and I don’t mean to ridicule you when I say that you’re a faucet turner. And I mean, those high heels look nice—well, they do look nice, don’t they, Ralph?”
Even Beth knew that her mother was supposed to ask what a faucet turner was, but she didn’t.
“Very nice,” Ralph said.
“Now where’s your water, may I ask? Can’t live without water. You learn that stuff pretty quick. Don’t know where Harry’s been taking his lessons.”
“We found a waterhole,” her mother said.
Paul Morrison grimaced. “That’ll do you in an emergency, but you don’t want all that alkaline on a daily basis.”
Beth looked at Charlie. He had taken note. Alkaline.
“We’ll get it from town and tote it in,” her mother said.
“Believe me, with that plan you will die. I’m being serious now. The board springs aren’t looking too good on your Rambler. Can’t believe you made it this far without a truck. Well, it took its toll. I’d say you have one trip left in that wagon and I would use it for a fast exit. What would you say, Ralph?”
“I’d say the same thing.”
“Eventually,” her mother said.
“Eventually what?”
“Eventually we’ll make a fast exit. But not right away.”
Paul Morrison glanced back at his partner. Though a slight shake of the head was all he displayed, Beth could read all kinds of topsy-turvy activity going on inside him. He turned back to her mother with an I-give-up shake of the head. “We’ll set you up with a little water buffalo—a little tank, see, we’ll fill it with water for you. Can’t promise about no murder. Men might kill themselves fighting over you.”
“Thank you for the water.”
The men went back to the road. Beth followed Charlie out there and they watched Paul Morrison clamber into Harry’s truck and gun it off the road. They picked up the supplies Harry had strewn about and loaded them back into Harry’s truck. Paul Morrison asked Joe to find a paper bag and tape it over the Rambler’s carburetor. “Dust,” he explained to Charlie. “How old are you, young man?”
“Twelve.”
“Twelve. You sure? You don’t look twelve.”
“I’m twelve,” Charlie said.
“Did your mom tell you to say twelve?”
“No. I told myself.”
“You told yourself to say twelve which means you told yourself to say this number instead of the correct number, which means how old are you really?”
“He was born in 1942, that’s why he’s twelve,” Beth said.
“And how old are you?” the man asked.
“Ten,” Beth said.
“Well, okay, you could pass for ten. Your mom making you do this?”
“No.”
“This is what you want to do?”
“Yes.”
“What about school?”
“We have permission,” Charlie said.
“Permission from what?”
“Permission from the school.”
Paul Morrison let out an exasperated sigh. He went back to the campsite and knelt down by Harry and shook him. “Come on, Harry, you need to wake up.” He shook again until Harry roused. Then he held out the canteen and told him to drink.
“It’s hot as tea!” Harry’s eyes were wild.
“How would you know what tea tastes like?” Paul Morrison said.
“I know what hot tastes like.”
“That’s because it’s been sitting in your truck in the sun. Take better care, Harry. What the heck are you doing, anyway?”
“It’s nothing,” Harry said. “Just my way of telling myself summer’s coming on.” To Paul Morrison’s harsh gaze, he said, “I’ll drink more.”
“You need the doctor? We’re heading into town.”
“What’s Randolph going to do except give me a blanket?” Harry said.
“You need a blanket?”
“Yeah, that would be all right.”
Paul Morrison glanced at Joe, who left the campsite and came back with a blanket. “Heatstroke,” Paul Morrison muttered. “You of all people. We’re all sitting here sweating, Harry, I want you to know that. We’re sweating and you’re shivering.”
“I’ll be all right.”
“You going to be more careful?”
“Thank you. Yes, I will.”
“And look who you’re imposing upon.” Paul Morrison turned to her mother. “I’ll take him into town if you want, ma’am.”
“He’ll be fine. We can handle him.”
“I’d say you’re lucky, Harry. You’re imposing mightily on a young mother and her two children.”
“I’ll give them a good deal on a Geiger counter.”
“Oh criminy, Harry.” Paul Morrison stood up and tugged his belt even higher. “Let’s go.”
Her mother didn’t say anything as they left. The men weren’t talking either or Beth would have easily overheard. The truck engine started up and painfully bucked into gear.
“Charlie, that was an Indian,” Beth said.
“I know.”
“Was his name really Joe?”
“I think that was another one of their jokes,” her mother said.
“What’s so funny about Joe?”
Her mother shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said.
THREE
Harry woke to the smell of baked beans and canned meat. He stood up and hurried away. The moon hadn’t arrived; he touched the canyon wall to guide him through the dark. He was rounding the rock when he couldn’t hold back. The campsite was a perfect amphitheater and as he vomited, the embarrassing detonations of his sickness—his stupidity—were perfectly reported back. He kept moving farther out. He left the rocks and
