Pilgrims Upon the Earth Read online

You’ve said that already, he said. Could we just stop, please? You’re like a fucking baby. You and all the rest.

  Her face clinched some.

  See? he said. Go back to the fucking baby house.

  He pointed at the door. She looked at him hard.

  What? he said.

  He pointed to the door again, took her by one arm and pushed her toward it.

  Get out of here, he said.

  She stumbled when he pushed her again.

  There’s nothing to say, he said. Go the fuck home.

  He sat down against the wall at his back and put his eyes on the dirt. She stepped over the bottom of the doorframe.

  Shut the goddamn door, he said.

  She did. It was late afternoon, the light had moved up the front wall of the silo, back toward the bent roof. It was almost gone.

  MERRILL CAME by the shed in Noah’s backyard. He wanted some hash. Since Noah and Francis and Terry didn’t have practice anymore they spent most time in the shed after school. Francis took the lawnmower and almost everything else out, the empty red plastic gasoline canister, the round-headed shovel, the half-full bag of manure, the green metal rake, the orange extension cord, stored all of it in the space between the rear of the shed and the wire fence. He found a small metal trashcan behind the shed and brought it inside, moved it close to one of the slot windows. He built a small fire in the trashcan with broken sticks, brown leaves and lighter fluid, torn pieces of brown paper grocery bag. He piled more broken sticks at his feet and he leaned over the fire, small and orange against his forehead and his nose, and he dropped small pieces of stick to the fire, and they cracked in the fire and sent small sparks up to the top of the shed.

  Merrill was quiet. He stood across from Francis and looked down at the flames and the smoke pulled by the high cold at the open window. He kept both hands inside his pockets. He didn’t smoke cigarettes.

  Noah twisted the hash up with some pot and tobacco, lit one end and put his eyes on the paper and watched the red ash skulk toward him when he pulled. He coughed. He put a hand against the shed door.

  That’s his girlfriend, Merrill said. You need to understand that.

  Terry nodded. Merrill was pale in the floodlight.

  I understand that.

  I don’t think you do. You can’t talk to her like you did.

  His eyes and voice were quiet, and dark. Terry went to look him in the face, but he couldn’t. Merrill knew things that scared most people. That sort of peace scared Terry

  It’s not right, Merrill said. What you did. Not even a little.

  He lit a cigarette and handed it to Terry, and he got another and put it to his mouth.

  Can’t talk to anyone like that, Merrill said. You talk at me like that, I’ll break your goddamn face.

  Terry pulled at the hash.

  There are things there you don’t want, Merrill said. I’m saying that now. Now and here.

  HE CAME alone and parked his car a street over. He pushed out through trees and made across the backyard of the house west of Merriam’s. There were toys tossed in the grass; a bike, plastic shovels, a bucket. All the lights in the house were shut off. In one small tree children’s shoes hung like ornaments, laces tied in the branches. There were shin-deep holes in the yard. He stumbled at one.

  Wayne was there. Terry waited an hour and smoked, and ran it through in his head.

  He jumped and got a hand to the top of the fence, and he held, got the other one, and pulled himself at the arms.

  He came down feet and hands beside the pool, and the water was lit space blue and filled with old leaves. Everyone there stood in circles, fisted drinks and cigarettes, and smoke held past their heads in the floodlight.

  He leaned against the fence for a moment and lit another cigarette. His mouth tasted like chalk. He heard voices inside the house.

  He sat on the edge of the pool and put his shoes and jeans down in the neon water. He leaned back on his elbows.

  Wayne’s goons got him first. They grabbed him by the back of his jacket and pulled him up, stood in a jagged circle around him. They had the voices of birds. His eyes wobbled. He stopped on Mickel Really. His lips were fat, full of stitches. Terry smiled and scratched his nose.

  Wayne pushed through the goons and stood in front of him. Terry’s head butted Wayne’s chin. They stood still a few moments. Terry lit a cigarette. Wayne turned and looked over one shoulder. Merriam stood against one of the tall glass back doors just outside their circle.

  She’s my girlfriend, Wayne said. I won’t let you mess with that.

  Terry looked at her.

  This is what you want? he said.

  Merriam stayed still, arms crossed. He smiled again and spit. He took another drag and turned back to Wayne.

  Go on and have your baby party then, he said.

  He sniffed quick, looked at Wayne again and waited.

  Wayne’s fist was warm, the punch dull at his mouth. Terry wobbled but then straightened up and touched his jaw. Wayne put a finger against his chest.

  I won’t stop next time I see you, he said.

  He stood dazed a few moments, shook his head until it cleared.

  Wayne took Merriam by the arm and went into the house. His goons fell in a few steps behind.

  His mouth beat in a throb. He touched his lips and his fingers came back red. He spit blood, tongued a loose canine on the bottom.

  He worked it out with two fingers. He threw it to the deep end.

  He walked alleys downtown. He cursed, spit more blood.

  He went fast on the sidewalk, the block between Irby and Northridge, and his hands jammed at his pockets.

  The hearse rumbled, and it idled slow beside him. The window rolled down. Louden leaned over the passenger seat. Terry spit, opened the door and got inside.

  Louden pulled back into the street. He gave Terry a beer. Terry washed a few swallows around in his mouth and spit it from the window and gave the bottle back.

  He did that to you? Louden said.

  Terry nodded.

  I’m going away, Terry said.

  Where? Louden said.

  Terry looked around for the water tower in the west. He found it and pointed toward it.

  That way, Terry said.

  Louden drove and pulled hard on a cigarette, studied houses and trees gone past.

  I saw that asshole shoot a crow once with a shotgun, Louden said. He winged it, watched it twitch on the ground. He stood over it and laughed, kicked it some. Just left it there not even dead.

  Could you just drop me at my house, man? Terry said.

  You need to clean Wayne up some.

  What?

  If you’re leaving.

  I am leaving.

  Well then.

  They waited a few houses down. The light started to come up. Louden stepped out and walked fast and his boots cracked gravel in the drive and Terry got out and it was cold and he stayed still a moment, and then he got a run and caught up. Louden kept his pace, sure and even.

  They went up to the porch and knocked at the front door. Wayne’s father came out on the steps and looked them over.

  What, then?

  We need to talk to Wayne, Louden said.

  He studied them stern and unsure.

  What do you need him for?

  We got business, Louden said.

  What kind?

  Your boy busted my friend’s mouth.

  He did?

  Yeah. Go and get him.

  Louden pointed past his shoulder.

  Go.

  Who are you?

  That’s not important.

  Do you know Wayne?

  Get back there and get him.

  Wayne’s father crossed his arms on his chest. He looked at them some more.

  You’re serious?

  Damn right.

  He chuckled some.

  I don’t think you two and Wayne need to talk right now, he said.

  Go and get him old man, Louden sai
d.

  Wayne’s father looked jarred, knocked back with those words, the stone rage in Louden’s face.

  I’m not kidding a single bit, Louden said. Go. Right now.

  Wayne shouldered past his father in the doorway and came onto the porch with the sleep still on his face.

  What are you doing here? he said.

  He blinked hard. Terry stepped up toward him.

  I just wanted to talk, Terry said.

  He held his hands up.

  We don’t have anything to talk about, Wayne said. This was done last night.

  Wayne pointed to the dirt road leading away from his house and the sun still breaking low.

  Get out of here, he said.

  Terry rubbed his jaw, shook his head and smirked.

  Leave, he said.

  Man, Terry said. You’re a fucking asshole.

  I’m an asshole? he said.

  Terry’s face pinched; he bore his teeth and took a step. Wayne’s father put an arm between them. Louden pulled it down. Wayne pushed Terry hard, and he fell over the steps onto his back. Wayne jumped down. His father shook from Louden and hopped down by Wayne. Louden got him at the back fast, bunched his collar and put him down a thud.

  Terry felt some madness in his chest. He put a leg up and caught Wayne in the gut. He turned on his knees and got on top of him. He held his shirt at the front, and beat on his face, and then Wayne was limp, and his eyes watered, and he coughed some blood.

  Louden pulled him off. They left Wayne and his father blind in the yard.

  He had busted his right hand on Wayne’s face. Louden took a few scratches at both arms. Terry’s bottom lip bled. Louden shook his head in the hearse. He didn’t slow for the tracks, and the hearse jumped, and dipped hard past the hump.

  Dumb fucking old man acting like that, he said. He deserved that shit. You need to know that. Doesn’t matter what anyone says.

  Louden pulled away and didn’t say much. Terry went fast to his room and stuffed his knapsack. He stopped in his father’s room. Benjamin Webber was on a second week of some overtime at the plant. Terry went to the closet, reached high at the shelf and got down a shoebox. He opened it, counted four hundred dollars in twenties and tens, and then he put the box back. He put the dog in his room, left cereal and water at separate bowls, and he rubbed its head a moment, and the tail knocked fast, and the dog panted, and some spit ran from its mouth. Terry pointed to the water. He spoke to the dog.

  See? he said. You need to drink that.

  The dog stayed, kept beating its tail on the floor.

  Dammit, Terry said. Like this.

  Terry went over to the bowls and put his head down and lapped.

  Terry wiped his nose in the car, hands dried blood and dirt. He drove from the neighborhood under the crooked oaks.

  THE ONRAMP wound a fast circle, and gravity pulled him to one side and then the other, and he felt like a racecar driver, or a cavalry horse; the heads of new grass nodded on both shoulders when he passed.

  The road was chipped in places, yellow and white lined, and on both sides there were the trees, the neon billboards, and the houses, and the frayed tire scrap left on the shoulder, and three pairs of tennis shoes, yellow ones, just stepped from.

  HE CROSSED mountains. He crossed the continental divide.

  HE BOUGHT four postcards at a service station for fifty cents in western Tennessee.

  HE DREAMT a day, and got lost, drove eight hours north, and then he crossed the border to Indiana. He didn’t know how he’d gotten there, but he felt good, anyway, the blunder like a gift.

  The highway was iced and ran flat through cornfields and the air smelled of cow, damp earth and old leaves. He stopped for gas, and an old man handed him a glossed brochure, and he took it, and then he got in the car and studied it. He took the state highway ten miles to Fairmount, and then he drove through the old downtown, and houses turned into shops that sold pictures of the dead actor born there, and a record store kept a picture of him in the window, and then there was a diner named for him, and then the house of his birth. Terry went past the city limits, followed a map on the brochure. He stood at the grave, and his hands went red, and then he got back into the car and followed the pamphlet some more to the house of the actor’s grandparents. The actor was a boy there. Terry stopped the car in the drive and cut the engine. The house was white and peeling, and the cold wind pushed through the bare trees on both sides. Terry got out of the car and went up to the front end and sat on the hood. He crossed his legs at the ankles, cocked his boots in the dirt.

  Terry saw the dead actor at a walk in the yard, near the pump well, and the shotgun barrel down and rested a bent forearm, and his large round eyeglasses down at the bridge of his nose. He wore an old thick wool sweater, three buttons at the neck. He wore straight blue canvas pants and a fat brown leather belt. The pants were pulled high on his waist. He stopped front of the yard and looked serious on a dove. He put the shotgun up and sighted it, and then let the barrel drop back. He got a cigarette, no filter, put a match at his heel and struck it. He stayed on the bird awhile, and then he walked off behind the house, and he did not come back. An hour the sun went.

  TWICE, IN Missouri, the car spun out from the snow, and it scared I him, and he stopped at a gas station and sat in a booth and drank coffee from a white paper cup. He pondered the best way to keep the car on the road. He bought some trucker speed at the counter. He sat back down at the table and chewed one.

  He started again, but the snow kept, and then it fell more, and sideways, gone on three hours.

  THE TIRES bobbed again south of Cedar Rapids.

  The tail pulled one way, and the hood lurched the other, and the radio was thrown at the dash, and it busted, and the cigarettes were pitched at the windshield, and then the snowbank rushed up at the hood.

  He kept his hands top of the wheel. He panted in the car. He felt the blood well in his face. He shook his head, blinked hard. He squeezed the wheel, held the grip, put his forehead against the plastic between his hands.

  He worried leaving was a mistake, or the way he did it was, and the snow was something like thunder, the shadow of a coming fury.

  One arm jerked at the elbow and knocked on the dash. He tapped a finger against the windshield, at the snow. I’ll go farther, he said.

  He got out of the car. The snow fell soft and fast. It was quiet in the busy white.

  He went to the exit. He walked the shoulder, the snow at his shins.

  He came up to a gas station. The snow muddled black in the oil and the dirt, mashed to rows under tires moved slow across the lot.

  He knocked his feet at the mat and went inside. He bought a can of soda, and cigarettes, and six orange crackers in plastic wrap.

  He walked across the lot, to the back of a motel, and settled knees up beside a metal dumpster. He ate the orange crackers, and he drank the dark soda, and it burned his tongue, and it got dark. The air was cold, and he shifted to get warm, stood up and ran in place, pulled his arms tight to his chest. After an hour he went slow to the lobby glass, and checked the desk; there was no one. He lingered and then pushed the doors, and lowered himself slowly at a large chair backed to the front desk. He pulled his legs up on the seat.

  He woke in the chair. A tiny man with a hammer stuck in his belt was shaking him on the shoulder. Terry stood and pushed the man back.

  Outside the sun was out, and the snow was melting.

  He walked back to the car on the interstate. The snow had puddled on the hood. He put the keys in, and the engine turned, and he laughed at the luck. The car held for a half mile, and then a belt popped, sound like a bone split, and the car lurched. He pressed the gas, and the engine revved high, and nothing, the tires a crawl.

  He pulled it to the shoulder. He left the keys in the ignition and shut the door. The snow wilted. He yanked the hat down at his eyes.

  HE BOUGHT a comb, a razor, a bar of soap, and a can of hairspray in the magazine store. He went to the b
athroom, wet his face and his hair in the sink. He slicked his hair back with the comb. He fogged his head with hairspray He tucked his shirt at his belt, and leaned over and pulled his socks from around his ankles. He stole a pen from the bar, and put it into his front pocket. He fished out the wedding ring.

  He had seen the dead ones at the plane yard, and he saw them as dots overhead, but he never conjured being in an airplane this way, like a carnival ride or a funhouse, and he felt like he got away with something, like he owed the pilot more money.

  A stewardess pushed the front curtain aside and came down the aisle. She touched the heads of the seats. Her uniform was royal blue. The stewardess put one hand on the head of the chair in front of him. She smiled and tilted her head down.

  I’d like a drink, he said. A drink with alcohol.

  He unlatched the tray from the back of the seat and clicked the ring on the plastic.

  And a pair of wings, he said.

  What kind of drink would you like? she said.

  He thought for a moment. He rubbed his chin with two fingers.

  A bourbon and cola, he said.

  She didn’t ask for identification like he expected, just smiled again and turned back down the aisle.

  The plane dropped with turbulence. He kept his hands against the meal tray The stewardess came back with the drink in one hand and a pair of wings wrapped in plastic in the other. She put them both on the tray.

  Thank you, he said.

  He tore the plastic open and held the wings in one hand. He couldn’t push the needle down from the back of the wings. The stewardess leaned down. She smelled like soap and flowers.

  Here, she said.

  She pushed the pin away from the back of the wings, bunched a crease in his shirt over his heart and slid the needle through. She hooked the point back into the wings and patted his chest.