hemp.” He found another Geiger counter, a used Babbel-200. This was better than the Prospectometer, made more sense for a family. He pulled it out and held the mike attachment toward the boy’s head. “Ticktickticktick.” He was trying to kid, but the boy didn’t react. “Maybe your dad could use this. Got a revolving shield. See that? Helps protect it. See. Three ranges of sensitivity.” He held it out. “You want to hold it?”
“If you want me to.”
Harry placed it in his hands. “It’s heavy, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is heavy,” the boy said, and Harry was briefly enchanted by the melody of a complete sentence. He liked this boy.
“A fallout comes by, you gotta get it covered. Can you believe that? The thing it’s looking for’ll ruin it. With fallout it’ll read every hogback as radioactive. That flat tire, for instance. It’ll tick like it’s got uranium retreads.”
The boy nodded. His hands were shaking a little bit, holding it, and that made Harry like him more.
“Think your dad could use it?”
The boy shook his head.
“Already got one?” Harry asked him.
“It’s just my mom.”
“Just your mom and you?”
“And Beth.”
“Who’s Beth?”
The boy pointed toward his sister.
“Of course. I meant you in the plural. You plural and your mom singular.”
Your mom singular. That had a nice ring to it.
The boy just looked at him.
“Where are you from? I’m from Scipio. My name’s Harry, by the way. Harry Lindstrom.” He reached out but he couldn’t shake the boy’s hands because the boy was holding the Geiger counter. He pantomimed a handshake and the boy gave him a half smile. From this little fellow, maybe that was enough. Maybe a half smile was a whole victory.
“I’m Charlie.”
“Pleased to meet you, Charlie. Where you coming in from?”
“Dayton.”
“Dayton?” Harry repeated the word, mentally scanning the map of Utah, searching for a little spot named Dayton. Couldn’t find it, no matter how hard he looked. He knew the towns of Utah pretty well, was raised in one after the other in fact. Brothers and sisters scattered in seven different towns, all in Utah.
“Ohio,” the boy said. He waited for Harry to click back in. “Dayton, Ohio.”
“What?” The word what was echoing inside Harry’s head, which meant he must have screamed it. He had a sentence looping around and bothering him: I am Harry Lindstrom and I am in midsentence screaming what.
Now he saw that the children’s mother was standing on the road, if it could be called a road and not a bed of blown-up boulders bulldozed by the Atomic Energy Commission in secret government collusion with his wheel bolts, holding her daughter’s hand. Another tire gone, and him Mr. Sisyphus of the road crawling along in first gear and still the tire blows out, probably not fixable either but maybe it was, and no boots on the mother’s feet. Boots were like a good set of tires out here. The mother had on a party dress of all things, wilted in the heat and hanging on her like Tarzan’s loincloth, but a dress all the same, in other words something useless. No boots. That he couldn’t believe. She was dressed like she was poolside at the Stagecoach Oasis Motel. He had perhaps never seen anyone so remarkably reckless and naive and he was tempted to say stupid, though she looked nice, actually very nice, a singular mom. He didn’t want to say pretty because it might show on his face and she’d step back in caution, thinking he was a predator. He didn’t want her getting scared and then scaring her children. He was glad he hadn’t told them about his x-ray vision. Too much too soon. He couldn’t believe no boots.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to his flat tire. “Dayton Tire and Rubber.”
“What about it?”
Well, he meant, see, kind of—funny . . . something. He shrugged. Did he just shrug helplessly? The mother was looking at him like he had. Bewildered man. Poor, wayfaring, bewildered stranger. Another song.
“Do you always do that?”
He was doing several things at the moment. Which one did she probably mean?
“Sing.” One of the children had helped him out—the boy. Charlie.
“Got to keep myself company.” He decided that this was about the best answer he could have given. He had thus presented himself to this mother in the manner of an amiable gentleman who could enjoy a laugh on himself. He hoped she understood the gentleman part. A 100 percent absolute gentleman. That was not probably included in the answer. He would have to think of something else to say to let her know that. Men were rough out here. She might be worrying she was in harm’s way.
“You don’t have to fear me,” he said. “I’m a gentleman.”
Charlie’s sister started to snicker and he could see the brother turn with a foot prod to shush her. The girl hung her head and looked down at the dirt, silent, but with trembling shoulders. He was directing his remarks to the mother anyway, which he barely, just barely, prevented himself from telling the girl. Arguing with a little girl was not a good way to present yourself as the gentleman you claimed to be. The mother was looking at him without expression. But he was a salesman, a traveling salesman, who in his travels met all kinds of people, and he knew that lack of expression was in fact a very expressive expression.
“Maybe you would like something to drink,” the mother said.
“I don’t drink.”
Her shoulders drooped. “I mean water.”
“Flavor Aid,” Charlie said.
“Something. I think you need some water.”
“Okay,” Harry said. “Okay, that sounds good. Okay!” He was following the mother and when she turned to aim that no-expression look at him, he stopped with the okays. He was glad at least his last okay had sounded so friendly and enthusiastic. Okay! Come on, kids, let’s all go get some water! Translation: Don’t be scared, kids, it’s just me, Harry Lindstrom. He hoped they weren’t afraid of him. He wondered if they needed a Geiger counter. The Babbel-200 sold for $400 brand new but he was selling this one for half that and maybe for them he’d take it all the way down to $180.
“Put your pants on, please,” the mother said.
“Good heavens,” Harry muttered. He went back to the truck and found the pants folded nicely on the front seat. He was glad the tails of his shirt were so long, almost to his knees. He noticed his knees as he pulled on the pants. He saw two perfect blushes of red dirt. The tails of his shirt were starched stiff as pogo sticks and they were seamed in maroon. He was one of his toy soldiers, wounded, marching across the windshield. If he tucked in his shirt the maroon might seep through his pants, which were still very clean. Was it rude not to tuck in his shirt? He couldn’t tuck in a shirt in front
