***
The heat inside the car was stifling, with little relief from the wind that whipped through as we sped at sixty-five along the farm roads. The temperature gauge was running dangerously high, so there was no way I could run the air and risk overheating the engine. Wheatyard might be able to replace his own carburetor, and wring two free beers out of a reluctant bartender, but there was no way he could conjure up a fresh supply of coolant out here in the vacant countryside. The annoyance act that worked so well for him at the bar probably wouldn't work on the nearest suspicious farmer.
So instead we sweltered, which would have been bearable if Wheatyard had talked about his writing. That's what I wanted to hear. I could easily have been distracted away from the fever burning my brow and the sweat trickling into my eyes. But the lack of beer, or even the mere promise of beer, seemed to subdue him. Back at Simon's, after only one PBR, he had just started to open up about Longing Dissolute Midnight, as if the mere anticipation of a buzz was enough to get him blathering.
But now, in this baking car in the middle of nowhere—ten or fifteen miles southwest of Tillsburg—without the familiar surroundings of the tavern, he seemed in no mood to talk. Driving out here was his idea, so I thought he'd be more effusive. Instead he just sat in silence and stared out the window, apparently thinking to himself, whether of grand narrative themes or the deplorable profit motives of small-town mechanics, I couldn't say.
"Penny for your thoughts," I said, attempting to be witty and ironic at the same time.
"Penny, hmmm," he replied. "I never should have left that dollar at the bar." He jolted to attention, as if suddenly aware of my presence. "What? Penny for your thoughts? Who are you, my grandmother?"
"Hey, it's just an expression. But an old one, you're right."
He said nothing, turning back to the window and returning his attention to the endless rows of cornstalks that raced past.
"Grandmother." I thought there was an opening, though small. "So, what about your family?" I knew nothing about his past, other than his ongoing truck problems and that he was far from independently wealthy. It was the first time I had asked directly about his personal life, other than the writing.
"Oh, my family's not much to talk about. Father, mother, sister, the usual domestic things growing up. My sister Fr—"
He stopped suddenly, silent again, his eyes fixed on some point in the distance ahead. Okay, I thought, there's a sister—Fran? Francine? Frieda?—whose name he willingly brought up. Must feel pretty strongly for her. Or felt—I couldn't tell which verb tense she occupied for him now. I took this sliver of information with great significance. Finally I had something—Fran, Frieda, Wheatyard. Or whatever his real last name was—by then I doubted that Wheatyard was really his last name, but instead an eccentric affectation. And Glaciers didn't seem likely either.
"Yeah, I knew it," he said, still staring through the windshield, at what I couldn't tell. "I've been here before. I'm gonna have you pull over pretty soon. Keep going for now, though—I'll tell you when."
He sat in eager readiness, the least laconic he had been all day. Other than literature, nothing seemed to particularly interest him. Everything in the world was just there, with none of it of much importance to him. All of it—other than literature—he could take or leave, and more than likely leave. But whatever was ahead of us in the heat-hazy distance had his full attention.
I returned my gaze to the road, wondering where we were going. There didn't seem to be anything of interest where we were, just corn and soybeans spreading out to the horizon in every direction, the occasional lonely mailbox, the evenly-spaced county crossroads and—far too infrequently to suggest that the authorities truly cared—speed limit signs which read 50 MPH. The only thing that broke the ceaseless monotony was a low fringe of trees hugging the horizon, far to the south. Individual trees were rare enough here, that a group of them suggested something of modest significance.
"Start slowing down," Wheatyard quietly commanded as we drew closer to the trees. As we approached, I finally saw what it was, and realized my hope for something significant had been overblown. The trees—a motley collection, none more than medium height—lined both sides of a narrow stream, which ran ramrod-straight in either direction, far too uniform to be natural. I realized it was actually a drainage ditch, probably dating back to the nineteenth century when this entire area was an enormous and unfarmable marsh. Ditches like this one drained the marshes, leaving behind some of the most arable land in the world, the nation's breadbasket. The ditches were nearly the only waterways in the region, and one of the few distractions to prevent a driver or rider from dozing off.
Once again, seeing beauty here required imagination. But though I could usually see the beauty that most outsiders overlooked, not even my appreciation for the region's subtleties could generate much excitement for this ordinary ditch. Surely it served the farmer's needs, but I didn't see much more to it.
"Stop here."
I pulled the car onto the shoulder and we climbed out. The heat outside was as bad as inside, the cessation of the hot breeze making me even more uncomfortable. Prickly. My shirt stuck to my back, from shoulders to hips, the waistband of my boxers unpleasantly damp. I reached behind my back with one hand, plucked a bit of the shirt between my thumb and index finger, and peeled it away from my roasting skin. The sweat would dry quickly in the hot outside air, freed from humid compress of the car's vinyl seats.
Wheatyard hurried forward, toward the bridge. The structure was nothing special—narrow and squat, no more than seven feet tall, its girders made of corroding iron and emblazoned with generations of graffiti, all of which must have been once thought to be eminently clever and quotable-for-the-ages.
Washington slapped here. Let's here it for the soy. Bob loves Bessie, which, in case the reader missed the Borden reference, was accompanied by a crude drawing of a cow. There were other similar drawings, most of them overly-generous depictions of anatomical features, and bold claims of sexual prowess. And numerous teenaged vows of eternal love. Jim + Ellie forever, Mike & Nan always, even if the eventual reality was probably that Ellie went away to school in Carbondale, never to return, or Mike got so drunk and obnoxious at the graduation party that Nan never talked to him again.
Just beyond the bridge we left the road and climbed down the embankment. Further along the ditch I saw two boys, teenagers, fishing. They stood lazily, staring at the brown water, the tips of their fishing poles grazing the surface, the lines spiraling slack. They must have been very intent on their task, or else they wouldn't have traveled all the way to this lonely spot to wet their lines. Yet they fished casually, as if they had nothing better to do or anywhere else to be.
"How're they biting?" Wheatyard called out to them.
One of them looked up, staring insolently at us.
"They're not," the kid said, his short tone clearly meant to discourage further conversation.
"Got an extra pole with you?" Wheatyard pressed on, ignoring the hint.
"No, I don't," the kid sneered. "Besides, I only have two hands, and I'm gonna need the other one."
The other kid snickered, and at first I thought the reference was something sexual. But then I noticed the corner of a plastic baggie sticking out of the pocket of his cutoffs, plus the unmistakable outline of a Bic lighter in his back pocket.
Weed, I guessed. Wheatyard must have noticed it too, and though he was probably tempted to ask for a hit—his hoped-for afternoon beer buzz so rudely denied—he said nothing. He gave a little wave goodbye and walked past them, continuing to follow the bank of the ditch. I hurried after him.
"It's just a little further up ahead," Wheatyard said over his shoulder.
"What, exactly?"
"The spot."
What spot? Where he dumped the body? Where he lost his virginity? Either way, I didn't relish being anywhere near there. We hiked another hundred precarious yards, tight between the steep embankment on our left
and the muddy water on our right. A few missteps along the way made me stumble into the water, twice, the coldness shocking but not unwelcomed.
Finally we stopped, Wheatyard bent with his hands on his knees, implausibly out of breath. I wasn't in great shape either, but I was still breathing just fine. It's not as if we had been running or even jogging. Just a brisk walk, which a guy his age—not much older than me—should have been able to handle. He slowly regained his breath, and at last straightened up.
"Damned Pall Malls," he muttered.
"You smoke?"
"Not any more. But I did, too long and too often, I guess. I quit three years ago but sometimes I still feel the side effects."
"Like lung damage?" I injected. "That's no side effect. That's the whole effect."
"Well, yeah. I used to tell myself that the taste and the whole aura were all that mattered, that whatever I was doing to myself was just a side effect."
"Surgeon General's Warning: Smoking Causes Lung Cancer, Heart Disease…"
"Yeah, yeah, I read all that, on every pack. But I didn't think it mattered as long as I looked like Humphrey Bogart."
"So...what the hell are we doing here?" I had no interest in talking about Bogart. "Lovely spot, by the way."
It was bolder talk than I had yet dared around Wheatyard—I was usually in a state of respectful and inexplicable awe of him—but for once the whole absurd situation justified putting him in his place. The long drive out to Tillsburg, being barred from his house, the abbreviated visit to Simon's, the even longer drive out here to the middle of nowhere, and the slog through this fetid ditch—this time, he would have to answer for something.
Where we stood, the trees around us were stunted and mostly bereft of leaves, though it was well into June, the peak growing season, still weeks before the real heat and drought of summer would brutally set in. A farmer's rubbish pile moldered above our heads, on the edge of the embankment, random pieces of garbage spilling down the slope into the water. Further ahead, sticking out of the water and diverting the slow current to either side, was the carcass of what appeared to be an emaciated deer.
"We're here," Wheatyard said reflectively, "because this is the spot where I caught the biggest fish of my life, back when I was nine."
I knew just enough about fishing to know this wasn't prime lunker territory. He didn't seem like the fisherman type either—I guessed he had never done much fishing, which meant his biggest catch wasn't necessarily much of a fish at all.
"It was a crappie, thirteen inches long and four, maybe five pounds. Even bigger than you'll find in the farm ponds, and those are restocked by the farmers every year. There's a deep hole in the bottom of the stream here"—I let the word stream pass, indulging his local pride—"that's maybe eight feet across. Lots of big fish hang out in there. It's the only spot deep enough for them in winter."
Again, it seemed unlikely. But he was finally talking, so I'd let his fish story go on a while longer.
"I was right there on that bank, kneeling, holding the line with my hand and bobbing the hook into the hole, and finally nabbed him. Fought pretty good for a while, but I finally got him out. Big goddamned fish."
"So what did you do with it? Eat it? Mount it?" A crappie mounted on a walnut board didn't fit with my imaginings of his home decor, but he was so proud of his catch that a trophy seemed like a possibility.
"Neither, dammit." He shook his head, looking back toward the road. "I was so stupid. There was this kid, Danny Carter. I knew him a little, but we weren't friends or anything. He was just upstream when I caught the fish, and he came right over when I started yelling and jumping up and down. He said he'd trade me his brand-new pocket knife for the fish, but I had to agree to say that he was the one who caught it."
He hocked and spat into the water.
"Seemed like a good deal. I figured there were plenty more big fish down in that hole for me to catch. He said the knife was back at his house—he lived on the nearest farm, about a mile away—but he'd run and get it. So far so good. But stupid me. He insisted on taking the fish with him, but I wanted to keep fishing so I sent this other kid—Bobby, Robby, something like that—to go with him.
"So they left, and forty-five minutes later the kid came back alone, without the fish. I demanded to know where the knife was, and he looked embarrassed and a little scared, then reached into his pocket and took it out—a plain old table knife.
"'What the fuck is this?' I yelled at him. 'He said it's the knife he owes you,' the kid said. 'That's no pocket knife—that's a fucking butter knife!' I screamed back. I know it didn't do me any good to scream at that poor kid, but I felt so angry and helpless. If I had been there when Danny Carter pulled that stunt, I probably would have strangled him, but the kid had no chance—Danny was a lot bigger than him, and could have seriously hurt him if he argued. Screaming was all I could do."
He paused, swallowing hard. Though it must have happened twenty-five or even thirty years earlier, his anger showed that to him it was still like yesterday.
"The kid said Danny was already parading the fish around the farm, showing it off to his parents, his grandpa, his brothers, the hired hands, and bragging about exactly how he caught it. By then the fish was his, and there was nothing I could do about it. Nobody saw me catch the fish—not even the other kid, who was way downstream—so it was my word against Danny's. And the Carters were more prominent than my family, so my word wasn't worth much. Frieda was mad, too, when I told her, but my parents said just let it go, that there was nothing I could do about it."
"Man, that really sucks," I said, noting his sister's name as I felt sympathy for him for the first time. Until that moment I hadn't had much reason to feel sorry for him. Instead I had been in awe. But this anecdote made me realize that Wheatyard, this eccentric oddball genius, once was just an ordinary kid.
"That bothered me for years. Still does sometimes. Even stealing his bike, spray-painting it pink and running it up the flagpole at school didn't make me feel any better."
Okay, maybe not ordinary. Maybe he was an eccentric oddball back then, too. But still a kid, and not completely unlike myself at that same age.
THREE