The road rose toward the two-lane highway, and there was nothing but the frictiony shush-shush of our nylon parkas, the far-off civet of skunk, and the silent companionship of things half exposed in the plowed shoulder — various bits of refuse, a fan of radial-tire belts, rows of fallen icicles stuck in the snow. The empty cups of horse hooves walked out of the woods, pacing us awhile before vanishing.
At the junction, you could see the tracks of big rigs that had blown through not long ago, and the only other signs of life were rectangles of light from Tyler’s Bait & Go. Inside the bait shop, we opened our coats to take in the heat and then headed straight for the junk food. Trudy hit the nachos hard, then switched to little breakfast biscuits, the kind with double sausage patties. I dug into some cellophane-wrapped bologna-and-cheese sandwiches, the ones that are cut diagonally both ways. I folded open a carton of milk so the top was wide-mouthed and square. That way I could dunk the points of my sandwiches and get them down that much faster.
A guy came out from the back room, carrying a case of toilet paper. He was wearing a hunting cap, driving gloves, and a walkie-talkie in a holster. He almost dropped the box when he saw us. “Jesus,” he said, veering toward the register, “I didn’t hear the bell.”
He looked back, suspicious of the petrified ball of mud under my arm.
I didn’t say anything to him. Had I ever been so hungry? I knew better than to cap things off with grape soda and salted nuts, but after chili, cheese, bologna, and milk, what did it matter? I took a swig of soda, the nuts fizzing in my mouth as I inspected a wall covered with photos of folks posing with trophy fish — shovel-faced sturgeons stretched the scales, and men held up trot lines of crappie, strung like Chinese lanterns. Two catfish, black as vinyl, lay on a dock like body bags. One photo showed an old man at the water’s edge, cleaning fish assembly-line style on a rusty ironing board.
Under the food station’s bright lights, I looked at Trudy anew. She had a sprinkling of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and even in fluorescent lighting her skin looked the color of roasted almonds. Her brow seemed weighted, as if she viewed the world through the parted curtains of what had been. I suddenly had a surge of fondness for her which I could only describe as fatherly. We’d witnessed something fabulous and dangerous, something that, by the laws of brashness and foolishness, should have gotten us dead. I nodded and saluted with my grape soda.
Fiesta concluded, we took the empty cans and containers and carried them to the counter, where we piled next to the Lottery machine. The man working the register obviously wasn’t the regular cashier. He flattened some wrappers, punched some numbers, then squinted across the store for prices.
He looked up. “How about twenty bucks?” he asked.
I treated, glancing out the window as I opened my wallet. The cashier looked out the window as well. He scanned the empty lot.
“You folks have some car trouble?” he asked. “I drive the wrecker around here.”
Trudy said, “We might could use a lift.”
“I’m no taxi,” the driver said. But then he shrugged, asked, “Where to?”
“Almost to the casino,” I told him.
“Almost?” the driver asked.
We followed him out back to the tow truck, brand-new, painted cream and trimmed with chrome. On the door, instead of a sign or logo, there was an airbrush of a Lakota dancer, underlit by fire, his arms upstretched to the great Cangleska, or Medicine Wheel, of the sky.
I turned toward the driver to see if I’d missed some Sioux in his face.
“It’s my brother-in-law’s truck,” he said. “He owns Pride Towing. Ty’s my other brother-in-law.” He pointed to the Tyler’s Bait & Go sign above us.
The driver had probably been hoping to get mashed in next to Trudy but got stuck elbowing me instead. He flipped on a row of toggle switches, and then turned up the police scanner, though there was nothing to hear, and off we went. The diesel knocked so loud you’d think it ran without oil, and the headlights were insanely bright. We trucked in silence past the airport, the downtown, the prairie prison on a hill. We were almost to the casino when we passed the Lollygag.
Most of the cars were parked around back, beyond the view of the wives, husbands, and general citizenry of Parkton. Only my van was prominent, glowing pink under the Lollygag’s neon signs, and it was parked before a room with all the lights on.
“Hold it,” I called. “You can let me off here.”
The wrecker clanged down through gears, slowing to the shoulder, the tires fighting for traction as they slogged through frozen gravel.
“Trudy, it looks like my father has procured a room here. Are you going to be okay going out there with Eggers?” I asked, as if she had not just wielded a chain saw.
We came to a stop, and I opened the door, swinging myself down by the big side mirror. Trudy slid over to get some breathing room, and I paused on the running board.
“Sure, Dr. Hannah,” she said. “You okay here?”
“Don’t worry about me,” I said.
“Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow at the site,” she said.
“Maybe,” I said.
I turned to face the Lollygag, which flagged under a northerly wind that would have cut us down out on the ice. Twin aerial antennas sang with the gusts, and riding the air was a medley of empty-swimming-pool smells — exposed plaster, old chlorine tabs, the frozen fiberglass of a diving board.
When I knocked, my father answered in an undershirt and shorts.
“Hey, there’s my boy,” he said, and smiled, though he looked as if he was expecting someone else. He stuck his head out and looked both ways down the row of motel doors. “Come on in.”
The place was like a sweat lodge, the tinny room heater set to fire-hazard levels. All the lights were on, as was the TV. Taking a seat on the empty twin bed, I noticed the carpet was oddly worn in front of the full-length mirror. I set Keno’s ball on the bedside table and leaned against the headboard.
Dad offered me a can of vegetable juice, but I waved it off.
“This is all I can drink today,” he said. “My stomach is killing me.”
“Mine, too,” I said.
Dad eyed me, then seemed to determine that the source of my trouble was different from his. He looked back at his TV movie. “You’re welcome to stay,” he said, “unless something comes up.” The film was Jeremiah Johnson, starring Robert Redford as a guy who gets fed up with things and goes to live by himself as a mountain man. Nobody talked to anybody else in the movie, and from what I could gather, it was one of those plots where a guy’s on a journey to find growth and inner peace, but in reality fights everyone he comes across, including several large animals.
“I’m taking the van back,” I told him. “So you’ll have to get your own car.”
“Key’s on the ring there,” he said.
“I’ll need the house key, too.”
“Suit yourself.”
As a nod to our father-son thing, I tried to watch the TV. What could ruin my mood more? The only television programs I remember enjoying were the Winter Olympics — God, those lady speed skaters! — and a nature show I saw at Farley’s about how certain bears, when they get old, refuse to hibernate. They just wander around all winter causing trouble. Lonely and cranky, they pull down baby trees for no reason and tear the bark off logs. The narrator said these were the most dangerous bears to film.
I was starting to get sleepy. It was hot enough that I unbuttoned my shirt.