You better learn to keep your mouth for when you're on your knees.
Do her, do that bitch.
No one would believe you, anyway.
But the Reverend Libby had, and look what happened to her. Dislocated shoulder; dead dog.
Do that bitch.
Sammy thought she would hear that pig's squealing, excited voice in her head until she died.
So she walked. Overhead the first pink stars glimmered, sparks seen through a dirty pane of glass.
Headlights appeared, making her shadow jump long on the road ahead. A clattery old farm truck pulled up and stopped. 'Hey, there, climb in,' the man behind the wheel said. Only it came out Hey-yere-lime-in, because it was Alden Dinsmore, father of the late Rory, and Alden was drunk.
Nevertheless, Sammy climbed in—moving with an invalid's care.
Alden didn't appear to notice. There was a sixteen-ounce can of Bud between his legs and a half-empty case beside him. Empties rolled and rattled around Sammy's feet. 'Where you goin?' Alden asked. 'Porrun? Bossum?' He laughed to show that, drunk or not, he could make a joke.
'Only out Motton Road, sir. Are you going that way?'
'Any way you want,' Alden said. 'I'm just drivin. Drivin and thinkin bout my boy. He died on Sarraday.'
'I'm real sorry for your loss.'
He nodded and drank. 'M'dad died las' winner, you know it? Gasped himself to death, poor old fella. Empha-seeme. Spent the last year of his life on oxygen. Rory used to change his tanks. He loved that ol' bassid.'
'I'm sorry.' She'd already said that, but what else was there to say?
A tear crept down his cheek. 'I'll go any way you want, Missy Lou. Gonna keep drivin till the beer's gone. You wa'm beer?'
'Yes, please.' The beer was warm but she drank greedily. She was very thirsty. She fished one of the Peres out of her pocket and swallowed it with another long gulp. She felt the buzz hit her in the head. It was fine. She fished out another Perc and offered it to Alden. 'Want one of these? They make you feel better.'
He took it and swallowed it with beer, not bothering to ask what it was. Here was the Motton Road. He saw the intersection late and swung wide, knocking the Crumleys' mailbox flat. Sammy didn't mind.
'Grab another, Missy Lou.'
'Thank you, sir.' She took another beer and popped the top.
'Wa'm see my boy?' In the glow of the dashboard lights, Alden's eyes looked yellow and wet. They were the eyes of a dog who'd stepped in a hole and went legbroke. 'Wa'm see my boy Rory?'
'Yes, sir,' Sammy said, 'I sure do. I was there, you know.'
'Everybody was. I rented my fiel. Prolly helped to kill im. Din know. We never know, do we?'
'No,' Sammy said.
Alden dug into the bib pocket of his overalls and pulled out a battered wallet. He took both hands off the wheel to pull it open, squinting and flipping through the little celluloid pockets. 'My boys gay me this warret,' he said. 'Ro'y and Orrie. Orrie's still 'live.'
'That's a nice wallet,' Sammy said, leaning across to take hold of the steering—wheel. She had done the same for Phil when they were living together. Many times. Mr Dinsmore's truck went from side to side in slow and somehow solemn arcs, barely missing another mailbox. But that was all right; the poor old guy was only doing twenty, and Motton Road was deserted. On the radio, WCIK was playing low: 'Sweet Hope of Heaven,' by the Blind Boys of Alabama.
Alden thrust the wallet at her. 'There e is. There's my boy. Wif his grampa.'
'Will you drive while I look?' Sammy asked.
'Sure.' Alden took the wheel back. The truck began to move a little faster and a little straighter, although it was more or less straddling the white line.
The photograph was a faded color shot of a young boy and an old man with their arms around each other. The old man was wearing a Red Sox cap and an oxygen mask. The boy had a big grin on his face. 'He's a beautiful boy, sir,' Sammy said.
'Yeah, beauful boy. Beauful smart boy.' Alden let out a tearless bray of pain. He sounded like a donkey. Spittle flew from his lips. The truck plunged, then came right again.
'I have a beautiful boy, too,' Sammy said. She began to cry. Once, she remembered, she had taken pleasure in torturing Bratz. Now she knew how it felt to be in the microwave herself. Burning in the microwave. Tm going to kiss him when I see him. Kiss him once more.'
'You kiss im,' Alden said.
'I will.'
'You kiss im and hug im and hold im.'
'I will, sir.'
'I'd kiss my boy if I could. I'd kiss his cole-cole cheek.'
'I know you would, sir.'
'But we burrit him. This morning. Right on the place.'
'I'm so sorry for your loss.'
'Have another beer.'
'Thank you.' She had another beer. She was getting drunk. It was lovely to be drunk.
In this fashion they progressed as the pink stars grew brighter overhead, flickering but not falling: no meteor showers tonight. They passed Sammy's trailer, where she'd never go again, without slowing.
17
