But not much farther was the road down to the Faraway Lodge. There, he thought, he could visit. And just as he came within sight of it, and of Brent Spofford's Ram parked in the lot, the car he drove expired.
* * * *
"So how are they doing, those two?” Val the bartender and owner asked when he'd told her of his run-in with his landlord. They stood in the sun on the Lodge's porch. Brent Spofford was examining the ancient and probably dry-rotted beams that supported the sagging roof, with an eye to giving Val a price for repairs. “I hear one's been sick."
"The man or the wife?” Pierce asked.
Val looked at him as though either he knew something astonishing, something that it was inconceivable she didn't know herself, or he was a complete idiot. “There's no wife,” she said. “Just the two of them."
"The two,” Pierce said.
"Mort, and. Mort. I forget the other brother's name.” She chucked the Kent she had smoked to the filter. “He used to be a chef, one of the big fancy places around here. I think he's the one who's not doing well."
"No, it's the other brother,” Spofford said. “The one that's not sick is not the chef."
"The other brother?” Pierce said.
"They're inseparable,” Val said.
"Oh God,” Pierce said, who had not separated them. “Identical?” he asked.
"Jeez, I don't know. They are a lot alike. But opposite, sort of, you know?"
"Complementary,” said Pierce. “Oh Lord."
What is it, what accounts for the delight we feel when the world with a grin and a tug on the strings reverses the figure, delivers the punch line, a delight so pure it can even color our chagrin and make it hilarious too? Of course sometimes our souls are wrung and harrowed by a peripeteia, appalling knowledge given all in a moment, but—it's the difference between the joyous plunge of a roller coaster and a bad fall downhill—just as often not. More often, even, in lucky worlds. Pierce lifted his face to Heaven, and laughed aloud.
What was so funny, they wanted to know.
"Nothing. Nothing. I knew all that. All along. Sure."
So maybe, he thought, I really won't have to live there; maybe they can't make me. You're all nothing but a pack of cards. He laughed and laughed, and Val shook her head at him.
She and Spofford walked with Pierce down to inspect his stopped car, which he had been unable to get started, hadn't dared try too hard to cajole or insist with turning of the key and pumping of the gas, the battery seemed a little. The Firebird lay sullen and unapologetic on the soft shoulder. Val kicked the tire, more punitively than diagnostically, Pierce thought. “Christ,” she said.
"Vapor lock,” Spofford said when Pierce described the sudden ceasing of the engine. “Can't get fuel through the line.” It was exactly the last car Spofford's father had bought for himself, and still drove down there in Tampa as far as Spofford knew: a car so deficient in every real virtue that you could only think of it as a deliberate trick played by the maker on sheeplike Americans, who fell for it too. Huge and clumsy, yet with almost no room inside; absurd streamlining and speed lines; fabulously expensive but starting to fall apart as soon as delivered. He had watched his father, proud yet not really gratified, get behind the wheel, and had felt pity and anger, shame too. “Start it up now and it'll be all right. Even odds."
"I've got to get something of my own,” Pierce said. “I guess I'll start looking in the papers. Or the lots."
"Well,” Spofford said. “There's one other option. It's sort of taking a chance, but it could work out for you. Has, for people I know."
Pierce waited.
"There's a guy in Fair Prospect who's a dealer, out of the business now, retired I guess, but he still's got a license and he makes a little on the side. What he does is, he takes you to these auctions that car dealers go to, where a hundred cars, two hundred, get sold in a day. Only licensed dealers can bid. You look over the cars, and give him your choice, and a top price you'll pay. He bids. You give him a hundred, hundred fifty in cash on the side."
"Huh."
"You can't beat the prices.
"Well, sure."
Val lit a cigarette. “Are you talking about Barney Corvino?” she asked. “Jeez, I don't think he's doing it anymore. Ugh, that's a sad story. Sad.” She waved away their inquiries. “He doesn't do much. Last I heard."
"Worth a call,” Spofford said.
* * * *
Just as Spofford promised, the Firebird started again after its rest, and now Pierce had had a drink, and a chat, catching up with the local gossip, and there was no longer any way to put off what he must do next.
She was digging in the earth around the foundations of Arcady, wearing a pair of huge bright yellow gloves like a clown's, and overalls over a raveling sweater. She ran toward the unknown car when she saw who it was inside, pulling off the gloves and waving. He was inordinately glad to see her, his heart soared in fact, with only a touch of guilt, which seemed small after all. He got out of the car with some difficulty—the door was bent somehow and ground horribly as he pushed it open with his foot—and then she was in his arms exulting. Why so glad?
"You talked to Spofford?” she asked.
"Yes. At the Faraway Lodge."
"The Faraway Lodge!” she cried in cheerful indignation. “What the hell's he doing there?"
"Getting advice. He said."
"Advice! Well, maybe he needs it."
He'd never seen her thus, as though incandescent, radiant. Who is it that's always called radiant? He made a guess, and she began to laugh, as though spilling over with goodwill or delight, and so did he.
"I thought you were going to wait,” he said. “For a long while. Maybe travel. Maybe see the world. Walk in the woods."
"I walked in the woods. I can't explain. It's a big surprise to me."
"I knew he was going to ask. Hadn't he already, before?"
"Yeah. Well. That wasn't what surprised me.” And they laughed uproariously together.
"When?” he asked.
"We thought June,” she said, and they laughed again together, at the great and glorious absurdity. “And you're telling me he never said a word to you?"
"No word."
"So, what did you talk about?"
"Cars."
"For heaven's sake."
"June, huh,” he said.
"You'll come?"
"Rosie,” he said, as though the answer was so obvious he refused the question. And for a moment she only stood and glowed. Then she took his arm.
"You're back,” she said. “Come talk. Tell me everything."
She led him toward the house, the door, and he remembered many things: not a list of items (Boney, summer, grief, winter, Rosie's daughter, night, drink, Rosie's bed) but a taste, a garment warm and binding; a thing both his and not his but all of a piece. Inside renovations were going on: not the same place at all, pleasingly.
"So what happened? What came of it all?"
"It came,” he said, “to nothing."
"Oh.” She sat down behind Boney's big desk—he'd always think of it as Boney's, and no doubt so would she—and put her hands together as in prayer. “I guess that's all right."
"Yes?"
"I guess I'm sort of glad."
"Glad?"
"Well, you know. What would I have done. If you'd come home with the Holy Grail."
At that moment Pierce, seeing or feeling something indistinct behind him, turned to see Rosie's daughter, Sam, standing in the doorway. He would have greeted her, but her attention seemed not pointed his way.
"And what about the stuff you were looking for?” Rosie asked. “What you needed for yourself."
"I found it,” Pierce said. “But I left it there."
Sam wore a knit dress striped in rainbow colors, red to orange to yellow to green to blue to purple; and when the dress ended, the colors began again on her tights.