T. Boyle - The Harder They Come

“Yeah,” Sara said. “Yeah. But why do they have to happen to me?”

She worked quickly, trimming the horses’ hooves, cutting out the excess hoof walls and dead sole and then reshoeing them, letting her mind go free. All three horses — two mares and a gelding — knew her, so there was no problem there, just the routine she’d gone through a thousand times. The work settled her, the simple movements, the tools in her hands, the living breathing presence of the animals. She was in the car and heading back up the driveway by noon, feeling the sense of accomplishment she always felt on a job well done (and a payment received), but as soon as she got out on the main road it all came rushing back at her. The quarantine period was for thirty days. Thirty days. There was no way she was going to accept that.

She might have been pressing a bit, going faster than she should have considering the fog — at one point she came up on the pale ghost of a Winnebago moving so slowly it might as well have been parked, and she had to swing blindly out into the opposite lane to avoid hitting it, something she’d never do normally. There was no one coming, thank god, but she told herself she had to get a grip even as her speed crept back up again. The radio gave her classic rock, tunes she’d heard ad nauseam, but she was bored with her CDs and just let it play. She was tapping idly at the wheel, drumming along with the beat, jittery still from her morning coffee and the prospect of what lay ahead of her, when the sun broke through not half a mile after she’d turned back onto Route 20, and if it wasn’t exactly an omen, at least it was nice. Off went the wipers, down came the windows. The breeze was cool and fresh and it carried the deep dry scent of the conifers that climbed up the grade as far as you could see in both directions. She’d just swung into the first of the wide sweeping turns after the long straightaway up from town when she saw the figure there on the side of the road — a man, a young man, backpedaling along the shoulder with his thumb out.

She wasn’t naïve and she didn’t have the highest opinion of human nature — or intelligence — but she made a point of stopping for hitchhikers, on these roads, anyway, whereas she would never even consider it down in the Bay Area where you had all sorts of nutballs and weirdos and stone-cold killers running around. Anybody hitching here was a local, most likely, and everybody couldn’t afford a car, she understood that. There was still something of the hippie spirit up here, long hair, bandanas, brothers and sisters all, and half the population of the county growing marijuana as a going proposition. She pulled over and here he was, hustling up the shoulder to her.

He didn’t have long hair. Didn’t have any hair at all. He was wearing some sort of fatigues or camouflage — it wasn’t deer season yet, was it? — and he was shouldering a backpack with a canteen looped over it. She saw a perfectly proportioned skull shaved to the bone, pale arching eyebrows that were barely there and a pair of naked eyes squinting against the sun. He was tall, six-one or — two, and he had to duck way down to toss his pack in on the backseat and then fold up his legs to squeeze into the seat beside her.

“Hi,” she said, smiling reflexively, and it came to her that she knew him somehow, maybe from one of her clients or the bar scene or maybe she’d picked him up before. He looked young, but he was old enough to drink, mid-twenties, maybe — and who was he?

He gave her a blue-eyed stare, his eyes drifting away from her face as if he were stoned or just wakened from a dream.

“Where to?” she said, putting the car in gear and throwing a quick glance over her shoulder before rumbling back onto the roadway in a storm of dust.

He didn’t answer, as if he hadn’t heard her, and he wasn’t looking at her now but sitting there rigidly as if he were at the dentist’s, staring straight ahead.

She tried again. “You going far?”

“Ukiah,” he said without turning his head, his voice soft and subdued, fluttering up from somewhere deep inside him.

The trees flashed by. She leaned into the next turn. “You’re in luck,” she said.

She wound up doing most of the talking, general subjects mainly — the tourists, the weather, how dry the forest was this time of year and how the fog down on the coast seemed thicker than usual — and when she got specific with regard to the absolute worthlessness of the song that was on the radio he didn’t offer an opinion one way or the other. Whether he was an Elton John aficionado or wanted to poison his well or was utterly indifferent, she couldn’t say, but she’d thrown it out because she certainly wasn’t shy about her opinions and laying them out there was the best way to open people up. It didn’t open him up. He just stared out the window, his shoulders stiff as a coat hanger. In fact, the only thing that seemed to get a rise out of him was when she told him about Kutya, how they’d impounded her car and taken him away from her. He gave her a sidelong look then, his head and neck still locked in position, straight forward, and murmured, “Yeah, they took my car too.”

“Really? Why? What happened?”

He just shrugged. “You know how it is,” he said after a moment.

“Yeah,” she said, stealing a look at him, “tell me about it.”

The day glanced off the windshield. She gave the car some gas to get up the grade and there was nobody ahead of her, which was nice, but there was a whole phalanx of motor homes twisting down the hill in the opposite direction, big groaning fortresses of metal that seemed ready to fly out of control on every turn, and what kind of person would drive something like that? Somebody clueless. Somebody who was a slave to the corporation and the oil companies and didn’t even know it. She goosed the accelerator and the engine faltered till she goosed it again and another gear kicked in. A lone car flashed by, heading down, then there was a log truck, empty, rattling and clanking till you couldn’t even hear the radio, and then, emerging suddenly from its shadow, a cop car, the windows opaque with sun. That was when her passenger came to life, whipping round in the seat as the cruiser blew past, shouting “Fuckers!” out the window and stabbing both middle fingers in the air. He was right there, leaning into her, and she could smell the sharp ammoniac taint of his breath. “Fuckers!” he shouted. “Fuckers!”

It was over in a heartbeat, the cop car gone and vanished round the bend behind them along with the motor homes and the log truck, but she couldn’t seem to catch her breath. All she needed was another confrontation with the police. What was he thinking? Who was this guy? Was he on drugs, was that it? “Jesus,” she exploded, “don’t do that, are you crazy?”

She gave him a hard stare, but he was looking right through her now, his jaw set so that the muscles stood out in a ridge that ran up into the hard unyielding shell of his skull. He never even blinked, just turned his head, rigid and erect and unmoving all over again. She repeated herself—“Are you crazy?”—but he didn’t answer. She was on the verge of pulling over and telling him to get out because this was too much, she just couldn’t risk it, not now, not today, when it came to her: she knew him, of course she did. “I know you,” she said.

She shot a glance at him, then her eyes went back to the road. “From Fort Bragg High? I used to sub there.” Another glance. “You’re Sten Stensen’s son, aren’t you — Aaron? Or no, Adam — Adam, right?”

He didn’t turn. Barely moved his lips. “My name’s Colter.”

Colter . He wasn’t fooling her. Sten had been principal until he retired, and this was his son, Adam, the one who’d caused so much trouble for everybody concerned. She’d had him in class a couple of times — he’d had hair then, long hair, puffed out and braided into dreadlocks, an inveterate doper who wore Burning Spear T-shirts and affected a Rasta accent. Adam. Adam Stensen.