Robin Hobb - The Inheritance and Other Stories

“What are you doing?” she demanded, plopping back into her seat.

“Giving a guy a lift,” I muttered.

A big grin was splitting his weathered old face as he jogged toward us. I was impressed. The guy had to be at least seventy. Gutty old man, hitching his way somewhere at that age.

“Well, you didn’t even ask me! I don’t think that’s a good idea; I mean, all that stuff you read in the paper, he might have a knife or be an escaped convict or anything. Sheila, pull out quick before he gets here. I never pick up hitchhikers.”

I ignored Cheryl, something I was getting better and better at doing. She folded her arms across her chest and started that huffy breathing she always did when she was pissed. Used to drive the truckers crazy, big boobs bobbling up and down like corks in a swell. Didn’t bother me at all. By this time the hitchhiker was standing outside her door, but she wasn’t moving. He grinned at me and tried the back door on her side of the car. It was locked, and she didn’t move to unlock it. I unlocked the one on my side. He came around right away and opened the door and pushed Cheryl’s junk over to make room for himself. He squished in with his backpack on his lap. As soon as he slammed the door, I pulled back onto the freeway. I glanced in the mirror, but all I could see was backpack and hat.

“So where you headed?” I asked. Cheryl was still huffing.

“Where you going?” he asked in return.

“New Mexico,” I said, swerving slightly to miss some bloody fur on the road.

“Sounds good to me,” he said.

Cheryl muttered, “That’s the fifth squashed cat we’ve passed today.”

“Actually, that looked more like a coon to me, missy. Didn’t ya see that ratty kind of tail it had? More likely a coon. Dead cat, its tail don’t look like that lessen it’s been rained on a lot, and it hasn’t rained all that much yet today. Besides, that one looked near fresh. Cat’s tail don’t look like that until it’s been out there, oh, two, three days. Probably a coon. Dumb old thing. Nothing dumber than a roadkill.”

About then I was thinking there were at least two things dumber than a roadkill. Possibly three, if you counted the person responsible for getting both of them into the same car.

“You see any Cheetos back there?” Cheryl asked him, her voice brightening. Nothing like shared interests for bringing people together. I heard the sounds of dedicated rummaging, and Cheryl turned, presenting cheeks once more. Great. Well, maybe they’d occupy each other and leave me alone.

“Here they are!” announced the old man, and handed her the bag after helping himself to a generous handful. Cheryl flopped back into her seat again and thrust the bag into my face.

“Here, Sheila, you want some?”

“No.” I pushed her hand away and she sat back. The crackle of cellophane and the rhythmic grinding of teeth filled the car. “Why are you going to New Mexico?” I asked the old man. Anything to cover Cheryl’s feeding sounds.

“Me? I thought you were going to New Mexico.”

“Well, yeah, we are, but when you got in, I thought you said you were going to New Mexico too.”

“No.” The old man had a cheerful, hearty voice. Nothing old about the way he sounded. “No, I don’t think I said that at all. I think I said, ‘Sounds good to me.’ That’s what I said. And it does. New Mexico. ’Bout time those Mexicans got a fresh start somewhere. Maybe in New Mexico they’ll do things a little better. Their biggest mistake, I always thought, was in having Mexico so close to Texas. Bound to be a bad influence. Glad they got a new place now.”

I forced a chuckle at his humor and then glanced at the rearview mirror. His eyes were blue and calm as a summer sky. Not joking. I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Hey. Hey, missy. Did you say that was the fifth dead cat you passed today?”

“Yeah. Only if that’s a coon like you say, then it’s only the fourth.” Cheryl sounded disappointed.

“Yeah?” The old man sounded incredibly pleased. “Well, that’s good, really, actually, that’s good. Fifth dead cat you see is always the lucky one. When we get to number five, now, you just pull over and I’ll show you a thing or two about a number five squashed cat. Thing most of you young folk don’t know nothing about.”

I really wished the radio was working. Maybe I’d check the fuse box at the next gas stop. Maybe it was only a blown fuse and there was an alternative to listening to a dialogue about dead cats.

“Why’s it got to be a number five dead cat?” Cheryl was asking earnestly.

“Well, it just does, that’s all. You can work it out any way you like. Crystals, pyramids, channeling, or tarot. No matter how you compute it, it always comes out to a number five dead cat. And if you don’t believe me, just have your aura checked. Number five, every time.” The old man chuckled happily. “Guess I’m just lucky, throwing in with you and having you folks be on cat number four already. Know how long it usually takes me to pass five dead cats on foot? Days, sometimes. Days! And an old man like me, it’s hard for me to go days between number five squashed cats. Gimme a few more of them Cheetos things, missy.”

Cheryl obligingly passed the bag back to him.

“Only fifty-two more miles to the California border,” I observed brightly as my contribution to the conversation.

“There’s some Kool-Aid Koolers back there in little boxes, if you want,” Cheryl offered. “Would you pass me one, too?”

The Cheetos bag and a little waxed box of Kool-Aid were passed forward. Sensitive as I am, I realized they were ignoring me. Childish as I am, I felt piqued by it. “Wait a minute,” I interrupted loudly. “How do you know which cat is the fifth one? Doesn’t it all depend on when you start counting?”

“It sure does!” The old man was delighted. “And I’m real glad you saw it right off, like that. Only the fifth dead cat will work, and it all depends on when you decide to start counting them. Ain’t that real Zen, now?”

I didn’t think it was Zen any more than I thought it was tapioca pudding, but I didn’t say so. The conversation lagged.

Cheryl jabbed her straw into the grape box, took a long gurgling sip, and suddenly choked.

“Omigod!” she exclaimed, pointing down the road. “What’s that?”

“Something dead,” I muttered, changing lanes.

The old man craned his head forward. “Cat for sure! Look’s like a calico, but it might be a Persian with real good tire tracks. Hit the brakes, kid, this here’s pay dirt!”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said, not even easing up on the gas.

“Please. You’ve got to!” The old man’s hand closed on my shoulder and squeezed like a vise as Cheryl began bouncing up and down on the seat, squealing, “Please! Please, Sheila? Please stop, I wanna see it. It’ll only take a second. Come on, Sheila, be a sport!”

So I pulled off on the shoulder, more out of concern for my car’s shocks than for any curiosity. Besides, it was the only way to get the old man’s grip off my shoulder. I hate being touched by strangers. And the old man was definitely a stranger, and getting stranger all the time. Maybe if I stopped, I could leave him with his dead cat. I wished I could leave Cheryl, too, but she was paying half the gas and it was her cousin in New Mexico we were going to stay with until we got jobs. So I pulled my old Chevette over and cut the engine.

Cheryl and the old man were out before I got the car into Park. I leaned back in my seat. I wasn’t getting out. I’d seen dead cats before. Their little mouths are always open, fangs bare, neat pink tongues curled, as if making a final snarl at death. I like animals. Seeing dead ones always gives me a sense of loss, of waste. Tiny little lives, flame bright and candle brief, snuffed out. Probably had been someone’s pet.