Jack Womack, page 9
“Causality prohibits,” I said, attempting to convince rather than enlighten. “It’s impossible.”
“But true,” said Jake. Eyeing the Empire State afresh, common sense’s block having now worn away, I spotted at once the difference missed. Its pinnacle’s TV tower lacked; the building stood as hypo sans needle. Running view along ridge’s brow I saw the absence of considerable: the Trade Towers, Battery Spire, Battery Park, One Coliseum, Cititower, Lincoln Park—all gone. “We’ve disconnected, Luther.”
Downroad west, two thin white shafts lit the path ahead. As the car drew close I roadsided, aiming to hitch; anxiety’s hands pulled me away so that I might size the locals at near range before direct contact ensued. The car passed, its driver giving us a second’s onceover. We’d camped directly beneath one of those dim lights; when his vehicle had its moment under spotlight, it first hit me odd to see something so old look new and used simultaneously. The car resembled a colossal potato bug, with bulbous abdomen, narrow thorax, wide round eyes; its hue showed briefly as a dull dirty yellow. A timekeeper in our day, of hostage ransom’s worth; here, it looked as if it sat overlong parked in the rain. Its taillights flew away, toward New York.
“Flag the next, Luther,” said Jake, crouching beside Oktobriana, his trousers rolled knee-high as he plucked leeches from his legs. “She needs doctoring quick.”
“We all do,” I said. “We’ve got to play this proper.”
“Proper for whom?”
“For us. And them. If we’re where we seem, circumspection in word and act is essential.”
“To what purpose?” He tore one last black strand from his skin. “We’ll show like snow on ice to their eyes, surely.”
“Unproven,” I said. “Our look and sound may cycle odd in these surroundings, possibly in ways unforeseen. We don’t want to be mentaled without trial. We could show as institution’s dream and not even know.”
“Recommendations, then?”
“Keep profile low. Don’t react as trained. Don’t show surprise at their behavior, or their tools, or their uses. Move without rudeness or sudden shock. These are demands, not suggestions, Jake.”
“Act as if traipsing Third World scenes?”
“You’ve got. We’re in innocent days, Jake. Remember that we can infect worse than they.”
“New lights showing, Luther. Flagaway.”
Standing on the gravel shoulder, I overheaded arms, semaphoring oncomers. A truck rumbled past, dark miasma’s cloud spewing behind; its full load of glass bottles rattled, shaking against one another and against the flatbed’s wooden walls. Two more cars trailed: one’s shell flowed in unbroken curve from bumper to bumper, its sinuous chrome seemingly designed by wind’s wish; the other showed age, and resembled a boat estranged from the sea as it bumped along on spoked wheels. Its ripped cloth roof sheltered its passengers like a fallen sail.
“One should have stopped,” I said as they vanished.
“To be poked and yoked by nightcrawlers?” Jake asked. “Deep-dish dread, undoubted. Other’s expected by the king of fear?”
“Stop projecting, Jake,” I said. “No call to drip our time’s paranoia here.”
“Wise words, I’m sure. Here’s another.” Placing myself again, I waved; the driver flashed lights as if signaling hello. Cheered to see my point proven, I turned to nod at Jake, only to see him drawing himself and Oktobriana behind the guardrail. The car accelerated and swerved, its tires throwing gravel from where I’d stood before tossing myself downhill, rolling into clammy safety at embankment’s base. They laughed, skidding away; I heard unexpected cries.
“Nigger!” came their call. “Got’im.” Bile burned my throat as I hauled my aches to the road again, shuddering with fresh pain racking old winces. Jake and Oktobriana had returned to their seats; he appeared unsurprised. The road was still and quiet again, a river frozen by night.
“You see?” I asked. “You hear?”
“As forewarned,” said Jake. “Losers roam night roads, Luther.”
“You heard his call?”
“Another approaching,” he said, eyeing the horizon’s white glow. The oncomer needed no gesture to halt it; slowing as it passed, the car pulled onto the shoulder two hundred down and reversed.
“Prep yourself, Jake,” I said.
“Prepped and doubleprepped,” he said, sliding his good hand undercoat, standing at guard before Oktobriana’s small bundle. The car paused beneath the light and the engine cut. The car’s husk rose slablike from the enormous bumpers, curving only at fenders, roof and trunk. The license plate, fastened within a bracket set above the left taillight, read New York World’s Fair 1939. The driver’s door swung free from the front, rather than middle, allowing clear view of the driver as he emerged. A faint click awared me that Jake’s safety was off.
“You fellows need some help?” he asked, voicing a deep baritone. Beneath his thin jacket, below his dark hat’s rim, he showed as tall, wide and black. A mustache’s caterpillar slept above his upper lip.
“Essentialled,” I said. “Medicare’s a must. Assist, please.”
“Hospital us multitime,” Jake demanded. Oktobriana moaned as drug’s comfort faded. The newcomer onceovered us, standing without move or shake, looking as if he posed for a portrait.
“Got a woman with you?” he asked. “You boys trying to beat the Mann Act or what? Going to get in mighty hot water that way.”
Jake straightened himself, his hand still hidden. “Transport us. She’s pained overmuch. Help now or help never.”
“Jake!” I said, hoping to preserve and prevent. “Hospital us if possible, please. We’ll reimburse. It’s urgent twiceover.”
Laughter cracked his face’s wax; was it my look or sound? I wondered, and feared how badly we showed. “I’m a doctor,” he said, kneeling beside Oktobriana, holding her wrist to try the pulse, patting her face to stir her. “Miss, can you hear me? What’s wrong? You hear me?”
“Da,” she slurred, newborn pup’s eyes unopened. “Govoritye li vy porusski?”
“Russian?” he said. “Good Lord. Ya govoritye,” he said, “a little.” She slumped again, and no conversation ensued. He doctored: ran hands about her neck, touched her toes, prodded her ears. Unpocketing a small flash, he shone it into her dilated eyes.
“No bones broke,” he said, gently pressing her abdomen, seeming to look for her liver. “Took a hell of a lick on the head, looks like. What happened?”
“An accident,” I said. “We’re travelers.”
“What kind of accident?”
“Our plane descended,” I said. “Out there.” Peering into the swamp’s acreage, he scanned for several moments.
“Think I see it.” He hefted himself upright with fatman’s grace. “She’s got a slight concussion. Mild shock, that’s expected. When was the accident?”
“Thirty past,” said Jake.
“Past what? Good thing you kept her bundled up. She oughta be all right, long as we get her into town soon.” As if to self-flagellate, he slapped his neck three hard strokes. “Damn skeets. Get malaria hanging out in this damn swamp. What about you two? Looks like you took quite a licking yourself,” he said, flashing his beam over my forehead, sighting my slices and bumps. “Hurt anywhere else?”
“All over but nothing of import,” I said. “Jake dislocated his shoulder, but we readjusted.”
“Shit. You’re walking around?” he asked Jake.
“Diodin holds antishock agents. If I sit overlong I’d fade to black. Standing’s necessaried during the first fifteen minutes.”
The man’s look puzzled; possibly Jake’s phrasing confused. “You all are some bunch. Damn lucky you made it. How high were you flying?”
“We glided groundways,” I said. “Freefall, nearly.” The man’s own voice fascinated; I wondered if we sounded so strange to him as he did to me. The way his phrases wrapped themselves round his words, his odd pronunciations, his remarkable tone and pitch; all amazed. “We’ve ridden rough roads,” I said. “We’re hospital-near?”
“We’ll go back to my office,” he said, pushing his hat back upon his head, dejacketing, showing a drenched shirt. His under’s line showed clear. “Little bird tells me you all may not want to get too involved with too many strangers right off. That a good guess? Give me a hand getting her into the car. We’ll hash things out later on. Those your bags?” he asked. “Toss ’em in the trunk.” Lumbering over, he unlocked the lid, pulled it up. “What do you go by, brother?”
“Excuse?” I asked. “Uncomprehended.”
“What’s your name?” he asked, sounding miffed.
“Luther. That’s Jake. She’s Oktobriana.”
“Man,” he said. “Damn Russians. I knew one once called Glory of Revolution. My name’s Norman Quarles. Call me Doc. You two carried her out of the swamp?”
“I did,” said Jake. Stooping, he encircled her shoulders with his good arm, placed his hand beneath and lifted.
“Careful—” Doc said, then realized Jake suffered no trouble in his act. Still, he took hold of her legs, to relieve the weight. Shortly they backseated her, Jake sliding in next to keep her upright. Certifying the roadside clear of our holdings, I grasped the trunklid, startled by its weight as I slammed it down.
“Your car’s plated?” I asked Doc, seeing no call for such density but for security’s sake. He stared, again.
“With what? Silver or gold?” He laughed. “Jake, you want some morphine for that arm? I can’t believe it doesn’t hu—”
“Morphine contraindicates Diodin,” I said. “We’re fixed.”
Doc shook his head, and wheeled himself. Opening the shotgun door, expecting to descend, I climbed instead, seating myself on worn, tape-patched upholstery; fine leatherette upholstery, nonetheless. A ceiling incandescent buttered us with yellow light. On the unpadded, polished-metal dash were but six gauges and the glove compartment.
“Isn’t much traffic, this time of night,” Doc said. “We ought to make it in no time.”
“What time is it?” I asked, fumbling for nonexistent seat belts.
“Clock’s right there,” he said. With a key, he ignited; when the engine caught it roared and pounded loud. Finding the clock, I found too that it bore hands. Seeing me count off the divisions, Doc said, “One-thirty.” He jerked a steering-column lever knobbed with speckled blue, and drew up his left leg. Only on old cars traveling the streets of Kabul or Ankara or out on the Island had I, since childhood, seen such a system. Twohanded, with evident strain, he steered us roadways.
“Usually I’m not running around this time of night,” he said. “Ever’ Friday I’m assigned to work over at East Orange Colored Hospital. Poor people out there need all the help they can get.”
“Colorful hospital?”
“You could say that,” he said. “I’ll tell the world it’s a hell of a mess on weekends.”
In the rearview I saw Jake inserting his pocket-player’s phones so that for short minutes, through long-sung songs, he might ascend free from all surrounding. He drew Oktobriana near, despite the heat; Jake generally showed affection only to the unconscious, but his hold was a different hold that night.
“Where’s the AC?” I asked, vizzing the dash; there wasn’t even a radio.
“AC?” Doc said. “You mean electricity?”
“No. Air-conditioning. Sorry to misunderstand.”
“In a Terraplane?” Reconsidering, I surreptitiously handcrept the doorside, hoping to find the window button. “Packard, maybe. Not in this car. You want some air?” he asked; paused, as if to rephrase. “Use that little crank with the knob on the right. Don’t yank the handle, you’ll fall out the door.” Finding it, I rolled; leaned into the breeze’s hot sting. “You and him aren’t Russian,” he said, “but you’re not Americans. Where you all from?”
“We’re American,” I said.
“Been out of the country a long time?” he asked.
“Not long.” Doc’s car seemed suspension-free as we bumped and banged along; when he shifted again we settled into cruise. We passed a small house on road’s righthand; two thick stanchions stood in the dirt lot fronting. Seeing their hoses and dials and globes marked HESS I realized they were gas pumps. A sign on houseside told that within could be bought ice-cold buttermilk, live bait and Moxie. Between house and bog a billboard announced a sale on DeSotos.
“What’s Moxie?” I asked.
“Spunk,” he said. “Oh, you mean the drink?”
I shrugged.
“I tasted it once. Tasted like tar. Creosote.”
How often did he drink creosote? I wondered. “DeSotos are a car?” His look shifted, towards me, to the road, towards me again.
“Not often you see a mixed group like yours in the country. Some people get a little upset.”
“One car tried a hit,” I said. “Missed.” We reached a narrow, arched bridge that crossed, said a sign, the Hackensack River. The roadway hummed as we hit it, startling my heart into extra beats. The buzz was as a plane speeding down to spray.
“You in any trouble with the law?” Doc asked, lowvoiced.
“We’ve interacted no legal modes improperly, as I gather.”
“Level with me if you’re on the lam, friend. You got something to come clean about, you come clean now for my sake just so I’ll know what’s going on. I’m not going to rat on you ’less you give me reason to.”
Paranoia’s oddest feature is that those closest are least trusted, and a stranger may prove the safest confidant; still, there was no trusting this one yet. If we tarried overlong round him, and under circumstance I knew there might not be choice, he’d have to be told unless he guessed beforehand. I nearly spoke then, but feared he would cast us away so soon after catching us. At present need for doctoring outweighed need to inform; I stilled my tongue.
“Stand in my shoes a minute,” he said; why should I want to? I wondered, but didn’t say. “I’m driving ’cross the Meadows in the middle of the night. Catch you three just crawled out of the swamp. Negro man, white man, white woman. Injured white Russian woman. Ever’ one of you beat-up, filthy dirty. Covered with blood. You think people aren’t going to do more than just rubberneck? Tried to run you down, hell. You all’re lucky nobody tried to shoot you, just on general principle.”
“Why’d you assist if we showed so strange?”
“I’m a doctor,” he said. “God helps fools, doctors help people. If God helped people ’stead of fools, world’d be a perfect place, wouldn’t it?” Extracting a cigarette from shirt pocket he stuck it in at mouthcorner, pressed a dash button and tossed a crumpled pack atop the dash. LUCKY STRIKE, its green and red colors told; Christmas colors. “Think you can salvage your plane?”
“It’s demolished,” I said. It wasn’t, but none here could effect needed repairs. The button clicked; he pulled it out, lighting his cigarette with its glowing end. Noxious fog sucked the air’s oxygen away.
“What? Never seen a lighter before?”
“Doctors never smoke,” I said, staring.
“Maybe not the doctors you know. If I didn’t smoke I couldn’t afford to eat,” he laughed, slapping a hand stomachways. “Much as I can put away.” He blew smoke as if pumping a bellows; I faced the window’s wind, gulping Jersey air. “Plane, huh? Just like old Lindy. I went to the aerodrome out at Holmes Field last year. Those Negro pilots from California, you know the ones. They put on a hell of a show. Something to see, brother. Made you walk out a proud man.”
“We wished to go homeways,” I said. “Only that.”
“Ever’body’s wandering these days,” he said. “Travel if you got plenty, travel if you’re busted. If you’re getting by, like me, you don’t get around much. Lots of people wind up in New York. It’ll take most anybody. Better here than most places, brother, believe you me, especially for our people.” He patted my shoulder. I wondered about his own suspicions; he’d not inquired as to our specific origin. Whether I read overmuch in, or whether he wasn’t yet sure if he wished to know, I couldn’t guess; only fear. “Take a long time getting here?”
“Years,” I said.
The swamp vanished behind us; we ascended the low grade leading to town. Above the crest ahead the azimuth brightened above New York’s everrising skyline. Through the car windows the panorama without washed rich with detail’s rising tide until all flowed together into a torrent bearing an America horrifying in its course’s inferred innocence. The flood carried ragtag tourist courts, airflowed chrome diners, tile-roofed gas stations hawking Sinclair at twenty or Getty at eighteen, sprawling roadhouses with dance floors worn bare. Lamplit billboards sold the Kiwanis, Ruppert’s beer, Silvertop bread, Hudson automobiles, Mazda bulbs, Crosley radios. One big sign announced, beneath a drawing of a carborne family, grinning madly as if driving into sweet, sweet blast, that There’s No Way Like the American Way; the other showed nothing but that silhouette of prick and orchid ball, this time with overlain legend proclaiming VISIT THE WORLD OF TOMORROW.
At ridge’s peak the road swept downward; across the road’s open cut, over the black river, stood lost New York, its ornate steeples rising as a host of sparkling crystals, freed from the looming flooded walls of our day. We passed into the tunnel below the dark, house-shingled hills, shooting into the city as a virus enters the blood, forever changing the body entering as it changed the body entered.
