C. Box - The Highway

All those strategies gained him time, saved him money, and ended up on his bottom line every month. Over the years, he’d earned tens of thousands by not being stupid, not being brash, just trucking along thinking a hundred miles in front of him while the scenery rolled by.

He did that now, as he drove to his house. He could see a hundred miles ahead of him and he knew what he needed to do.

The “Oh Shit” box sat on the passenger seat next to him.

* * *

The flimsy old curtain in the living room opened a few inches as he noted the scarred foot of a cane holding the fabric back. That’s how she looked outside these days without actually standing up. She leaned forward in her chair and parted the curtains with her cane. He pretended not to notice her.

Pergram didn’t go straight into the house. Instead, he carried the “Oh Shit” box to his Peterbilt, hoisted himself up, and climbed inside. The box went between the seats. Then he shut the door and leaned on the coil and started up the Cat 15 motor. It was cold at first and he sat quietly and feathered the fuel until the racketing of the diesel motor smoothed into a familiar hum. He checked the stacks and observed them until the exhaust turned from oily black to chalky to clear.

He checked his gauges, fuel level, air pressure, temperature, fluid levels. Everything was beautiful. It felt good to be back inside his cab. It felt right , a warrior mounting his warhorse, he thought. His foray onto solid ground this time had been a disaster.

He left the truck idling and swung out of the cab and clambered down the steps to the dirt. He knew she hated it when he left his truck running outside so close to the house.

* * *

Pergram went in through the front door and shinnied his way through the tunnel toward his bedroom door. As he passed her she was still in her chair where she’d been when he left. She shook her cane at him and her mouth moved and sounds came out. He didn’t even look over.

He unlocked his bedroom door and strode inside. Within a minute, he’d packed his laptop, video camera, digital cameras, and VHS to DVD converter into a hard-sided case. Standing on top of his bed, he reached up through the cheap paneling squares and grasped a grocery bag containing copies of all the original discs and tapes he’d delivered to Legerski. The bag had so many video sessions preserved he could barely fit it into the case. But he managed, and he clicked the hasps shut.

The door remained open as he left the room. No need to lock it, he thought.

The droning, cackling sound he heard as an irritating soundtrack came into focus because he let it. He paused a few feet short of the alcove of stacked treasures where she still sat.

“Ronald! You know how I feel about that truck running right outside my window. I can’t hear myself think it’s so loud. It’s like somebody is shaking me. I can feel the whole house shake. I can smell the fumes and they make me sick. What have I asked you about leaving that truck running?”

He didn’t respond. Just stood there.

“Ronald, I know you’re there. I know you can hear me, you rude son of a buck. I know you’re right there.”

He nodded to himself as if answering.

“Did you fill my car up with gas like you promised? If we’re going to have a nice Thanksgiving I need to go into town and stock up. I don’t want to run out of gas, Ronald.”

Then, “Are you going on another run? Is that why you started that truck? Does that mean you won’t even be here to share Thanksgiving with your old ma? Is that what you’re trying to tell me?”

Pergram reached out with his free hand and placed it on a column of newspapers, magazines, and folded empty brown grocery sacks that rose from floor to ceiling. He put some weight into it, and it leaned a little. Dust motes floated down from the top level into the shaft of light from the front-room window. He leaned the stack toward the open aisle that led to her chair in the alcove of debris.

“Ronald, what are you doing? You be careful there.”

“What did I say about all this shit?” he said finally.

“I’ll clean it out. I told you I’d get rid of it.”

He sighed.

“What about Thanksgiving, Ronald?”

“I guess you’ll be able to spend it with JoBeth.”

She paused.

“ What did you say? ”

“I said I guess you’ll be able to spend this Thanksgiving with JoBeth, Ma.”

“You’re talking nonsense.”

“Tell her I never could stand her.”

She gasped, speechless for once.

“Tell her I couldn’t stand her friends, neither.”

“Ronald, don’t say that. Don’t say it.”

He put more weight behind his hand against the stack. A few of the newspapers from the top fell off into the aisle.

“This place is a fire hazard,” he said. “ How many times have I told you that ?” Mimicking her tone and cadence.

“Ronald, be careful. That ain’t funny.”

“It’s kind of funny,” he said as an aside. Then, “You told that highway trooper you thought there was something wrong with me. That I was up to something.”

“What highway trooper?”

“The one who pulled you over a few years ago. Legerski.”

“I don’t even remember, I really don’t.”

“That being the case,” he said, “I wonder how many other folks you talked to about me you can’t remember, either? Just because what you say doesn’t mean nothing to me, that doesn’t mean other people might not listen to you. Ever think about that?”

He shoved hard and the column collapsed, sealing the aisle.

“Ronald!”

All he could see of her back there among the garbage was the top of her silver head. It rocked back and forth as she yelled.

“Ronald, I told you that would happen. Now you’ve got to help dig me out of here. Some of them things fell on my legs.”

He stepped back and reached into his breast pocket with his free hand and withdrew a book of matches that read JUBITZ TRUCK STOP/PORTLAND OREGON. That was one of the good ones, he thought. No lot lizards there.

He opened the cover, fingered back a match, and rubbed it across the strike strip. The smell of sulfur was sharp and a curl of smoke hung in the stagnant air.

“What are you doing, Ronald?” she asked, finally scared.

He tipped the book so the flame spread to all the matches. It flared and he nearly dropped it because the heat singed the tips of his fingers. Then he flicked it toward the fallen stack.

“Ronald…”

He backed out the door and could already feel the heat on his face.

* * *

He checked his side mirrors as he ran through the low gears and the Peterbilt pulled away. The mirrors were filled with flame and roiling black curls of smoke coming out through the windows and doors of the old house. It wouldn’t be long, he thought, before the Buick went up with it and rendered any hair or fiber evidence to ash. Already, the dense Russian olive bushes on the side of the house were crackling with flame.

* * *

Pergram slowed as he approached the junction to the highway, checking both lanes. He took the turn wide as he had hundreds of times, careful not to let the end of his trailer clip a delineator post, and pointed the snub nose of the Peterbilt south toward Gardiner.

Looking for that fat lady cop from Helena.

11:46 A.M., Wednesday November 21

The Yellowstone quilt shop was a former residence on Scott Street, the main road through town. It stood between a white-water raft outfitter company closed for the winter and a pawn shop with a sign that read GUNS! It was a neat Victorian, narrow with a steep roof of wooden shingles and a covered wooden porch on the front. A hanging sign made of quilt squares hung in the window and indicated it was open.