The Painted Drum - Louise Erdrich [87]
As they bounced along Morris steered the truck, slowly, carefully.
“A guy wrote that in the twelfth century A.D.”
“If somebody asked me over a thousand years,” Ira said, cold inside, “I would say I live because my children need me.”
“Yeah,” said Morris. “That’s what my brother said. He told me all about how you needed money.”
“I don’t need it all that bad anymore,” Ira said. “I only got to last until tomorrow.”
“Well, I got money,” said Morris. “I got quite a bit of money. On me. And I don’t ever get a chance to be with a woman. I can’t go in bars.”
Now Ira knew why her throat clenched, why she’d been afraid. She knew why John had delivered her to his ma’iingan brother.
“If you have so much money,” she said, her voice rising too high, “why don’t you buy CDs?”
“Well, I have them too, and a player, of course. But I like listening to tapes for some reason. The assortment, I guess, and they’re free. My house is a grab bag of tapes. Powwow tapes. Poetry tapes. The most beautiful stories in the language. Ira, listen to this,” Morris’s voice rose high, almost a wail. “‘It isn’t given to us to know those rare moments when people are wide open and the lightest touch can wither or heal.’ What about that? Fitzgerald. I wish I could stop this truck,” said Morris. “I wish that I could kiss you.”
“No,” said Ira, “I got to get back to my kids.”
“Well, I think this is a rare healing moment, and a kiss”—Morris slowed the truck until it crawled—“that won’t take a few seconds. A kiss is an efficacious drug. It might change my life.” The truck stopped, idling. Morris turned to her and the light played up in his eyes so they flashed and burned. “Please,” he said, putting the truck in park. Ira didn’t move. “You want me to start the truck moving?” They sat suspended, breathing, looking at each other.
“You’re pretty,” said Morris. His voice was low. He was choking on his breath. “Want me to start the truck?”
“Yes,” Ira said.
“C’mere then.”
She slid across to him in a trance of fear, but when he did not move toward her but only sat very still, something else happened. She put her hands over his eyes. He seemed to be holding his breath now, even trembling a little. He wasn’t going to hurt her, she realized. She kissed his mouth, and his foot pressed the gas pedal involuntarily, so it roared with a human sound. He laughed sheepishly and said, “I guess that tells you how I feel.” His breath was surprisingly sweet and his face smelled like soap. Still, underneath that, the truck smelled of blood. He leaned back into the seat like he was fainting a little. She kissed him again. Then she took her hands off his eyes and got back on her side of the cab. He sat up, stared forward, then pressed the gas pedal slowly and shifted evenly so there was no sudden jolt. They went along in silence.
“You do love your children, don’t you,” he said.
“Yes,” said Ira.
“But that second kiss,” Morris said. “Was it maybe personal?”
Ira said nothing, just pointed out the many small drifts on the road. Morris concentrated, slowing now, very cautious. When the driving was smoother he put his hand in his pocket and pulled something out and slid it across the seat.
“You take this.”
It was a wad of money.
“No,” Ira said. “I didn’t do nothing.”
“Please keep it,” Morris said, in a formal voice. “I feel dishonorable. Anyway, I got to get us to your place and return home by sunup. Morning light hurts my