John McManus - Born on a Train - 13 Stories

Can we go home now? said Diesel. This is bringen me down.

Of course we can’t, said Jearold, we’ve got to deliver a dog.

I doubt they want it now, said Diesel.

I don’t really give a fuck who wants it.

It’s not gonna go fetch little Susie’s baseball anymore.

It’s a joke, Jearold said, his voice strangely flat. It’s not the real dog.

How much are they payen you for to drive all this way for a joke? said Diesel.

Jearold hesitated and said, A fair bit.

How much? said Diesel. Why don’t we split it down the middle?

Why don’t you get in the car.

I need money, Diesel said. I cut you a deal on that last bag you bought.

Get your ass in the car, Jearold yelled.

I am in the car, Diesel said, but then he opened the door and sat down. The dog was still and quiet and unafraid; the road was its entrails laid bare. Isaac sat in the backseat this time; he didn’t like to be so close to people he didn’t like. He’d rather sit beside the bones, he decided. He knew the dog was in heaven, so there was something about the bones; he wanted to be near them. They were the right color. Mountains glowered in the glass like sawed-off witches’ hats. Jearold drank stale coffee. Clouds covered the stars. The telephone poles were shaped like Jesus.

What if it starts to smell? said Diesel.

It done smelled, said Jearold. That’s all over with.

What if it had rabies?

You’re acting like a little baby, Jearold said. Isaac didn’t see what so was bad about that. His mother used to stroke his head and say, My little baby, and it was something good. He tried to imagine Diesel with a mother, but the face in Isaac’s mind had pimples and a beard. He was tired and cold and sleepy and hungry, and he wished the heater worked right.

Diesel was shivering too. I’m cold, he said. This car’s a piece of shit.

Jearold nodded. He’d put sixty thousand miles on it since he started the job; he’d driven all over east Tennessee and into North Carolina, Virginia, Georgia. The miles on the car didn’t matter so much in summer, when it was only the air conditioner that didn’t work.

You didn’t tell me I should bring a damn coat, said Diesel.

Be a man, said Jearold. Isaac could see his father’s breath and Diesel’s mingling in the colder and colder air. Jearold’s hands seemed frozen to the wheel. He rubbed them against each other. A state map slid along the dashboard when they went around a sharp right curve. A stick shaped like an alligator crunched beneath the car’s tires.

When I’m about to freeze for good, said Diesel, I’m gonna kill you, to stay warm.

Cover yourself up with the dog, said Jearold.

I ain’t gonna touch that dog, said Diesel.

Skin him, said Jearold. Make a good coat.

It don’t got fur.

Jearold stuck his hand into his pocket and pulled out an old switchblade. As it fell open he grinned.

You never had that before, said Diesel.

That’s cause it was someone else’s, said Jearold.

Whose is it? Diesel asked.

It’s mine, said Jearold.

Why’d you bring it?

In case I need it, where we’re going.

There was another hour to go, and three hours’ drive back. Isaac was shivering, but he said nothing. The temperature was going to keep on falling. He wondered if his father felt bad for having brought him along, for making him so cold. He hoped it was bad for Jearold’s heart condition; maybe he’d have a heart attack. Isaac hoped it happened while the car was stopped. The engine made as much noise as a radar detector, and the trees all clashed like midnight armies; branches fell from them, and leaves died on the windshield. Isaac saw a sign: Kingdom Come Parkway.

That’s stupid, said Jearold.

What’s stupid? said Diesel.

You, Jearold said, and your mama.

But he meant the sign, Isaac knew, and it irritated him that his father was making fun of heaven. The two-lane road carried them uphill into lonely, narrow woods, unlit. Jearold’s face looked like a red throat. Stand back boys and let’s be wise, he crooned, I think I see his beady eyes. They crossed into Harlan County and everything kicked in. Those people are gonna fuck us up, said Diesel. That dog’s dead. That’s a big, dead dog.

I know how big it is, said Jearold.

I can smell it, Diesel said. This is Harlan County.

I don’t give a shit if it’s goddamn wet twat county.

Didn’t you see that movie? said Diesel. They’ll fuck you up up here.

They’re probably rich, said Jearold.

Nobody ain’t rich here, Diesel said. They mine coal.

They flew on a plane, Jearold said. Coal miners don’t fly on a plane.

Where’d they fly to? said Diesel.

Jearold turned the car light on and pulled the ticket from his sun visor and tossed it at Diesel. Read it, he said, and Diesel looked at the ticket like he couldn’t read. The name, Jearold said.

Swope Swortzel.

Swope Swortzel?

Diesel nodded.

Swortzel comes first?

Swope comes first, Diesel said.

So it’s Swortzel Swope, said Jearold.

Four, said Diesel, and Jearold turned the light back off.

Four what?

The number four.

Is it letters or numbers?

It’s a four, Diesel said. It’s a goddamn four.

Four spelled with numbers?

What the hell other kind of four is there?

The kind with a V, said Jearold. He flipped his lights from dim to bright and said, I guess he’s the fourth, then.

The fourth what? Diesel said.

The fourth Swortzel Swope, Jearold said.

Swortzel Swope the fourth, said Diesel.

Jearold nodded. Diesel looked back at the dog and breathed hard. Stay on the road, he said when the car skirted the shoulder, and he turned the radio on and pressed the scan button to make it race across the frequencies. The green numbers slowed down sometimes but never stopped. Nothing, Diesel said. It was a valley, and the hills were high; it seemed to worry him. The empty stations made a song together. Isaac couldn’t hear it very well.

What if they’s all four there? said Diesel.

I should have left you home, said Jearold.

I bet they’ve got a dozen guns apiece, Diesel said.

They ain’t no four Swopes, said Jearold.

It said it right there on the page, said Diesel.

That’s four in a line, said Jearold. Some’s surely dead by now.

Diesel shook his head.

Think about it, said Jearold. If you was the fourth, your great-grandpa would be first.

My great-grandpa’s living.

Your great-great-grandpa, then, said Jearold.

That ain’t it, though, Diesel said. That’s the fifth.

But you’re young, said Jearold.

Maybe Swortzel Swope’s young too, said Diesel.

He flew on a plane, Jearold said. He’s probably old. He’s got an old dog.

We don’t know how old that dog is, Diesel said.

It’s old enough to be dead, said Jearold.

Isaac knew how old the dog was — it was a puppy. He was glad Diesel was scared; he wasn’t as scared himself that way, and he didn’t have to talk. He hoped his father would forget he was in the car at all. He was pretty sure Swortzel Swope wasn’t a coal miner; the man was probably a doctor or a farmer, with a big house and a garden. If Jearold got in a fight with Swortzel Swope, Isaac decided, he’d run and hide behind the four Swopes and watch Jearold get beat up, and he hoped Diesel felt the same way.

They’re all up there, Diesel said. On their porch, way up a gravel driveway. Waiten for their dog.

You don’t know about it, Jearold said. You don’t know how it went.

We’ll get up the mountain, Diesel said. They’ll say, what are you doen on my property? Where’s my damn dog? Diesel was shouting. Isaac was starting to picture it too. They were bald and short and scary-looking. The part of their heads that wasn’t bald held long, white, stringy hair. Where’s Rocks? demanded Diesel. That’s my dog crate there in your car. How come they ain’t no barken?