Cruddy - Lynda Barry [29]
“This damn thing is heavy as shit,” said the father. He had the suitcase in one hand and his USN duffel over his shoulder. My bag was also USN, less wide but longer with a drawstring top. In it were a few of my clothes and the rifle, broken down and carefully wrapped along with some boxes of shells. “Why do you keep turning back to look at the damn car, Clyde?”
I told him I was waiting for it to blow up. In the movies when cars started on fire they always blew up.
“Not when they don’t got no gas in them they don’t,” said the father. “That’s just common wisdom.” And he was about to lay more common wisdom on me when the explosion happened.
“What the hell,” said the father. “I’m still right.”
He said he burned the car because they might be looking for us. The authorities might. And we needed to start covering our tracks. And then he said where I bit him was throbbing like a son-of-a-bitch and he reminded me that he almost twisted my neck, he could have snapped it easy, he knew how to do it. He was a hand-to-hand man. The Navy was sad to lose him. He said he could snap my neck and who would ever know? There wasn’t anybody looking for me. He asked me if I could think of a single person who would report me missing.
I couldn’t.
We slept that night in the weeds alongside the road. We were both so tired it didn’t matter. When I heard the father’s sleep breathing, I pulled my duffel farther away.
In the morning we were walking again. The father was wearing fresh slacks and a fresh short-sleeve shirt. I could see his sleeveless undershirt through it. He told me to change my clothes too, and at first I wouldn’t because there was no place to change. Not a thing to stand behind.
The father said, “What are you worried about? Hell, I’ve only seen you bare-assed all your life. I won’t look. There ain’t nothing to look at.”
But of course he did. He waited a few moments before he turned around and watched everything.
We were saved by a man in a truck who jerked his dirty thumb back toward the direction we’d been walking and said, “Your car blowed up,” and then shot a jet of tobacco spit through the air. “Hop in.” The father got in first.
“Bub-bub-brother?” The father had his shoulders slumped and he was stuttering. Dazzle camouflage. “H-have you g-got a ci-ci-cigarette on you?”
“Naw,” said the man. “Take dip?”
“If yyy-you can sp-sp-are it.”
The man passed the Copenhagen to the father who took out a huge wad, stuck it in his lower lip and held the can out to me.
The man’s name was Syd. He was very tan and his clothes were very faded but he looked like a very together sort of person. His hair was oiled and combed in the Robert Mitchum style. I was admiring the comb-tooth pattern when the father nudged me with the can. I took a pinch.
Syd said, “Your boy chew? He don’t even look eight years old.” Syd’s eyes looked friendly. Bloodshot but sincere. He didn’t look old but his face had a million creases. Later the father said you could have poured a gallon of water into that face and not a drop would spill out. The sun did it. It dried the strongest men out like jerky.
“Hhh-he don’t ttt-talk. Eh-eh-eh-pilepsy.”
Syd said, “Epilepsy? I got a sister has epilepsy and she talks fine.”
The father started tapping his hand on the dash. Watch the hands. He taught me that. Watch the hands. They will tell you everything you need to know.
“Bbb-brain damage fff-from fff-falling.”
In the wing mirror I caught a glimpse of my face. It was swollen bad and the color around my left eye was deep and purple-red.
“That what happened to you, son?” Syd leaned forward to adjust his straw seat cushion and took a longer look at me. The father caught it. After that, whenever Syd leaned, the father blocked his view.
“Muh-muh-muh-mongoloid.”
“No shit,” said Syd. “Epileptic mongoloid with brain damage to boot. Somebody dealt you a real bad hand, son. I’d fold if I were you.” Syd leaned forward fast and winked