“She was nineteen and had split from her husband. Sounds really nice.”
“She was really nice. And she was almost twenty.”
“That’s way better. And you and Mom?”
“What about us?”
“You weren’t split up at the time.”
“No, we weren’t. Not until after.”
“Sweet.”
I have to give him credit. I was doing everything I could to really get to him, and so far he was keeping his cool. He didn’t like it, but he hadn’t blown up. Yet.
When the cheque came, I found out he wasn’t kidding before when he said I could pay next time. Which was this time. I figure the chips and snacks he bought at the truck stop came to maybe eight bucks tops. The dinner at the Italian place was thirty-eight. The old man threw in a ten to pay for his beer, and I got the rest.
He didn’t say anything on the way back to the hotel, or after we were back in our room. He took some stuff out of his suitcase and went for a shower. Ball game on TV — Seattle and Detroit, two teams I couldn’t care less about. I fell asleep before the seventh inning stretch. The old man poked me awake. I brushed my teeth and climbed into one of the two beds in our $49 room.
Day one of my summer vacation was over. I wasn’t sure I could stand much more of this kind of excitement. I think I fell asleep in about six seconds. Maybe that’s how the motel got its name.
The next morning we were up early — 6:00 a.m., which to me is a ridiculous time of day to be doing anything but sleeping. We hurried down to the lobby for the free continental breakfast, which was coffee and a bagel for the old man, juice and a tired muffin for me. Tired as in been out in the open air way too long. Chewy.
While we were sitting there the old man handed me a pill. “Take this.”
“What is it?”
“Malaria pill. You take one today and for the next few days, then for a couple of days when we get back.”
“Who says I have to take it?”
“Nobody. You take it so you won’t get malaria, not because somebody told you to take it.”
“Think I’ll pass.”
“Suit yourself.” He picked up the pill and dropped it in his jacket pocket.
I ate some more muffin.
“You ever know anybody that got malaria?”
He nodded. “A few. Some of ’em are still alive.”
Some people say something like that, you figure it’s for effect. They’re being dramatic. With the old man, he just threw it out there like he didn’t give a damn if you believed him or not.
“So what happens?”
“When you get malaria?”
“Yeah.”
“Comes from mosquito bites. You get sick. Fever. Vomiting. Major muscle pain, hot then cold, big-time headache. You go to the hospital. Sometimes you get over it. Sometimes you don’t. Let’s go.”
“Maybe I’ll take the pill.”
“You sure? I don’t want to trample on your human rights.”
I took the pill. We threw our garbage in a container in the lobby, went back to the room to brush our teeth and load up our gear. When we had packed our stuff into the truck and were sitting in the front seat waiting for the diesel to warm up, I had a thought.
“What do we do with the truck?”
“We leave it here … in Minneapolis. Not far from the airport.”
“You can do that?”
“I know a guy. He’s got a place.”
The place was a little piece of land with a small, kind of old house on it. A couple of other buildings too. Same vintage as the house. Looked like it could have been an okay place if somebody took better care of it, and if it wasn’t in the middle of an industrial area. Lots of equipment and high chain-link fences. Industrial plumbing supply outfit across the street. I thought about what industrial plumbing meant. Maybe you call these guys for the BSP — Big Shit Problems. Chase Sheet Metal on one side. Road Runner Courier Service on the other side.
The guy the old man knew, the guy who lived in this little slice of heaven, was a piece of work too. Looked like Santa Claus after a three-day drunk. I figured him to be about the same age as the old man. He was a little taller, maybe heavier but not by a lot. The thing you noticed about the guy was the white hair and beard, a lot of hair and a lot of beard. A ball cap advertising Rent-A-Wreck was perched on top of the white hair. The Rent-A-Wreck place was probably another one of his neighbours.
His face and eyes gave the impression that this was a man who hadn’t been looking after himself all that well. Crack cocaine instead of fruit and vegetables — that kind of look.
The other thing about him, which I didn’t notice right away, was that most of his left arm was missing. His sleeve was folded up and pinned at about the elbow. When we got out of the truck, he threw the good arm around the old man and the two of them hugged. They hugged long enough that I finally turned away and looked out at the trees that surrounded the guy’s place on three sides.
The trees were a good idea. Who wanted to look at a sheet metal place all the time?
“Nathan.”
I turned back, and the two of them had an arm around each other, and they were grinning, but it looked like there were tears in their eyes. I was wishing we could just ditch the truck and get out of there.
“I want you to meet one good son of a bitch.” The old man was grinning and wiping his nose with his sleeve.
The good son of a bitch stuck out a hand the size of a pillow. The good hand. The only hand. I reached out and took it. No, that’s not right. I didn’t take his hand; he took mine. It was like my hand had disappeared. I couldn’t see it anymore.
At least the GSOB didn’t squeeze the crap out of it like some people do to show you how strong they are. His hand was knobby and warm. Hard too, like it had calluses. Nothing like a pillow.
“I heard about you.” He was still grinning, and his eyes were still shining.
Him knowing about me, that surprised me. I didn’t figure the old man told a lot of people about his kid.
“Great … uh … good to meet you,” was the best I could do.
“Nathan, this is Tal Ledbetter. Tal, my son, Nathan.”
Tal nodded his head like crazy. Tal. What’s that short for … Talbert? Talisman? No, that’s a book. Tallas? I didn’t bother to ask.
He let go of my hand. “Let’s get you boys
