I Am the Cheese (21 page)

They stopped to eat at a McDonald’s because Adam had a weakness for hamburgers and then they resumed the journey and the sun came out now and then. His father suggested that they find a motel before darkness fell and then go out to a good restaurant later. His father wasn’t fond of McDonald’s and had toyed indifferently with the fish filet.

“Look,” his mother said.

They looked. It wasn’t really a motel but a string of cabins set back from the road with a sign near the roadway that said
Rest-A-While Motel
.

“Why not stay there?” his mother asked. “It looks more romantic than those antiseptic motels.”

“Right,” said his father, steering the car off the road. His father made arrangements while he and his mother stayed in the car. When his father returned, he said, “There’s one big cabin that can accommodate three people—they’ll bring in a cot. That way, we can stay together.”

Again, that small shiver along Adam’s flesh.

But they had a fine time that night. They found a
restaurant called the Red Mill by a rustling brook complete with an old water wheel and his father and mother were in a good mood, his mother not so sad, a smile sometimes lingering at the corners of her lips. “Wine does this to her, makes her smile a lot,” his father said, amused. Adam felt a sense of sharing. He was glad now that his father had told him all the secrets. He felt as though he were part of the family. Once, in a rush of affection, he placed his hand over his mother’s hand and squeezed. She smiled—not the wine smile but her old smile of tenderness and love and contentment. He looked at his father. It was impossible to squeeze his hand, of course, not at his age. But he regarded him with warmth and affection.

Later, they made an adventure of the cabin, arranging the furniture to accommodate the cot. It reminded Adam of an old movie he’d seen on television—
It Happened One Night
, with Clark Gable and some actress, Claudette Somebody—and his father and mother remembered the movie, too, and it was good talking and joking and reminiscing, and then settling down. Adam lay awake long after his parents were asleep, listening to the night noises, listening to their breathing, his father’s rhythmic snoring, his mother’s fluttering breath.

The next morning, they planned to head far to the north, to Burlington and St. Albans and even farther to the Canadian border, although his father said they couldn’t cross the border, of course. He said that
Barre was on the road north, a stonecutters’ town where Italians years ago had come to work on the quarries, reminiscent of Blount, and it might be interesting to visit there. So they set out on the road to Barre, on a brilliant October morning, the leaves a riot of color. The road was a state highway but not a major interstate. Sweeping, climbing curves greeted them and majestic landscapes unfolded in the distance, with farmhouses and barns scattered here and there in the vistas.

“It would be lonely if we weren’t together,” his mother said.

“I think there’s a car following us,” his father said.

He spoke so calmly and so matter-of-factly, as if commenting on the weather or something, that the meaning of his words had no immediate impact on Adam.

“I saw it this morning, across the street from the cabin at the gas station,” his father said, still cool, still calm. “Let’s not panic. I’m going to slow down and pull toward the side of the road as if we want to look at the view and we’ll see what happens.”

Adam felt his mother stiffen.

“Who do you think it is, Dad?”

“It could be anybody at all. Somebody like us, meandering around the countryside. Or it could be Grey’s men. He likes to act the part of watchdog. For our own good, he says.”

“Be careful, Dave,” his mother said.

His father slowed the car at an apron of dirt at the side of the road, not too big for parking, but far
enough off the road so that they could look out at the countryside, farmlands in the distance, buildings like small toys.

The car that his father said had been following them—a tan Dodge of no outstanding style—drove leisurely by without hesitation, going neither fast nor slow. Two men were in the front seat. They looked straight ahead as the car passed.

Adam’s father shook his head. “Grey’s men,” he said, wryly. “I’d know them anywhere. Never any privacy.”

“Let’s be glad it’s them,” his mother said.

They pushed on, the tan Dodge out of sight, and the scenery grew more dramatic as the road climbed. In the far distance, a mountain swept toward the sky, its peak gleaming in the sunlight.

“Oh, David!” his mother exclaimed.

They had rounded a curve and encountered a breathtaking vista, the edge of a roadway like a balcony looking out on miles of countryside, a river below twisting like a thin black snake through the mottled earth.

His father brought the car to a halt at the edge of the road. “Let’s stretch our legs,” he said.

“I have a feeling we can see Canada,” his mother said, tossing her hand toward the distance, as they walked toward the view.

That was when they heard the sound of a car. Fast, accelerating, whining. A sound erupting out of nowhere. Adam spun around. Not a car out of nowhere but from around a nearby curve. A car hurtling toward them, metal flashing in the sun.

The car was upon them, sickeningly.

Adam screamed. Or had his mother screamed? He turned as if to run and then turned back again and heard a scream—whose?—cut off in mid-breath. He saw—

Into them. Into his father, his mother, himself. The car smashing, shattering. A flash of steel, sun glinting, and he felt himself, crazily, moving through the air, no feeling, no pain, no sense of flight, but actually in the air, not flying but moving as if in slow motion, everything slowed down, tumbling now and twisting and in the tumbling and the twisting he saw
his mother die. Instantly. Death without any doubt, and he regarded her almost curiously, numb, without feeling. One moment, she was spinning the way he was spinning, like a top released from its string, and suddenly she was actually on the hood of the car, sliding, sliding toward the windshield in that terrible kind of slow motion, and then she was sliding back toward the front of the car, as if someone had reversed the film projector, and she fell to the pavement, not sliding off but plunging to the pavement strangely, awkwardly, her head at an odd angle, almost at a right angle to her body. She stared at him with startled eyes but she was not really staring at him because Adam knew the eyes were sightless, vacant. She was dead, irrevocably dead, the knowledge irrefutable as he lay on the pavement now, his own strange flight ended somehow—he didn’t know how, he didn’t know when he had stopped moving in the air—and he continued to stare at her, unable to move, unable to talk, unable to do anything, and he felt all wet and oozy as if he were lying in a swamp, and he was aware of something warm and wet encompassing him as he looked at his mother, her head at that wrong angle, a rag doll tossed away.

A voice: “He got away—he’s not here.”

Another voice: “I saw him run. He’s hurt.”

Another voice: “They’ll get him—they never miss.”

His father—they were talking about his father. His father had to get away. He clung to the thought.

Pounding feet now, echoing on the pavement and the echoes loud because his ear was pressed to the pavement; his cheek felt bruised, lacerated, and he was still facing his mother and she was still dead, of course, her head at that peculiar angle. He did not want to look at her anymore. He lay numb, in a vacuum except for the echo of sounds in his ear and he tried to raise his head from the pavement but couldn’t and he wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t and he couldn’t bear to look at his mother anymore. He. Did. Not. Want. To. Look. At. Her. Anymore. She. Was. Dead.

He felt a need to move, to get up, to raise himself from the pavement, to turn. He exerted all his strength, all his determination, the pavement scratching his cheek like sandpaper as he moved and he finally turned his head slightly and swiveled his eyes to see—

Him. Him. Walking toward him and his mother, tall, saw him tall, taller than ever because he looked tallest of all from the pavement, and his mouth was moving as he came, walking, walking …

Coming closer, looming, closer still, his legs like a giant’s legs, like someone on stilts maybe, and hearing the words coming from his mouth now: “He’ll
never get away.” But he would, his father had to get away. The legs moved toward his mother and the mouth spoke: “She’s terminated.” Hearing the words and not wanting to hear them. Seeing him come closer, the legs walking toward him again, hovering over him now.

Gray pants. Him. Hearing his voice again: “Move fast. Remove her. The boy—check him. He may be useful. Fast now, fast.”

Hands grappled his body but there was still no pain, and a sudden weariness engulfed him, a sweet and delicious weariness enveloped him, caressed him, and he gave himself up to it, his face heavy now and his eyes heavy, and the weariness was beautiful, taking him, gathering him. His eyes fluttered like his mother’s breath had fluttered long ago and he rose up to the weariness and then settled down into it, soft and gentle and tender …

END TAPE OZK015

I turn the corner and I’m in Rutterburg.

I pedal along, refreshed and at ease in the cool of morning.

Rutterburg is deserted, not a soul in sight, as if everyone has been wiped out by a science-fiction holocaust.

I pedal smoothly, my arms and legs moving beautifully, coordinated, and it seems as if pedaling the bike is second nature now, part of my existence, something I was born to do.

I look for a telephone booth but I don’t see any. I’m not sure why I want to find a phone booth; in fact, the thought of a phone booth makes me sad. I don’t know why it makes me sad but it does. It opens up a loneliness in me, like a hole, a deep, dark hole. The hole is threatening somehow; if it gets too big it could swallow me up, so I try not to think about it. The medicine always helps me not to think about it.

I turn the corner and see the hospital. The iron gates gleam in the sun; they were recently painted a hideous orange but Dr. Dupont says this is only the
undercoating, the gates will be painted black again later. I pedal toward the gates and I am glad to be back. My legs are getting stiff now and my fingers are numb. I reach the gates and Dr. Dupont is waiting for me. He is always waiting for me. He is a big man with white hair and a sad black mustache and his voice is always soft, always gentle.

“Well, you’re here,” he says, and he is glad to see me. I get off the bike with a flourish to show him how expert I am.

I glance outside through the gates. Someday I will ride my bike out there.

“I didn’t take the medicine, Doctor,” I tell him. It is very cold now and my body begins to tremble. He places his arm around my shoulder.

“That’s all right,” he murmurs.

I push my bike along the path that leads to the hospital and he walks along beside me. The hospital is on a small hill in front of us, a white building with black shutters and columns in front, like a southern mansion.

“Welcome back, Skipper,” someone calls. I look up to see Mr. Harvester, the old maintenance man. His voice is loud and he smiles at me and I smile back. He mows the lawn and does odd jobs and he is always planning trips somewhere, reading books and maps and travel magazines. But he never goes anywhere. The red veins in his face resemble the road maps he’s always reading.