He fueled up at the pumps, then pulled over into the semitrailer parking area, locked his cab, and went inside. I watched him take a seat in the drivers’ section, then walked over to his truck.
His tractor cab was small. There was no bed behind the seats, just a rear window for checking blind spots. I looked around, then climbed up between the tank trailer and the cab. There was a locked storage box welded there and the air hose connections for the pneumatic brakes on the trailer. I found I could sit there with my head below the window. If I stood on the box, I could look in the window. I acquired the place for jumping, then went to the back of the truck.
A ladder was welded to the back, running past the PetroChem logo and the FLAMMABLE warning sign and the THIS TRUCK MAKES WIDE RIGHT TURNS sign. I climbed up it and found that there was very little to hang on to atop the tank, but at the back of the trailer, between the ladder and the tank, was a ledge formed by the hose storage boxes. I swung around the ladder and sat there. The metal was very cold, but one could ride there.
I jumped to Café Borgia, in Greenwich Village, and had hot chocolate with whipped cream and cinnamon. Between the chocolate, the warmth of the café, and the long underwear, I was nicely warmed, almost sweating, when I jumped back to the truck stop, to the edge of the asphalt.
Topper was still eating.
I walked then, back and forth, occasionally crunching the thin crust of snow on the grass. When I got chilled, I jumped back to my apartment for a few minutes. It occurred to me that I hadn’t called Millie, but I didn’t want to take the time now. Topper might leave, and I’d have to wait another day.
After several of these walk, jump, get warm, jump cycles, Topper finally left the restaurant. I watched him walk to the truck, open the cab, and take a hammer from behind the seat. Then he walked all the way around the truck hitting the tires. Apparently satisfied, he put the hammer back, climbed into the truck, and started it up.
I jumped to the box behind the cab before the truck could move. Once it started moving, I could jump away from it, but I probably couldn’t jump back onto the truck. Not from out of sight.
The wind whipped around the edges of the cab as Topper slowly worked his way up through the gears. I pulled my coat collar higher. When the truck pulled onto the interstate, I tried jumping to the back of the truck, on the ledge formed by the hose boxes. No problem, though it was much windier back there. I jumped back to behind the cab. Again, no problem.
I’d hoped this would be the case. Even though this was a moving vehicle, I knew the distance between myself and my target. I suspected I’d be able to jump onto this truck from off of it, even if it was moving, as long as I could see it. If I jumped back to my apartment right now, though, I was sure I wouldn’t be able to jump back.
Before I got too cold to concentrate, I started my “game.”
I stood upright on the storage box, roughly behind the passenger’s seat, and held on to one of the pneumatic pipes with my left hand. With my right hand, I took a small flashlight and shone it on my face as I looked in the rear window.
I couldn’t see Topper, but my face was reflected in the window, seemingly floating without support. The low angle of the flashlight cast dark shadows up my face and made it look unnaturally white. The dark coat didn’t reflect at all.
It took Topper a moment to notice. Perhaps he glanced at the right rear mirror and caught a glimpse of light out of the corner of his eye where no light should be. So he turned to take a good look. Probably a second and a third, as well. That’s speculation, but I do know the next thing he did was put the breaks on, hard.
I switched the light off and jumped to the back platform.
The tanker took several seconds to stop. At the last minute he pulled off onto the shoulder. I heard the cab door open, and heard his steps as he climbed down. There was a sweep of light on the tarmac and I realized I wasn’t the only one with a flashlight.
The diesel engine’s rattle muffled his voice, but I heard him cursing, then I heard him walk toward the back of the truck, the beam from the flashlight preceding him on the asphalt. I waited until he was almost to the rear of the truck, then jumped to the back of the cab again.
I couldn’t hear him, this close to the running engine. The driver’s door was slightly ajar so the cab interior light was on and I could see inside. I jumped into the driver’s seat and turned off the ignition. The diesel died with a rumble. I looked at the side mirrors. Topper came running up the driver’s side of the vehicle. I jumped to the rear ledge again.
I heard him swearing. I climbed the ladder to the top of the truck and peered forward. He was standing by the driver’s door, staring at the ignition keys, the flashlight pointed at the ground. He shut and locked the cab; then, carefully putting the keys in his jacket pocket, he started to walk back around the truck, shining the light under and around the tires as well as over the entire structure. I let him get halfway back to the rear and jumped back to the interior of the cab.
It was warm in the cab.
After marching the entire perimeter of the truck, Topper walked out to the low scrub bushes off to the side of the road and swung the flashlight this way and that. He marched back shaking his head.
I laughed. As he unlocked the door, I jumped to the rear of the truck. When he started up the diesel and started the truck rolling again, I jumped back to the storage box behind the cab.
Get the picture?
Over the next hour, I did the whole thing five more times. He didn’t get twelve miles up Interstate 94. The sixth time, he began wheezing as he walked around the truck. “Goddam it! What do you want? Who the hell are you?”
I waited until he was at the rear of the truck, then stepped down off the truck and walked along the road, until I was a hundred feet or so away from the truck. There was a culvert there, marked by reflectors, that ran right to the edge of the shoulder and went under the highway. It was a concrete ditch four feet across and six feet deep. I walked farther down the road and acquired a site for jumping, a road marker, then jumped back to the culvert.
In the distance, I could see the spot of light bobbing slowly around the tank truck. I positioned myself on the edge of the shoulder, my collar pulled close, my hands in my pockets, and, coincidentally, standing in front of the first reflector that marked the culvert.
Topper finally pulled himself up into the cab and started the engine. When he turned on the headlights, they hit me square in the face.
I didn’t flinch. I stood there. The truck didn’t move for a moment; then it started with a lurch. It made no effort to turn back onto the road, but continued to pick up speed. I stared at the driver’s-side windshield, and held still. The truck continued to gain speed, Topper revving the engine quite high, but still, the truck was only going thirty mph or so as it approached me. I held still and waited until I could feel the heat radiating from the engine before I jumped to the road marker, up the road.
The right front wheel of the tractor dropped into the culvert and slammed into the far edge with the sharp punctuation of the tire blowing out. The rear of the tractor cab swung around to the right, pushed by the tank trailer. Then the whole rig rolled over on its side in ponderous slow motion, sparks flying as the cab scraped across the concrete edges of the culvert accompanied by glittering arcs of glass as bits of broken window splashed through the truck headlights.
I readied myself to jump, afraid that the tank would explode, but it stopped shortly after that, the cab twisted and crumpled, one of its headlights out, the other pointed at a low angle into the sky. The tank didn’t even seem to be leaking.
I walked closer.
Topper had one arm tangled in the steering wheel and was hanging across the stick shift down into the passenger side of the cab. His face was flecked with spots of blood. His eyes stared at me, followed me, as I walked around to the front of the cab for a better look. He made small keening noises and his one free hand tried for a purchase on the steering wheel, to relieve the strain o
n his other arm.
Across the median cars were pulling to a stop. I heard doors slam and excited voices. I ignored them.
I smiled slowly at Topper. He made that small sound again and frantically pawed for the steering wheel. Then, while his eyes were on me, I jumped.
Chapter 8
“Hi.”
“Uh, what time is it?”
“Eleven-thirty. Did I wake you up?”
“I fell asleep on the couch. I was waiting for your call.”
I grinned foolishly into the phone. “Sorry I called so late. I was busy.” I was lying on my bed, under the covers, trying to warm up after my little affair in Minnesota.
“Hunting for your mother?”
“Well, no. I was evening an old score.”
Her voice changed, became more wary, awake. “What do you mean? You didn’t do anything to your father?”
My grip tightened on the phone. I’d managed to forget about Dad for a while. “No. I didn’t. He deserves it, but I haven’t.” I paused. “I found out something bad today, something awful.”
“What?”
“My mother spent a year in a psychiatric hospital immediately after she left my dad. She also had two operations to have her face rebuilt.”
I heard her sharp intake of breath. “Oh, Davy, how awful.”
“Yeah. Millie, they won’t tell me where she is. They think I’ll lead Dad to her.”
“Whoa, Davy, calm down. Take a deep breath.”
I closed my eyes, exhaled, inhaled. “Sorry,” I said a moment later.
“It’s all right to be upset. You’ve heard a lot of nasty stuff today. It must be hard for you. Now, who won’t tell you where she is?”
“Her lawyer won’t. She left instructions not to reveal her address to anybody, not even me.”
“Oh, Davy. That must hurt.” She hesitated. “I wish I could be there.”
“Christ, I miss you, Millie.”
We were both quiet for a moment, but it was almost like being with her.
“What on earth should I do? The lawyer said he’d forward a letter to her.”
“Oh. So you could write her?”
“I guess.”
“Well, don’t you want to?”
“I don’t know! I mean, if she doesn’t want to see me, what’s the good of writing?”
There was silence on the other end of the line. “Davy, you don’t know what she wants. I think she’s just frightened of your father. Write to her. Tell her how you feel. Tell her what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want. I can’t write.”
Millie let out a breath and was quiet. “What is it, Davy? Is real rejection worse than your imagined rejection? As long as you don’t write, you can pretend that she’d want to see you if she heard from you. Is that it?”
Oh, Christ! I squeezed my eyes shut. Tears leaked from them. I couldn’t say anything.
“Are you there, Davy?” she asked softly. “Are you all right?”
“No, I’m not,” I managed to say. “That is probably too close to the mark.” My throat was tight and my grip on the phone was painful. “Look, I have to think about it. I’ll call you back tomorrow, okay?”
Her voice, when she answered, was small. “Okay. See you tomorrow. I really care about you, Davy.”
I hung up the phone, pulled the pillow across my face, and wished I could die.
I’d felt so good after Topper crashed his truck. Why did it seem so petty in the morning light? So mean? Didn’t he deserve it? I was getting angry again. I tried to pick up a book that I’d been reading the day before, but it was no good. I couldn’t concentrate and the words crawled on the page.
I put on my coat and jumped to Minnesota.
“I saw a tanker truck on its side west of here. Strange accident.”
The waitress put my coffee down. “Yeah, one of our regular customers. Apparently he fell asleep and went off the road.”
“Was he killed?” There, I’d said it, and I didn’t know whether it was a fear or a hope.
“No. He got cut up a little and I believe he sprained a shoulder. They kept him in the county hospital overnight for observation.”
Alive. I felt relief and was surprised.
A busboy was cleaning the next table. “Four state troopers was in here this morning for doughnuts. I heard one of them say that they drug tested Topper. Topper claimed he didn’t fall asleep—said he was after a ghost, that a ghost decoyed him into the ditch.”
The waitress shook her head. “There’s always been something strange about Topper, something not quite right. What was he on?”
The boy stopped wiping. “Nothing. They said he was clean. But that’s why they kept him overnight, to look for brain damage. They also X-rayed his skull to see if he broke it.”
“Huh! Isn’t that something.” She looked at my cup. “You want some more coffee, sugar?”
I smiled and said, “Yes, please.”
Dear Mom,
I ran away from home a year and three months ago. I now live in New York City and I am doing well. I would like to see you, though I don’t know if this is something you wish. I miss you, but I would understand if you do not want to see me. In any case, I would appreciate hearing from you.
You can call me at 718/553-4465 or write me at PO Box 62345, New York, NY 10004.
Your son....
It was awkward, rude, and simpleminded, but it was my sixth try and I didn’t want to do this letter again. I gave the command to print and the laser printer silently produced the page. I signed it, then put it in an envelope with Mom’s single name, Mary Niles, on it.
I jumped to the stairway below Leo Silverstein’s office. Upstairs, I gave the envelope to his secretary and asked her to give it to him. She said she would without asking any questions. I guess she knew the situation.
I don’t want your pity! I was tempted to teleport home right in front of her, just to take that expression of sympathetic understanding off her face. However, I’d done that too much already. I thanked her and jumped, instead, from the privacy of the stairwell.
I called Millie and told her about sending the letter.
“That’s good, Davy. I know it’s a frightening step, but at least you’ll know.”
“What if she doesn’t want to see me? What if she doesn’t care?”
She took her time answering. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. But, even if that’s the way she feels, at least you’ll know and can go on from there instead of being stuck.”
“Stuck? Well, I guess that’s one way to describe it. I’m stuck somewhere between having a mother and not having one.”
Millie said carefully, “Davy... you haven’t had a mother in six years. You’re really stuck between knowing if she’s going to be part of your life again, or not.”
I shook my head angrily. “I don’t get the distinction.”
“You are not the same person you were when your mother left. Time alone would account for that, not to mention an abusive father. Your mother is not the same person. Psychiatric counseling can bring about great changes in a person. Neither of you will be able to drop back into the relationship you had, not without a lot of pretending. It just won’t fit.”
“Damn it, Millie. It’s so hard.”
“Yeah.”
I changed the subject. “What do you want to do this weekend?”
“I hadn’t really thought about it. Maybe just lie around.”
A small smile. “In bed?”
“Well, some,” she said. “But not all of it. That’s a really good way to ruin a relationship.”
“Sex?”
“Nothing but sex. Let’s have more between us than a thin film of moisture.”
“Uh, don’t you like it? I thought... well, you seemed to...”
“I love sex. I enjoy it enough that my Protestant upbringing gives me twinges now and then. I love sex with you, Davy, because, well... I love you.”
There was something wrong wi
th my face and my stomach was churning. I couldn’t see the phone, the chair, the bookshelves. Only her face. “Oh, Millie—let me fly out there tonight.” My voice was rough and the hand holding the receiver wouldn’t stop shaking.
I heard her exhale. “Even if there was a flight, you couldn’t get here until morning. I have classes.”
I could be there in a heartbeat. The silence was warm with shared longing. I felt miserable and elated.
“You can come on Thursday, though, if you like.”
“Are you sure?”
“I get out of my last class at four-thirty. I can be at the airport by six. No, six-thirty—that’s rush hour.”
“No. I’ll be at your apartment at four-thirty, Thursday.” Then, before I could lose my courage, I added, “I love you, too.”
She was quiet for a moment; then, almost too softly to be heard, she said, “Oh, Davy, I’m going to cry.”
“Well, you’re allowed.”
Go to her. Go to her now. I wanted to jump so badly, but another voice said, Wait. She loves you, but will she love the jumper?
I heard her blow her nose. “God, I hate the way my nose runs when I cry.”
“I’m sorry I made you cry.”
“Oh, shut up, you idiot. I told you, tears are a blessing. You gave me a gift and it made me happy, not sad. Tears don’t always mean grief. And you’re not an idiot and I love you.”
Go to her. Wait. Aaaaaaagg.
“I love you. I wanted to tell you that, I started to tell you that, when I called you about my grandfather being dead.”
“Well, I wondered....”
“I was scared to say it. I’m still scared.”
Her voice was serious. “I’m relieved to hear it. It’s not something to be said lightly.”
“Then why do I want to keep saying it, over and over?”
“Perhaps you feel it deeply. I’ve got a theory about that phrase. It should be said as long as it’s true, but not so frequently that it becomes automatic, meaningless, cheap. It should not be like ‘good morning’ or ‘excuse me’ or ‘pass the butter, please.’ You know?”