one booted leg, then another touch the ground. The thing stood up to full height and stretched its arms toward us. It cocked its head sideways and leered at us with a mouth of rotted teeth. "Joey! Poppa! Good ... to see you!"

The thing had Zeke’s voice, Zeke’s wild red hair, and Zeke’s broad shoulders and height.

But the shell was empty. The body was starved, the clothes ripped and soiled, the skin a sickly white.

Only the eyes—Zeke’s narrow eyes—seemed animate. They flashed in the sunlight, like coals left burning during the day for the night fires.

The thing laughed.

"Aren’t you ... glad to see me?" It stepped forward and Frank picked up a rock.

"Stay the hell away from me."

"Poppa!" The thing shut the car door, leaned against the hood. I almost gasped, the gesture was so like Zeke. The creature’s gaze swung toward me. "So, Joey. What do you and this ... piece of shit ... want?"

I fought down my anger. "I want a race."

It laughed again, a dry chuckle. "A race. Joey wants to race. We haven’t ... raced together ... in a long time."

"From here to Busted Bridge. Two miles. One shot."

The thing grinned, shambled forward. "But what are the ... stakes. What are the stakes?"

"Pink slips," I said.

"Pink slips?" It cocked his head. "But I have no ... need for a car." Then the thing smiled. "No. Not ... a car." It touched its chest in mock depreciation. "I need another ... vehicle." It pointed one long finger at me. Zeke’s finger. "This one wears thin. You are pink ... and fresh."

A thrill of terror ran down my spine. "Exactly," I said. "I want him back."

It laughed. "You want my faithful Engine?"

For the first time its gaze fell on our car, parked behind us. It moved forward, its smell rushing before it. I felt bile burning at the back of my throat as it stepped past me. It looked cautiously at the blue circle painted around the car, then stepped over it. It held out one pale hand.

"Get away from it," Frank growled.

Its hand hovered over the car. The thing stared intently at the patterns from hood to trunk. Then it hissed: "Who is it?"

Frank and me said nothing.

"Who ... is it?"

Frank shrugged elaborately. "Maybe nobody you know."

"I know ... everyone." It slowly touched one finger to the silver pattern painted on the hood. The grotesque face curled into an expression of surprise when the lines did not burn. "It’s empty!"

"So? Do we have a deal?"

It nodded, laughing again. "It is just ... a car!" It walked back to its car, shaking its head.

I felt Frank’s hand on my shoulder. "I want you to thank your folks, Joe, for all the help they’ve done me."

He held out his hand. We shook, his scars feeling rough against my palm.

"Now remember. Let me do the work. It’s between me and Zeke now." He smiled. Like Zeke. End of argument.

I walked to our car. A silver ox was painted on the driver’s side door. Symbol of the farmer, Frank had said. On the other door, where the creature could see it clearly, was a silver lion.

I sat down in the Pontiac, pulled the door shut, and placed my hands over the channels. A part of me wanted to cut my hands and shed some of my own blood in this race. I stared ahead through the windshield so as not to see the thing that wasn’t Zeke in the Chevy next to me.

The Pontiac was surrounded by a pattern of blue paint drawn on white cement. Diagonal lines shot off from that pattern on the side opposite the Chevy and joined to another, smaller circle. Frank sat in that circle, holding a knife. He looked at me and nodded.

I slowly turned my head to face the Chevy. I yelled, "Ready?" The thing grinned and the Chevy Engine screamed to life.

"Start your ... Engine!" it rasped, then threw back its head and howled.

I nodded to Frank. For a moment he looked at me. There was hope and fear in his eyes. He stared at the knife in his hand. With a quick movement he plunged it into his chest.

The Pontiac engine roared. A wave of heat rolled up my arms.

On the pavement where Frank had been sitting there was only an empty corpse.

I looked over at the Chevy. "Now, you fucker!"

The Pontiac bucked and flew forward. I did not scream. I could feel a steady heat, like a murderous calm, flowing up my arms from the channels.

The white highways stretched like a snake before us. There were two miles between us and Busted Bridge, and I had never really driven before. My Engine was untested, untamed.

But it was effortless. The wheel would jerk in my hands and suddenly we’d be skirting a pothole that I hadn’t even seen. Frank’s spirit gave itself up willingly, threw its entire being in the Pontiac’s engine. There was not even any need to conserve anything for a second race.

The highway made a slow curve, and then the columns of Dead City were rising before us like a mountain range. After a mile and a half the Pontiac and the Chevy were still even.

Then a searing pain in my arms nearly made me jerk my hands from the wheel. I held on. I heard the creature scream as we passed it.