"We better get out there. It's goin to be hot today," Nancy said. His silence made her nervous; she was speaking almost quietly now. "Honey, are you all right?"

The ball in his stomach threatened him for an instant but he fought it down. He didn't want to throw up and have that taste in his mouth. The water on his face made his skin itch and he watched his hand come up to rub it. He watched his fingers scratch at his skin, then he forgot about scratching and stood with one hand up to his face in a pose of abstract thinking. His brain was just now waking up. It told him harshly that he had a lot of thinking to do-he had to get things sorted out. For weeks, months, years he had been letting things acc.u.mulate. If he did not get them straight and understand them he would never be able to get free of them and begin a new life.

"Is the baby all right?" he said.

"Sure." Nancy sounded touched by this.

"How much money do you have?"

"What?"

"How much money?"

"You mean-right now?"

"I gave you three dollars Friday."

"I-I had to buy food-"

"Here. Take this." He reached deep in his pocket and took out a soiled ball of material that might have been silk. He unwrapped it and gave her a few dollars from it; he did not notice how she was staring at him. She might have been waiting for him to hit her, so white and strained was her face. "That should help, then you'll make somethin today. Twelve or fifteen today, you an' the kids."

"Where are you goin?"

He put the rest of the money back in his pocket. At the mirror he crouched so that he could see his face. The knot in his stomach grew tighter: that did not seem to be his face staring helplessly back out at him. "Christ," he said. He rubbed his eyes, his mouth. Everything was stale from his drunken sleep. An image came to him of Clara cringing back from his hands-but he shook it away. He knew that he would have a lot to shake out of his mind before he could stop thinking.

"Honey, are you goin after her? Carleton?"

He left the room and stepped into the bright, innocent sunlight, making a face. He might have been walking past a stranger who was pleading with him, pulling at his arm. Nancy said, frightened, "Where the h.e.l.l will you look? Carleton? I mean-where are you goin? She'll be back! You don't want to make no trouble with people from town-"

Carleton tucked his shirt into his trousers, raising his aching shoulders as high as he could. His two boys were waiting patiently outside. They looked at him. He glanced at them as he might have glanced at two strange boys, one with a lowered, pinkish head and the other with a careful blank face that was poised upon a body about to break into a run at any second. They both had Carleton's look-a long, narrow, thin face-and he had the idea that they would never get much bigger than they were. "You mind Nancy," he said to them.

She followed him along the lane, tugging at his arm. "Look, she'll be back. Clara likes you real well-she'll be back-she only took a few things, an' no money-"

She followed him out to the road. Carleton pushed her back, still without looking at her. He walked in a precarious falling motion forward, as if he were listening to something ahead of him. Nancy began to cry. She cried loudly. As he walked toward town he heard her swearing at him, shrieks of words that flew right by his head and did not hurt him. "I'll kill that baby! That G.o.dd.a.m.n dirty baby!" she screamed.

He listened to her screaming, then he stopped hearing her. He seemed to pa.s.s beyond her screaming and beyond her life with no more effort than he might have walked past a crazy woman on the road.

When he reached town he was soaked with sweat. A dusty clock in a gas station said four-thirty but he knew from the sun that it was around six. The town had not yet gotten out of bed, only a few places were open. He walked along the road until there were some dirt paths and he walked on them, up the incline to the railroad tracks and then down on the other side. There were lots of weeds growing by the tracks and many junked and rusting cars and parts. On the other side of the tracks he saw a restaurant that was open. He went inside and asked about Clara. A few truck drivers were sitting at the counter. They watched him closely, as if there were something in his voice that he himself did not know about. "I did see a girl like that last night," the waitress said. She had high-piled brown hair and a very young face; as she spoke to Carleton the freckles around her nose seemed to get darker, showing how young she was. She was almost as young as Clara. Carleton waited, listening to her with his shoulders back and straight even though they ached. He did not seem surprised that the first person he should ask would have seen Clara. The girl talked earnestly, about that other, lost girl she'd seen, about her long blond hair and blue dress and even a yellow purse-she was excited to think she could remember so much and looked up at Carleton as if awaiting praise for so much information. "Who was she with? Who was he?" Carleton asked, cutting her off. The girl gave a name Carleton had never heard before, but he knew he would not forget it. "Where does he live?" he said patiently, again cutting her off. She told him. It was necessary for her to come out from behind the counter, pretending to be a little frightened, glancing at the truck drivers as she spoke to Carleton. She went to the door and even outside with him, pointing down the street.

He walked off, not hurrying. He did not even want to hurry; it wasn't to maintain his pride that he walked slowly. It was just that he knew he had to go a certain distance before he allowed that hard ball in his stomach to take over.

The house was a nice little house on a side street. In the front yard were beds of flowers that confused him-he had not expected flowers. But when the door opened and a middle-aged woman stared up at him, her face drawn and pale and her hair untidy, he was not surprised. "Is your son home?" he said politely. She clutched a robe of some kind around her. It smelled like mothb.a.l.l.s. He could sense her thinking of something to say and then forgetting it because she was so upset. He waited while she went to get her son. Standing on the porch, inside the veranda that was so nicely shaded with big round leaves, he did not even bother to glance in the house, through the door she'd left ajar. He had no interest in anything but groping his way to Clara through a number of people, and those people could interest him only faintly. He might have felt excitement at meeting the boy, but he seemed to know that this was too fast, too easy; it would take more time than this.

The woman was gone quite a while. It might have been ten minutes. Then Carleton began to hear footsteps. They were on a stairway, heavy and reluctant. Someone was whispering, then there was silence. A young man emerged out of the dimness of the house and blinked at Carleton. "You know anything about my daughter?" Carleton said. The boy wore baggy yellow pajamas. At first he stammered and swallowed, he knew nothing. Then Carleton asked him again. He made a hissing sound that was a laugh, raised his eyebrows, scratched his head. "There was someone, I guess," he said slowly. "She was with this guy who comes here once in a while-he don't live here-mixed up with whiskey or somethin-that's what somebody said-I-"

"Where's he stayin?"

"He goes to this one place when he comes in town," the boy said. He had the waitress's sincere look. He stared right into Carleton's eyes as if the two of them were friends involved in a mutual problem. "Yeah. Yes. Over on the other side of town, a big dirty house where the woman has ten kids-she rents rooms-there's one like her in every town-"

Carleton made a gesture that he hadn't meant to be threatening, but the boy stammered and was silent. "Thanks," Carleton said.

When he got to the house he could feel sweat running off him. On the big veranda with its peeling paint and broken boards he talked to a youthful woman with a ruined, blemished face. She kept staring off over his shoulder as if every word he said pained her. "We need money here," she said, whining, "we don't have nothin to do with anybody who-"

"Where did he go?"

"He had that room two other times he was in town," she said. "He never made no trouble, I liked him. His business was his own business."

"Where did he go?"

She fumbled with the neck of her dress. Her lower lip protruded in thought, then relaxed. "You can look in his room," she said. "I ain't fixed it up yet. I heard him drive out last night, real late-I was in bed-"

Behind her a man was shouting something. The woman stared over Carleton's shoulder as if the voice were coming from a great distance. Then she turned sharply and yelled back through the screen door: "You shut your mouth an' keep it shut!" When she turned back to Carleton her face was already composed and she was moving. They went down the rickety steps and around to the back of the house. In the soft morning light of this land everything was softened by moisture, even the rotting wood of the house. There was a pile of lumber around the corner, some of it propped up against the house as if children had been playing with it. Carleton and the woman walked in the driveway, which was rutted and wet. Two cars were parked in it, at angles. One of the cars looked as if it had been there for quite a while. Carleton thought he could get it going, maybe, if it was his own car. The only trouble would be getting it out of that mud.

She showed him the room. A flood of sunlight fell onto the bare floor and partly onto the bed. Carleton looked around. The very bareness of the room satisfied him. He knew it was still too soon to find her. "Where does he go after he leaves here?" he said.

"Why, he drives to Savannah. I think. To Savannah maybe," she said pleasantly, as if offering Carleton a gift. "I don't know why I know that...."

"What does he look like?" Carleton said. His eyes moved slowly around the room. He saw a film of dirt on the window. The room was so empty he might get lost in it, somehow fall in its secret silence and be unable to get out. He kept looking around as the woman described that man, again pleasantly, like the young man and the waitress leaning a little toward him as if about to offer him some of their energy as well as their truthfulness. When she stopped, he felt his mind jerk like a muscle. He jumped forward and began tearing the bedclothes off.

"Here," the woman said nervously, "you don't want to get hot this early in the day-"

When he was outside again he felt better. At first the woman did not want to sell him that car because the kids played in it, and because the man who owned it might be coming back someday; her forehead creased with honesty. Carleton had the eerie, unreal feeling that this morning everyone was sympathetic with him as they had never been before in his life; it might have been that they believed his life was over. But he took out his money and counted it patiently. "Well, maybe you got a hand with cars," the woman said, looking at his money. "It'll maybe start an' maybe won't." Carleton said nothing. She laughed breathlessly and went with him over to the car, tiptoeing and hopping in the mud. "The keys are inside there," she said. Carleton got the creaking door open and slid inside. The broken fake-leather seat was hot as acid from the sun. "This'll do just fine, I thank you."

It took Carleton a while to get the motor started. A small crowd had gathered by the time he backed the sputtering car out of the rutted driveway. A mile away was a gas station, he turned the shuddering car into it where a bald-headed boy was standing staring at him with an amazed smile as if he'd been waiting for him, Carleton Walpole. The boy stared at the car as if trying to place it. He moved slowly with the hose, filling Carleton's gas tank. Carleton asked, "Which way to Savannah?" and the boy said some words in a quick mumble Carleton didn't catch, and went to fetch him a road map. Carleton opened the d.a.m.n map that was so large he could hardly see it and his heart lurched at the challenge it was: an infinity of lines of differing, coded colors and small-print names of towns, cities, counties, rivers. Carleton laughed, an angry laugh. All he needed now was his eyes going bad: old-man eyes.

"This'll do just fine. I thank you."

There was a river he was crossing on a high bridge with an open wire floor through which you could see the water below and the bridge was vibrating and humming like an electric chair as the current was thrown: his eyes took in a name that was Indian-sounding ending in -oochi but he had no idea what it meant. Many times he'd crossed the Mississippi River but he didn't believe this was the Mississippi for it wasn't so wide, and he was in another part of the country-wasn't he? Sunlight flashing on the water below like flame. but he had no idea what it meant. Many times he'd crossed the Mississippi River but he didn't believe this was the Mississippi for it wasn't so wide, and he was in another part of the country-wasn't he? Sunlight flashing on the water below like flame.

Didn't believe in G.o.d, it was all a crock of s.h.i.t, yet G.o.d might be laughing at him now. Seek and ye shall find. Seek and ye shall find. He was seeking her, but he had not found her. Yet. Because the sun had shifted in the sky and was a.s.saulting his aching eyes from another, new angle. He was seeking her, but he had not found her. Yet. Because the sun had shifted in the sky and was a.s.saulting his aching eyes from another, new angle.

Even the Mississippi River had looked shallow in places. That was deceptive. You have to know that there are undertows, swift currents in some places, like slithering snakes; in others, the water appears muddy and no-account. Carleton, Sr., cautioned his sons to preserve their strength as men for things that were of account. of account. He had been a blacksmith and a farmer and had not gone to school beyond a few grades but he had eyes in the back of his head, n.o.body could put a thing over on him. Carleton laughed aloud-"That old man ain't dead." Suddenly he knew. And knew, too, that the farm had not been sold: that was just to fool him, and to punish him. Because he'd gone so far from Breathitt County. And he'd never repaid that debt. He had been a blacksmith and a farmer and had not gone to school beyond a few grades but he had eyes in the back of his head, n.o.body could put a thing over on him. Carleton laughed aloud-"That old man ain't dead." Suddenly he knew. And knew, too, that the farm had not been sold: that was just to fool him, and to punish him. Because he'd gone so far from Breathitt County. And he'd never repaid that debt.

His pa had said much in life is no-account no-account, and a whole lot of that is a crock of s.h.i.t. crock of s.h.i.t. It pa.s.ses without leaving any impression like clouds in the sky. What is It pa.s.ses without leaving any impression like clouds in the sky. What is of account of account-getting born, dying, buying property, getting married and having children and honoring your father and mother and defending the honor of your family-are all that matters.

Everything else was no-account. Carleton's life was adding up to no-account. no-account.

Stopped at a filling station paying in dollar bills, nickels and dimes. A penny that slipped through his shaky fingers, he bent to pick it up but the gas station attendant, a lanky kid, was quicker.

Which was the route to Savannah?

Savannah what? Florida, or Georgia?

Carleton thought it was Florida, maybe. Or, if it was Georgia, maybe the other was on the way.

You trusted to the sun, as a picker. In the field you can gauge the time by the sun in the sky. Even if it's overcast, you feel it.

He was back in the car and driving. "Now what?"-G.o.d was laughing at him. He'd maybe taken a wrong turn. He had not known there was more than one Savannah. So a map could not help, one hundred percent. But if one was on the way to the other, then it might. Hours pa.s.sed. It was night, and another day, and again morning and he had not slept; or, if he'd slept, it was in his car with his mouth agape like an old man, snoring so hard he woke himself in a panic. And then he was driving into the sun: saw a clock in a barber shop window: eight-twenty. But which eight-twenty, day or evening? And which day, and which month?

Wasn't sure if he was still in Florida. Maybe he'd crossed the state line without knowing. YOU ARE LEAVING FLORIDA THE SUNSHINE STATE COME BACK SOON!

This was confused with G.o.d commanding him as G.o.d had commanded him once. All the corners of the world shall ye seek and one day ye shall find. All the corners of the world shall ye seek and one day ye shall find.

Except his skin, he'd be judged. His skin was white. Yet the Klansmen had been scornful of him. A white man and an American like them except they'd kicked him in the groin as you'd kick a dog, and one of them had struck his face with a rifle b.u.t.t when he'd lain writhing in pain. Now he favored his left leg. He was not an old man but sometimes walked like an old man. What they'd done to Bert, he had not seen. Like you'd castrate a hog it was said.

There was a sign-c.u.mBERLAND ISLAND 19 MILES. c.u.mberland!

But he guessed it wasn't what he wished. He kept driving.

Stopped in a place called Brunswick. At least he was headed north on route 17, and he was headed for Savannah, Georgia. His head was pounding so, almost he couldn't get out of the car. Outside, the air was steamy, worse than in the car. Hugging close to his body in a kind of halo. Inside the diner that was also a tavern, a few flies buzzed lazily. No one at the counter and no one behind it. Carleton sat on a stool and waited. Folded his battered scabby hands and waited. Seek. Ye shall find. Seek. Ye shall find. There were festive sounds from the kitchen, laughter, a hammer pounding. After a while Carleton went to peer through the doorway and saw that the kitchen was cluttered and messy but there was a floor fan going and at a table sat a fat, shirtless man wielding a hammer. A nerve in Carleton's eye twitched when the fat man struck the table with the hammer- "Gotcha, f.u.c.ker!" A girl in a soiled waitress's uniform was leaning against a stove, giggling. Her cheeks bounced with hilarity. The fat man struck again at the table and she giggled louder. Carleton saw that for all his fat, the man had a deft aim: he'd mashed maybe a dozen flies on the table. There were festive sounds from the kitchen, laughter, a hammer pounding. After a while Carleton went to peer through the doorway and saw that the kitchen was cluttered and messy but there was a floor fan going and at a table sat a fat, shirtless man wielding a hammer. A nerve in Carleton's eye twitched when the fat man struck the table with the hammer- "Gotcha, f.u.c.ker!" A girl in a soiled waitress's uniform was leaning against a stove, giggling. Her cheeks bounced with hilarity. The fat man struck again at the table and she giggled louder. Carleton saw that for all his fat, the man had a deft aim: he'd mashed maybe a dozen flies on the table.

Still, Carleton was served. Had a cold bottle of Coca-Cola to soothe his nerves, tried to eat a ham-and-cheese sandwich on rye, but the ball of tiny snakes in his guts was acting up. He decided to take the sandwich along to eat in his car. No knowing when he would eat again. He smiled to think-"A sandwich can outlive who tried to eat it."

[image]

WELCOME T TO S SAVANNAH his eye discerned without comprehending at first. So tired ... Saw a clock in a billboard sign: two-thirty. But maybe it was a painted clock and not real. He could not have said which of the blond-haired girls he was seeking: the one named Pearl, or the one named Clara. his eye discerned without comprehending at first. So tired ... Saw a clock in a billboard sign: two-thirty. But maybe it was a painted clock and not real. He could not have said which of the blond-haired girls he was seeking: the one named Pearl, or the one named Clara.

Had to wonder: Does G.o.d keep a promise?

He parked his car, had to p.i.s.s so bad. Behind a boarded-up warehouse. A long shaky steamy-hot stream of p.i.s.s like poison. When he was finished he swayed on his feet. Flies moved in.

b.i.t.c.h just like your mother.

Why he said those things he did not know. In fact it wasn't Carleton who said them but some drunk with his mouth. He would ask to be forgiven, he hadn't meant to hit her. (Maybe he hadn't hit her. His own girl. It wasn't like Carleton to hit a woman let alone a girl his own daughter who adored him.) He was walking somewhere looking for his car he'd parked by a- He would remember when he saw it.

"Clara." That was her name.

He was walking, and he was favoring his left leg. That bad knee. His skull pounded. Hammer-hitting: whack-whack! A nerve twitched in his eye. He understood that G.o.d was mocking him more directly, openly. Yet he had his dignity, you didn't look up to acknowledge it. Always he would have his white skin, that was a fact.

Time was slowing down for him. Never before in his life had time slowed down so you could feel it, like melting tar. This meant that the rest of his life would stretch out before him like that long hot highway to this city whose name he'd already forgotten. He did not think that he could bear it, unless it had already happened and was finished.

Came to a church. A church! Remembering that the girl had been taken to a church. He'd begun to lose her, then. And he had not even known at the time.

This church was made of dark red stone, and it was a big old church nothing like the small tidy white shingle board with the cross at the top where he and the little blond girl who'd hardly come to his shoulder had been married. His eye took in Gethsemane Gethsemane vague as a word glimpsed through water. He was stumbling inside, into the relative cool of the stony interior. vague as a word glimpsed through water. He was stumbling inside, into the relative cool of the stony interior.

A strange place. Like a mausoleum. A high ceiling like no church ceiling he had ever seen. He squinted up at it, and could not see where it ended. In the half-light, rising from the stony floor, figures stood motionless observing him. He believed he heard a soft murmur. There he is. There he is. Seeing then that the figures were statues. Tall, garishly costumed statues, more than life-sized. They were wearing long robes, but their heads were bare. Their hands held no visible weapons. One of them was Jesus Christ contorted on his cross like a worm on the hook, spikes through his bare white feet graceful as a woman's feet. Carleton stared, and shuddered. The sweat on his body was turning clammy. Like a man losing his vision he groped his way along the pews, intending to approach the altar. For you were drawn toward the altar in this church. But the altar was far away, floating in white. White drapery, tall white candles. White flowers in vases. Above the altar was a stained-gla.s.s window. He had to sit suddenly, his left knee pounded with pain. Turning then to look behind and seeing how the statues were s.p.a.ced through the church so that each section of pews might be observed. So that the church was never empty. If you half-shut your eyes, the statues seemed to move. There were low excited murmurs Seeing then that the figures were statues. Tall, garishly costumed statues, more than life-sized. They were wearing long robes, but their heads were bare. Their hands held no visible weapons. One of them was Jesus Christ contorted on his cross like a worm on the hook, spikes through his bare white feet graceful as a woman's feet. Carleton stared, and shuddered. The sweat on his body was turning clammy. Like a man losing his vision he groped his way along the pews, intending to approach the altar. For you were drawn toward the altar in this church. But the altar was far away, floating in white. White drapery, tall white candles. White flowers in vases. Above the altar was a stained-gla.s.s window. He had to sit suddenly, his left knee pounded with pain. Turning then to look behind and seeing how the statues were s.p.a.ced through the church so that each section of pews might be observed. So that the church was never empty. If you half-shut your eyes, the statues seemed to move. There were low excited murmurs There! there he is. There! there he is. In this shadowy place like a mausoleum something seemed to draw everything upward, toward the altar and the stained-gla.s.s window that was a perfect egg shape. In the sides of the stone walls were other stained-gla.s.s windows, smaller and narrower. They were like eyes. Unblinking eyes. Carleton was the only figure in the church not moving, because he was being observed. In the windows the eye-aching colors-vivid reds, blues, yellows, greens-glowed and faded, sinking back into themselves then pulsing up again as if behind them a heart was beating. Everywhere there were vertical lines and juttings, arches high up the walls, that vibrated as if about to come to life. The shadowy ceiling might not even be a ceiling but the entrance to some other world. Ghostly and quivering the close, stale air was filled with invisible shapes like birds' wings. Spirits. Carleton was shivering, he did not believe in the spirits of the dead returning. He did not! Shut his eyes to ignore them seeing a melting-tar highway stretching off to the horizon, sun-baked. Sunshine State and G.o.d laughing at him and crushing him under His foot that was a f.u.c.kin cloven hoof. In this shadowy place like a mausoleum something seemed to draw everything upward, toward the altar and the stained-gla.s.s window that was a perfect egg shape. In the sides of the stone walls were other stained-gla.s.s windows, smaller and narrower. They were like eyes. Unblinking eyes. Carleton was the only figure in the church not moving, because he was being observed. In the windows the eye-aching colors-vivid reds, blues, yellows, greens-glowed and faded, sinking back into themselves then pulsing up again as if behind them a heart was beating. Everywhere there were vertical lines and juttings, arches high up the walls, that vibrated as if about to come to life. The shadowy ceiling might not even be a ceiling but the entrance to some other world. Ghostly and quivering the close, stale air was filled with invisible shapes like birds' wings. Spirits. Carleton was shivering, he did not believe in the spirits of the dead returning. He did not! Shut his eyes to ignore them seeing a melting-tar highway stretching off to the horizon, sun-baked. Sunshine State and G.o.d laughing at him and crushing him under His foot that was a f.u.c.kin cloven hoof.

"f.u.c.ker."

It was a groan, coming from his gut. The ball of spite-snakes rousing themselves. He was looking for her-his daughter-that one daughter-the only person he had ever loved-he wanted to understand this, and he wanted these witnesses to understand. They were judging him, and he wanted them to know he was a Walpole, and the name Walpole signified a certain kind of man, a man who honored his family even to the grave.

But he felt these facts sliding away. Memories he should have sorted out years ago so that when the time came he could put them all together. Of account Of account these were. He could not die because that would mean all these things would be lost-who else was there except Carleton Walpole to bring them together? Everything- everyone-was joined in him. Like Jesus on his cross, these things came together in you, piercing and spiking you in place. Only in Carleton Walpole. He was the center of it, without him everything would melt away into nothing. Already he was losing their names, that were familiar to him as his own. And he had a new baby now back at the camp, he had to live for her. And Clara who'd run away with a man he had never seen. these were. He could not die because that would mean all these things would be lost-who else was there except Carleton Walpole to bring them together? Everything- everyone-was joined in him. Like Jesus on his cross, these things came together in you, piercing and spiking you in place. Only in Carleton Walpole. He was the center of it, without him everything would melt away into nothing. Already he was losing their names, that were familiar to him as his own. And he had a new baby now back at the camp, he had to live for her. And Clara who'd run away with a man he had never seen. Pa no. Pa don't hit me. Pa! Pa no. Pa don't hit me. Pa! He held back his hand, he had not struck her. It was the others he wanted to hit, the others he wanted to murder. He held back his hand, he had not struck her. It was the others he wanted to hit, the others he wanted to murder.

Struggling to pull off his shoe, G.o.dd.a.m.n he was angry: threw the shoe at the nearest of the stained-gla.s.s windows but it struck the wall, and fell harmlessly to the floor. Carleton heaved himself to his feet. Grabbed whatever it was-a heavy iron stand for a candle- reared it up and swung with it, striking one of the long-robed statues, a female it appeared to be in a long blue and white robe, and a halo around her waxy face, Carleton laughed at the expression in the face as he swung and struck and battered and crumbled the thing and it fell in pieces at his feet. Turning then, panting and partially blinded, bits of grit in his eyes, he swung the iron stand in wild arcs striking the pews, denting the hardwood pews but not otherwise injuring them, he stumbled in the aisle uncertain which direction to take as at a crook in the road where there's no f.u.c.kin sign you can't make a decision, yet finally you do, he was laughing stumbling toward the door, he had one shoe on and one shoe off and his knee was numb, the pain had abated, as in his gut the tiny snakes were taken unaware, and could not stop him now. At the front of the church he swung and toppled in single strokes two fountain-looking things, milk gla.s.s on pedestals that held water, and the shattered gla.s.s went flying, and the water went flying. And a voice called out-"Stop! Stop!" and Carleton turned to see someone hurrying toward him, and ducking, wordless, remembering to breathe through his nose, Carleton swung the thing in his hand and caught the man on the side of the head, the man went down like a shot duck, hit the stone floor with a soft moaning sound, and Carle- ton dropped the iron thing beside him, and stumbled away. Both his hands were throbbing with sensation but it was a good sensation. Outside then in the sunshine, stumbling along the pavement one shoe on, one shoe off. Witnesses would think he was a drunk well f.u.c.k them let them think what they f.u.c.kin want. He saw faces regarding him with astonishment. White faces like his own yet regarding him with astonishment. In a sudden rage he tore a whiplike thing from a car, a metal strip it was, he'd use it like a whip, he was striking at people's faces who came too close, warning Get away! Get away I'll kill you! Get away! Get away I'll kill you! and it seemed to him not even himself any longer who was doing this, it was the whip-thing in his hand that was alive, and there came a youngish thick-bodied man in a policeman's uniform, bulldog face yet astonished behind curved dark gla.s.ses- and it seemed to him not even himself any longer who was doing this, it was the whip-thing in his hand that was alive, and there came a youngish thick-bodied man in a policeman's uniform, bulldog face yet astonished behind curved dark gla.s.ses- Mister lay down your weapon, I am warning you mister lay down your weapon Mister lay down your weapon, I am warning you mister lay down your weapon-and in his hand was a pistol c.o.c.ked and aimed at Carleton's heart and Carleton felt the trigger jerk as he rushed his enemy wielding the whip, swinging it until something exploded into his chest and his vision went out, and his brain went out. And that was all.

II.

LOWRY.

1.

"Kid, you don't cry much, do you."

It wasn't a question. It called for no answer. Lowry had no questions to ask of Clara, or of anyone. He was a man who knew the answers to questions, not one who depended upon others to supply them.

He likes that Clara thought. Clara thought. A girl who doesn't cry. A girl who doesn't cry.

Those long dreamy hours driving with Lowry, sitting beside him in the front seat of his shiny-dark new-looking sedan, drinking Colas they stopped to buy-Clara was the one to run into the store, clutching coins Lowry gave her-and sometimes he let her have a few swallows from a bottle of beer, driving those hours Clara had no thought of any destination. Just to be in motion: to escape. Watching the sun shift in the sky behind the scrub pines beside the highway Clara thought nervously, fiercely n.o.body's going to get me now. He isn't going to, ever again. n.o.body's going to get me now. He isn't going to, ever again. Observing the nameless road before them that the man named Lowry overtook always at the same speed, trying to imagine it running back beneath them and into the days preceding: the distance and time her father would have to conquer if he were to get her, claim her. Lay his hands on her. And she saw Carleton Walpole blundering, failing. For he could not overtake the younger man whose face in profile was the sharp-etched face of the jack of spades on a playing card. And so she smiled. She laughed. Observing the nameless road before them that the man named Lowry overtook always at the same speed, trying to imagine it running back beneath them and into the days preceding: the distance and time her father would have to conquer if he were to get her, claim her. Lay his hands on her. And she saw Carleton Walpole blundering, failing. For he could not overtake the younger man whose face in profile was the sharp-etched face of the jack of spades on a playing card. And so she smiled. She laughed.

See? I don't need you, G.o.dd.a.m.n you. No more.

Dozing off and waking to his upraised hand, his actual fist, seeing the scabby knuckles before his hand struck ...

"He made my face bleed," she'd told Lowry in a thin, outraged child's voice. Her anger was for that sensation of being helpless, a sight to be pitied by others. "He never hit me like that before. He hit my brothers but not me, I could taste the blood and some people were watching, and-" She would shudder, raising her knees to catch her heels on the car seat, hug her knees tight against her chest as a boy might do, staring through the bug-splattered windshield at the road that had no name for her, as the places through which Lowry drove had no names and were fleeting, inconsequential. Sometimes she would turn to peer over her shoulder, to see the highway moving back steadily behind them, misty in the morning light; and something about the way it disappeared so swiftly frightened her. Lowry said, "You're afraid your old man will find you. But you're afraid worse he won't."

Lowry laughed, and Clara felt her face burn.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n it ain't that way. No."

But Lowry just laughed, and reached out to squeeze her knee.

Like you'd squeeze a dog, the nape of its neck. Out of fondness that was superior, condescending.

Sometimes, Clara told him Go to h.e.l.l. Go to h.e.l.l. Muttered so maybe he heard and maybe he did not hear and she climbed over the back of the seat clumsy and indignant and stretched out in back to sleep. That weird sensation of lying flat in the back of a car as the car is moving, you feel the vibrations, a shivery feeling between the legs sometimes, and thoughts coming like long slow flat shapes and in her sleep she heard a child sobbing and her heart was filled with contempt for such weakness. Muttered so maybe he heard and maybe he did not hear and she climbed over the back of the seat clumsy and indignant and stretched out in back to sleep. That weird sensation of lying flat in the back of a car as the car is moving, you feel the vibrations, a shivery feeling between the legs sometimes, and thoughts coming like long slow flat shapes and in her sleep she heard a child sobbing and her heart was filled with contempt for such weakness. You don't cry much, do you. You don't cry much, do you. Waking then she was confused not knowing where she was, maybe on one of the buses, then she realized the moving vehicle was small, contained: only just Clara lying on the backseat amid Lowry's things, and shimmering green outside the window flowing past like water, and there, the back of Lowry's head, the blond hairs that were different shades in the sunshine, some so pale they appeared silvery, others darker, almost brown, and he wore his hair long, straggling to his collar, and almost Clara could not recall his face, staring fascinated at the back of his head feeling calm now thinking Waking then she was confused not knowing where she was, maybe on one of the buses, then she realized the moving vehicle was small, contained: only just Clara lying on the backseat amid Lowry's things, and shimmering green outside the window flowing past like water, and there, the back of Lowry's head, the blond hairs that were different shades in the sunshine, some so pale they appeared silvery, others darker, almost brown, and he wore his hair long, straggling to his collar, and almost Clara could not recall his face, staring fascinated at the back of his head feeling calm now thinking There he is. He hadn't ever gone away. There he is. He hadn't ever gone away.

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Stopped at places along the road. Small restaurants, taverns. Lowry, entering such places, seemed always to be recognized: if not his actual face and name, his Lowry-self. The way he smiled, knowing that people would smile back at him; knowing they were grateful to see his smile, and not something else. He said, in the way of a man speaking to himself, to reason out a thought to which Clara Walpole was a witness only by chance: "You're a certain size, people look at you a certain way. Say I'm on crutches. Say I'm in a wheel-chair. These same f.u.c.kers looking at me, think they would respect me like they do? Or if I was a woman."

Clara said, sly and mean, "If you were a woman, there'd be some b.a.s.t.a.r.d drives a car just like yours and the same color hair as yours to knock you on your a.s.s every time. Wipe that look off your face."

Lowry laughed. He liked it when Clara spoke to him in a certain brash way long as she didn't cross over into something else. Like a dog that's been trained to rush barking to the very edge of his master's property, but not to take a step over. Or he'd regret it.

In the places they stopped, Clara ran to use the rest room and fixed herself up. So happy! Sometimes she thought Just to pee. Just to wash my face. Just to run water, it don't need to be hot. Just to pee. Just to wash my face. Just to run water, it don't need to be hot. She slapped her cheeks that looked pallid, sallow, to get some color into them, like she'd seen Nancy do. Wetted her eyes to make them clear. Smiled at herself in the mirror in that way she had not needing to show too much of her teeth, and thinking that she looked all right, she had a hopeful-seeming face, n.o.body would wish to hurt that face. She slapped her cheeks that looked pallid, sallow, to get some color into them, like she'd seen Nancy do. Wetted her eyes to make them clear. Smiled at herself in the mirror in that way she had not needing to show too much of her teeth, and thinking that she looked all right, she had a hopeful-seeming face, n.o.body would wish to hurt that face.

Smiling because there was Lowry out there waiting for her.

(And what if Lowry was gone and left her? She knew, this might be. Any place they stopped it might be. And so walking out there she had to appear hopeful and happy like a girl who'd never had such a mean thought.) Lowry might tease when she returned breathless to slide into a booth across from him, "Kid, I was worried where you'd gone: thought you'd fallen in." Or, to make her smile and blush with pleasure, all the more if a waitress was there looking on, "Kid, you look like a million bucks. That's my girl."

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