Feast Day of Fools - James Lee Burke [77]
The sun was finally subsumed by clouds that were low and thick and churning and the color of burnt pewter. In the cooling of the day and the pulsation of electricity in the clouds, dust devils began to swirl and wobble and break apart on top of the hardpan. For reasons he was too young to understand, Hackberry was frightened by the drop in barometric pressure and the great shadow that seemed to darken the land, as though a shade were being drawn across it by an invisible hand.
His father had gone inside the café to buy two bottles of cream soda. When he came back out and handed Hack one, the ice sliding down the neck, he saw the expression on his son’s face and said, still hanging on to the bottle, “Something happen out here, son?”
“The land, it looks strange. It makes me feel strange,” Hackberry said.
“In what way?”
“Like everything has died. Like the sun has gone away forever, like we’re the only two people left on earth.”
“Psychiatrists call that a world-destruction fantasy. But the earth will always be here. Hundreds of millions of years ago, out in that great vastness, there was an ocean where fish as big as boxcars swam. Now it’s a desert, but maybe one day it will be an ocean again. Did you know there were probably whales that swam out there?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s true. Mythic creatures, too. See those pale horizontal lines in the mesas? That’s where the edge of the sea was. You see those flat rocks up a little bit higher? That’s where the mermaids used to sun themselves.”
“Mermaids in Texas?”
“One hundred million years ago, you bet.”
“How do you know that, Daddy?”
“I was there. Your dad is a pretty old fellow.” Then he rubbed his hand on top of Hackberry’s head. “Nothing is worth worrying about, Hack,” he said. “Just remember how long this place has been here and all the people who’ve lived on it and maybe are still out there, in one form or another, maybe as spirits watching over us. That’s what the Indians believe. Our job is to enjoy the earth and to take care of it. Worry robs us of our faith and our joy and gives us nothing in return. How about you and I go inside and play the pinball machine and order up a couple of those barbecue-chicken dinners? When we come back outside, one of those mermaids might be up there in the rocks winking at you.”
That was the way Hackberry always wanted to remember his father—good-natured and protective and knowledgeable about every situation in the world that a man might face. And that was the way he had thought of him without exception every day of his young life, up until the morning his father had taken a revolver from his desk drawer and oiled and cleaned it and loaded each chamber with a copper-jacketed hollow-point round, then placed a pillow behind his head and cocked the hammer and fitted the barrel into his mouth, easing the sight behind his teeth, just before he blew the top of his skull onto the ceiling.
The sun had gone behind the hill when Hackberry’s cordless phone rang and woke him from his dream. He checked the caller ID and saw the words “wireless” and “unknown.” He clicked the “on” button and said, “What’s the haps, Mr. Collins?”
“I declare. You’re on it from the gate, Sheriff.”
“It’s not much of a trick when you deal with certain kinds of people.”
“Such as me?”
“Yeah, I think you definitely qualify as a man with his own zip code and time zone.”
“Maybe I’ll surprise you.”
“Hardly.”
“How’s the Oriental woman doing?”
“Call the hospital and see.”
“I would, but hospitals don’t give out patient information over the telephone.”
“Ms. Ling has had a bad time, but she’s going to be all right. What were you doing at