Motorcycle Roadkill Page 10

  "Uh, sure, Dad. Thanks." My knees are turned suspiciously toward the wall, while I clutch my blanket over my crotch with one hand.

  "You're Mom and I are going to be over at the church. We have a meeting, so you're on your own this morning."

  His gaze moves to the floor. His brow lowers. A contemplative look passes over his face, as if he's in search of the right words—the right passage. Oh, crap! He probably thinks I was masturbating. If that's not horrifying enough, a sermon's sure to follow. I can see it coming already—if not a private lecture, one for his entire congregation. He'll no doubt find his way back to the sins of Onan, before extolling the congregation: "it is better that your seed fall in the belly of a whore than on the ground."

  "Okay, Dad," fidgeting with the blanket, trying to spread it across my lap.

  He pauses. "You haven't seen the Hickman boy in the past day or so, have you?"

  "Uh, no. Not since..." An image of Jimmy shivering inside the cougar cage jumps in my mind. "Friday."

  "Alright then."

  He closes the door and I'm so relieved to hear him walk away that I forget all about what he was telling me—something about a meeting. It isn't until the back door closes that it hits me: isn't it odd that they'd have a meeting so early on a Monday morning? The sun's not even up yet. What kind of meeting could they possibly be having? No one would come.

  The sound of a car door closing echoes from the parking lot. A power-steering column squeals. Tires roll into the gravel lot. Another car door closes. Muddled voices. As soon as Dad's clownish feet plod on the staircase, I climb out of bed and waddle to my window.

  Through the narrow slit of my curtains, the church's parking lot appears unusually busy. It's maybe a third of Sunday morning's volume, and the pick-up truck/car ratio seems to favor the pick-ups. It's not unusual for a town that uses deer antlers as hood ornaments to see so many trucks on the local streets, but it is unusual for them to meet here—at the church.

  A gray Cadillac is among the parked cars. Kennon's behind the wheel, just kind of staring out at the lot. If Marilyn is with him, she's already inside.

  The meeting-goers aren't dressed like they're going to a meeting. They're not even wearing Redneck casual—jeans, flannel, and cap. They're wearing hunting jackets, orange vests, and knee-high boots. Some of them carry gear and flashlights.

  At the top of the stairs, Buddy Olsen stands handing out fliers to anyone who passes him. It goes without saying: something's going on here.

  Near the street, an elderly gentleman dodders along with his cane in one hand and a stack of fliers in the other. He wears a black V.F.W. jackets and baggy jeans that are rolled up to his knees. As he nears the light pole, he hobbles toward it, as if he's going to use it for balance. He teeters, pitches to one side, and for a moment it appears that he's gonna topple to the sidewalk. But he catches himself with the light pole and holds onto it. He stands there for a moment, as if to reassure himself that he's not gonna fall.

  The old man glances down the sidewalk, nods, and then reaches into the pocket of his jacket for a roll of tape. He turns back to the light pole and leans close to it.

  What's this old guy up to? Obviously, he's hanging fliers. But why? And so early on a Monday morning.

  A pair of Bushnell binoculars sits on my desk (they came with my ornithology kit). With one hand, I reach for them, then turn my attention back to the man in the V.F.W. jacket. With my left hand, I hold the curtains closed, since I'm still in my boxer shorts—not exactly dressed for company. With my right hand, I wiggle the binoculars through a small gap in the curtains near my face. Blink. Lean toward the view finder.

  "Holy sh..."

  A leathery old hand presses down a seam of masking tape along the bottom of the flier.

  MISSING: James "Jimmy" Hickman. Even with the binoculars, I can't make out the picture, but it's no small wonder as to who Jimmy Hickman is..."Coke Bottles". It's even less of a mystery why he might suddenly decide that he never wants to show his face in Crenshaw's Creek again.

  It's not like Jimmy ever had an easy time of it at Crenshaw's Creek High. But once the entire school has seen the skid marks of your BVDs, it's not likely that there's a whole lot left of you that you'd care for them to see.

  I lower the binoculars and step back from the curtains. A breathless sick feeling passes through my stomach, like someone just kicked me in the gut. All at once, this constricted feeling grabs a hold of me, like a boa snake is wrapping itself around my neck and chest. I cough, I gag, and then my whole body wretches, like I'm about to puke.

  "Buspirone" I gasp. It's the only sound I can get out. I'm gonna need my medicine today. And Mom's probably gonna have to call Doc Finkelstein's office to see if I can get a refill on my prescriptions.

  It's not just Jimmy that worries me. If the goons didn't have a target on my back before Friday's incident, they gonna have one now. I'm the easy prey. And Lindsey....maybe she likes me, but that won't last long. It's kind of hard to respect the victim of an Atomic Wedgie. I'll be wearing my underwear as a necklace.

  It's gonna be a long day... a long week... a long year.

  Chapter 18

  The lunch bell rings and students gush through the hallways, some spill out onto the sidewalk.

  At the curb, a motor sings its bass notes though a cloud of smoke. The scent of gasoline lingers on the breeze.

  He spots me and does the chin thing.

  “Josh, what's up?” Hadn't seen him all morning.

  “Get on,” is all he says, a little understaffed in the explanations department.

  He squeezes the throttle and the bike lurches forward.

  A quiet prayer rumbles in my noggin, hoping like hell that Josh has control of his machine. He zips across the road and swerves onto the baseball diamond. The outfield turns into grass and the grass turns to clover. Brush nips at my ankles, as the motorcycle sails toward the woods.

  Just as the field meets the tree line, a deer trace open up and Josh rides us along a path that seems to run in circles. It's just a few minutes before I'm no longer sure if I'm headed toward the school or away from it.

  "Where are we?" No answer.

  He zips along a skinny trail, making blind turns around sharp bends, but he seems like he could find his way through here in the dark.

  “There's a trail down here,” he calls back to me, as he climbs a pretty steep embankment.

  “Is it safe?” My voice is cut off by a car with a loud muffler on a road that must be nearby.

  At the top of the hill, he stops, looks both ways, then guns it. The motorcycle goes airborne for a moment, as it bounces over the hilltop.

  “Josh?”

  He cocks his head toward me. "It's cool."

  It's not until the wheels pounce down on faded asphalt that I realize we've reached the highway. A long dotted yellow line runs in the center of a winding lane, until it dips and disappears around a tree.

  “Motorcycle Road,” he yells back at me, gesturing down the high with his chin.

  The bike careens across the road and speeds onto a side street. A row of rough-looking houses pass in a blur, as Josh eases on the brakes. The pavement turns to a maze of potholes and poorly-patched asphalt.

  He slows at a STOP sign that's faded to pink and turns the bike onto yet another street. A faded brown sign marks Duvall Street, as a long line of bread box houses with peeling paint comes into view. The windows are mostly single-paned glass in old metal frames. Many of the driveways are empty with weeds and kudzu overtaking them. The windows are dark.

  "Doesn't seem like anyone lives down here.”

  "They don't. They've moved on.

  "Oh?"

  "Miners left town when the seam closed."

  "Where did they go?"

  He shrugs. "Other places. The story of Piss-hole towns is the story of movin' on. There's nothin' here anymore."

  “You haven't moved on yet.” It's more of a comment on my part than a question. Though I'm in agreemen
t with him about the suck factor in Crenshaw's Creek, I'm also careful not to say too much. It is, after all, still his hometown.

  “I'll move on eventually—when I graduate.”

  Duvall dead-ends into a lot that's surrounded by a ten-foot security fence that's rusted through and falling down in sections. The front gate's standing open and Josh keeps trolling forward.

  “Hey.” I'm not so eager to go riding past security fences, especially when there's a faded, but still legible sign that says “NO TRESPASSING”.

  He glances back at me. "Ya alright?"

  "Yeah... We allowed in there?”

  He shrugs, makes kind of a twisted face. “It's fine. The line hasn't run in twenty years.”

  That's not really what I call an answer, but I have to trust that he isn't any more eager to be chased by guard dogs than I am.

  A gravel lot, overtaken with weeds, briars, and kudzu, wraps around a Quonset hut. A trail's been trampled through the weeds, leading past the corner of the Quonset hut.

  “What is this place?”

  “Nothin' anymore.”

  The Quonset hut appears been well-worn, but not entirely abandoned. There's fresh soot on the chimney pipe and places where dust has been wiped off the windows. Fresh tire tracks cut through the weeds and the discarded beer cans shine along the ground.

  “Is that like a bum shack or something?”

  “It's more of a party shack than anything.”

  Vines climb the side of the Quonset hut as the trail wraps around its corner and sinks into the woods. Once the woods get thick, the trail is smooth.

  After a while, the trees grow tall above us, nearly closing out the sky at the top. The afternoon sun glows above in a thin yellow swatch. A choir of cricket chirping and cicadas buzzing rises above the drone of the bike engine. To either side of us, the woods are dark and gray. Someone who doesn't know the way can easily get lost in these woods, perhaps never finding his way out.

  The trail leads to a place where the weeds are tall between the trees. Josh nudges my shoulder and points through the trees to a clearing that is barely visible. A large green tent, a generator, and lean-to are hidden in the darkness. He leans toward me with an expression that says he has a secret to whisper. “If you come across a place like this, my advice is to head the other direction.”

  “What? They’re not friendly campers?”

  “They’re not campers. They’re growers.”

  For a while, the thick woods form a green tunnel around us. The trail slopes gradually downhill until the roar of rushing water is heard.

  "What is that?"

  Josh lets off the throttle and kills the engine. The bike continues to coast down a slight grade. "Shepherd's Falls."

  As we roll around a bend, golden light appears ahead of us. "Like a waterfall?"

  "Is there any other kind?"

  The woods gradually open, as a blue swatch of sky becomes wider above us. The trail works its way around until at the last moment it appears in front of us—a long railroad trestle stretches into eternity.

  Josh eases on the brakes and the bike jostles to a stop. He lowers the kick-stand.

  As I slide of the bike, I feel the ground tremble beneath my feet. A continuous roar, as loud as the ocean, rises from a chasm of jagged granite. I amble toward the trestle. A dizzy feeling swims through my head, as Shepherd's Creek appears several hundred feet below. Its waters are green to the north of us, but turn white as they come into the chasm. From this vantage, the creek can be seen as it disappears over the falls a quarter mile to the south.

  A gasp escapes my lips. There's not many people who can step out their door on lunch break and find themselves at a full-blown waterfall. It's a nice get-away from all the nonsense back in town.

  “You like it?”

  "This is... uh.... freaking amazing."

  He digs in his pocket for another smoke. He starts toward the edge, while lighting his cigarette.

  "I come here a lot," he says. "Every chance I get actually. It's a good place for me to clear my head."

  “How far does the trail go?”

  "This runs back about ten miles to the old mining camp. From there, it doglegs off and you can actually go all the way to Lexington."

  "You ever go all the way back? To the camp?"

  "Sometimes in the summer," he says, " but it takes the better part of a day to get there and back."

  "What's back there?"

  "Not much. Some mining seams. A few old houses. You gotta be careful coming back here on your own."

  He sits, watching over the falls. Slowly, cautiously, I make my way to him. Hunkering down on the railroad ties, I let my feet dangle over the edge.

  My eyes fix on the trestle. It runs maybe a half mile across the chasm, but it connects with the far edge of the adjacent mountain. As soon as it connects, the railway begins to wrap steeply down the mountain. It creates the illusion that the trestle ends in mid-air.

  "That's crazy. It just kind of runs off into nothing."

  "What does?" His voice is low, as if he's lost in a daydream.

  "The tracks. Kind of disappear."

  He appears distracted, staring back into the woods with this strange expression on his face. He appears lost in a way, like he's not sure where he is.

  "When I was a kid they found a hobo back in there," he says, pointing to a little hollow in the woods behind us.

  "What? He was living back there?"

  "No, he was dead." He takes another drag off his cigarette and lets the smoke out through his nose.

  "What happened to him?"

  Josh shrugs. "Sometimes, people come to a place where the world quits asking questions." It's a wonder anyone can even get back in there. He could have been back there for years without anyone coming upon him.

  He picks up a rock and tosses it out onto the trestle. "I want to get out of here."

  "You mean back to school?"

  "No, I mean out of this town."

  "That's two of us then."

  "Sometimes, I read about little towns—little beach towns—with sun and palm trees. People just kind of show up there and start over," he says.

  "Is that what you're gonna do?"

  He takes a drag off his cigarette and lets the smoke out slowly. "One day. Maybe.”

  "Where do you think the Hickman kid disappeared to?"

  "Don't know. He could've hitched a ride somewhere, but it seems like someone would've seen him. Said something."

  "Yeah. Probably."

  "He could be back at the mining camp."

  "Ya think?"

  "Maybe." He glances at his watch. "It's probably about time to get back to the mind factory.”

  Chapter 19

  Wednesday, September 15

  When I come home from school, there's a satellite news truck parked in front of the house. There's another one on the side lawn of the church and another one near the steps.

  The marquee in front of the church reads: "A Prayer for Jimmy. Tonight at 6 PM."

  Already, the lot's half full and it's two hours until the prayer service.

  Mom meets me at the kitchen door. "You're home!" She smiles, but she has that look in her eye. She wants something.

  "Mom? What's going on?"

  "The Hickman boy. They still haven't found him. Reporters are here from as far away as Cincinnati. And every local rag between Louisville and Wheeling has someone here snapping pictures."

  "That's good," is all I can think to say. "Ya know? Get the word out there. I guess."

  "Right, the more people looking..."

  "I'm sure they'll find him." I cut through the kitchen on my way to the stairs.

  "Hold up a minute," she says.

  I turn back to her and make an I'm-listening face.

  "Your father wanted me to talk to you."

  "About what?"

  "Remember that song you were working on with Mrs. Schuler last year? The one about finding your way through the darkness?"


  A raised eyebrow. A slow nod. "Sort of..."

  "We were hoping you could sing that for us tonight at the prayer service."

  Uncontrollable cackling spills from my gut on its own. She crosses her arms and makes this expression like someone just farted, as I brace my hands against my knees.

  "What?" She grumbles. "What's so funny?"

  "Nothing," is all I can get out, as a second round of laughter nearly takes my breath away.

  "It wouldn't kill you to help out every now and then."

  She leans against the counter and glares at me with this look like she can barely contain her anger.

  "No." I turn again and head for the stairs.

  "Why not? Are you ashamed of your voice?" She calls after me.

  "Yes." I stop at the stairs.

  "But you have a lovely singing voice! And you're father and I spent all that money on piano and voice lessons!"

  She's gonna try to guilt me into doing this. "Mom, is there some sort of hormonal imbalance that occurs once you get a certain age, where you lose all sense of reality?"

  "Caleb! Don't take that tone with me!"

  I turn back to her and hold out my hands. "Look, Mom! I'm sorry. I'm not doing it!"

  "I've heard ya sing that song at least fifty times. There's nothing wrong with it. You should sing it. It'll really make you seem like a part of this community."

  "No, Mom! Get it through your head it's not gonna happen!"

  "Caleb, what's the worse that could happen?"

  "Uh, people could hear me! Kids... from my school... could hear me! Those trucks... out in the parking lot... those are satellite trucks.”

  “So?”

  “So, some cornball news editor could fall in love with my tone deaf singing and put it on the evening news. You don't see a problem with that?"

  "Oh, you're always so dramatic!"

  "Realistic, Mom! I have a hard enough time keeping the wedgies out of my butt crack as it is! Throw a corn ball singing rendition on top of it, and I'm sunk."

  "Fine, then. I'm gonna sing."

  "Fine, Mom. You sing."