American Boy - Larry Watson [72]
By this time Barney had folded himself into the car. “Nope,” he called out. “No flashlight.”
The big Indian stepped into the ditch behind the car, and I followed. My shoes and socks were already soaked. “What the hell,” he said. “It don’t much matter. If we gotta push, we gotta push.”
“There’s a shovel in the trunk.”
“Yeah? We’ll try muscle power first.”
The snow was not as deep behind the car as it was in front. We positioned ourselves at each side of the back bumper, ready to push once Barney started the engine and put the car in gear.
“Okay,” the big Indian said to me, “get ready to step back. Barney’s going to rock it—drive, reverse, drive, reverse. Kind of like dancing.”
Barney couldn’t have heard this and no signal passed between the men, but right at that moment, as if on cue, the Valiant stuttered once, then roared to life. I was standing over the exhaust pipe, and fumes rose to my face. I placed my hands on the car’s trunk and felt its cold metal right through my gloves. I was ready to put my back into it—a chance for physical release after the frustration and humiliation of the beating at the hands of Dr. Dunbar and his son.
We pushed and pushed, but the Valiant didn’t move more than an inch or two forward. Then backward, when Barney shifted into reverse to try to find a spot where there might be a little traction. The rear wheels whined and spun in place, spitting snow up into our faces. The smell of burning rubber and automobile exhaust overpowered the odor of the big Indian’s whiskey breath.
Two more cars passed while we were heaving and straining against the Valiant’s trunk, but neither stopped. The second car slowed, and I eased up in my grunting effort to glance in its direction. A boy looked out at us from the backseat, his face as pale as moonlit snow. I thought I saw his lips move, and I imagined him telling the driver they should stop. But the car sped by, and my glimpse of him lasted no longer than my glimpse of Louisa Lindahl’s bare breasts.
As if that passing car told him once and for all that the car would never leave the ditch with the help of any hands except those that were already on it, the big Indian said, “The hell with it. Let’s get this fucker out of here.”
Barney punched the transmission into gear once again, and his big friend heaved hard, releasing a sound that was equal parts grunt, roar, and scream. “Heerr-ahh!” And before its echo died away, he damn near lifted the Valiant out of its ruts. Instead of helping push the car free, I was soon being pulled along behind it. The wheels spun and whined and churned up more snow, but Barney managed to drive the car out of the ditch.
And he kept on going, cruising down the highway for a good fifty yards or so before the brake lights blinked on and the car glided to a stop at the side of the road.
My momentum was already carrying me that way, so I ran after the car while the man who had been strong enough to heave the car clear stood in the snow and gasped for air.
When I caught up to the Valiant, Barney’s head was thrown back and his hat had fallen into the backseat. His eyes were closed, and he was trying to bring his knees up toward his chest.
I opened the car door and the dome light came on. Barney didn’t even glance at me. He was too busy biting back his pain and shaking with chills.
Instinctively, I put my hand to his forehead. “Damn—you’re burning up!”
Barney smiled through his pain. “And he says it’s just a bellyache.”
“A fever means infection.... Where did you say the pain was?”
“Down here,” he said, indicating the position of his hands on his abdomen.
“Lower right quadrant.... Have you been vomiting?”
“I puked a couple hours ago. But I haven’t ate much, so there ain’t much to bring up.”
“Diarrhea?”
Barney closed his eyes again and shook his head. “Huh-uh.”
The big Indian caught up to us, and he stood behind me, looking over my shoulder at his ailing friend. “Gettin’ worse, Barney?”
Barney nodded and slid lower in his