Earthly Possessions

Five

We came to one of those city-type service stations, all fluorescent lights, scroungy blue-jeaned boy pumping gas, German shepherd in the plate glass window.

Jake Simms walked slowly and kept looking it over, I didn't know what for. Then he said, "This'll do." He cut in across the concrete, pushing me ahead of him.

"I got to go to the John," he said. "Got some other things to do besides. Ask the boy for the keys."

"What?"

"The keys, keys. Ask him for the keys to the John." I asked. The boy was washing a windshield now and he stopped and listened, as if he couldn't do more than one thing at a time. His ruffled yellow head tilted toward me; his knuckles were soiled and leathery. "I want the key,"

I told him.

"Keys!" Jake hissed behind me.

"Both keys. One for him too." The boy set his cloth aside and dug down in his jeans, which were so tight he had to suck in his breath before he could get a hand in his pocket. One key was attached to a huge metal washer, the other to a wooden disc. "Don't forget to give them back," the boy said.

"Sure thing," Jake told him.

We went around to the restrooms, where the doors were chained and padlocked, and he opened up the Ladies' and shoved me in. I was uncertain what was going on. Was this the end of the road? Was he planning to leave for good now? All he said, "Don't go away," and shut the door on me. I heard the key turning, then his footsteps growing fainter. For a long time after he was gone the chain went on swinging against the door like a handful of marbles being thrown down, over' and over again.

Well, of course I was glad to see the inside of a bathroom. I peed ten gallons, washed my hands, looked at my face in the speckled mirror. My hair was a little stringy but other than that I seemed the same as usual. Evidently these things don't show on a person the way you'd think they would.

But then I glanced up and saw how dim and tiny the ceiling was, hung with cobwebs-oh, this was a closed-in space, all right. One little window high up the cinderblock wall, chicken wire and milky glass, slanted partway open. I climbed onto the toilet seat. Standing on tiptoe, I could press my face to the window and see what little there was to see: a strip of blackness and the gleaming roofs of a few cars left overnight for repairs. Not a single human being, no one to get me out of there. Anybody would have been welcome, even Jake Simms. I was ready to rattle the windowpane like a prison grate and call his name. But then I saw him. He turned out to be a bent shape by one of the parked cars; he straightened and started toward me. I hopped down and slung my purse over my shoulder. When he opened the door I was just standing there, calm as you please.

I didn't give a sign how nervous I had been.

"Over this way," he said.

He led me into the dark, toward the clump of cars I'd seen from the window.

One car was long, humped-I didn't get a good look at it. On the passenger side the front door handle and the back door handle were looped through with a chain and padlocked. We edged between cars to get to the driver's side. Jake opened the door and pushed me onto the seat. "Slide over," he said, I looked at him.

"Don't try no funny stuff, I got it locked with the men's room chain." I slid over. Cars are closed-in spaces too, even without locked doors, and this one could smother a person, I thought, with its fuzzy, dusty-smelling seat covers and slit-eyed windows. There were no headrests. A pair of giant fur dominoes hung from the rear-view mirror. "What kind of car is this?" I asked.

"Beggars can't be choosers," said Jake. "None of them others had their keys left in." He settled into the driver's seat and inched the door shut, so it barely clicked when it latched. Then he let his breath out and sat still a minute. "Question is, does it work," he told me.

I heard the rustle of nylon, a key turning. The engine came on with a grudging sound. Jake slipped into reverse, and I saw the car ahead of us sliding away. Since I'm not a driver myself, I went on facing forward. So it came as a shock when wham! — we hit something. I spun around but I couldn't see what it was.

A mailbox, it sounded like. Something clattery. "Oh, hell," Jake said, and shifted gears and roared into the street. But even that didn't bring anybody out after us. At least, I was still looking backward and I didn't notice anyone.

"See, I didn't want to brake," Jake said. "Didn't want the brake lights lit." But now that we were out of there and into the ordinary, evening-time traffic, he switched on the headlights and settled back. I couldn't believe it.

Was that it? Simple as that? "Well. My goodness," I said. "I never knew a life of crime could be so easy." He looked at me sideways. He said, "A what? Life of what?" I didn't answer (not wanting to get hi any trouble). We rode along a ways. Turned right. Passed a line of people in front of a restaurant. Then, "Ha," he said. "Bet you think I'm some kind of a criminal, don't you."

"Um…"

Think I'm a crook or something." I decided it was best not to mention the bank robbery. I smoothed my skirt down and settled my purse on my lap. We turned left. Buildings grew sparser.

"That what you think?" he asked me.

"I don't know what you are and I don't care," I said.

He stopped for a traffic light. He was chewing on his lower Up; no wonder it got so chapped. When the light turned green the car started off with a jerk, as if suddenly reminded of something. The tires screamed, the dominoes bounced.

"Fact is, I ride demolition derbies," said Jake.

I thought he was making a joke about his driving, but his face stayed serious. "I do a lot of them out roundabout," he said. "Hagerstown, Potomac… Maryland's just full of them."

"Full of… demolition derbies?"

"Last year, I won three. But generally I do a whole lot better."

"Well, I thought that was just a weekend thing, demolition derbies. You make your living doing that?"

"What I make is my affair," he said.

"I mean-"

"If I have to IT! hire on a few days in a body shop or something, but I don't really like doing nothing but them derbies. I am a demolition fool, I tell you. I like that better than eating. I never could go for that soft life, sitting around in some house, no way out, wife, kids, goldfish… I like to get my hands on, say, a good solid Ford, sixty-two or three or long about there, and just mow all them others flat. Run that thing into the ground. Finest feeling I know of." He swerved for an animal carcass, not braking at all.

"Bet you thought I was some type of criminal," he told me.

"Well…"

"Want to know the truth?" I waited. He shot his eyes over at me, shot them back. In the dark his face was hard to read. "Whole trouble is this: I'm a victim of impulse," he said.

"Of-?"

"Impulse"

"Oh."

"Buddy of mine told me that," he said. "Guy name of Oliver. Oliver Jamison. This real smart character I hooked up with in the training school when him and me was teenagers. See, he didn't care. If they was to lock him up, why, he'd fust pull out a book and commence to reading, that was the type of a guy he was. Me, I like to go crazy if I am locked up. I mean it. I like to go crazy. Ill do anything I must to get away. You take that training school, I busted an ankle jumping out the chaplain's bathroom window there. I ran clear to the woods on a busted ankle. Only had a month left to go, too.

That's when this Oliver says what he says. When they brung me back he says, 'Jake,' he says, 'you're a victim of impulse.' Thing stuck in my mind. "You're a victim of impulse,' he says to me." He turned onto a highway, some little two-lane thing leaving the city. The engine made a snarling sound. "People who hold the power are the ones that don't mind locks," Jake said. "Now, Oliver, he was pretty cool. I liked that Oliver. I would call him O. J. He had this interest in blowing things up. I mean kid stuff-bombs in mailboxes. He would make the bombs by hand. He sure was smart. After they taken a look at the damage this chemical company offered him a scholarship, but he turned it down. Well, I get his point. See, mailboxes, there's a real satisfaction to a mailbox. But you don't want to go to work for no chemical company." A driver heading toward us flashed his lights, ho doubt so Jake would lower his beams, but Jake didn't seem to notice.

"What I told him was, It's circumstances somewhat too. It ain't entirely impulse,' I'd say. I mean you take this afternoon, for instance. Take a while back. Accidents, bad timing, dumb guy pulling a piece… you get what I mean?

I lack good luck. I am not a lucky man."

"Well, I don't understand how you can say that," I told him.

"Huh?"

"What if this car hadn't started, for instance? Back at the service station. It was in for repairs, remember. What if it hadn't started after you'd gone and chained the… and what if there'd been no key? Lots of places take better care than that, they keep the keys in the cash register or something. Or if the boy had been standing outside, what then?"

"Why, I would get a car from somewheres else," Jake said.

"But-"

"Like, you could go to a snorkel box. Ever hear of that? Snorkel mailbox. Jam the slot so a letter don't properly fall inside it. Guy drives up in his car, tries to stuff a letter through, gets out to see what went wrong.

Leaving his key in of course and engine running, door wide open. All you got to do is hop in. Simple. See?"

"But then he would know right away," I said. "He could be after you so fast."

"Now, there you got it," Jake said. He snapped his fingers. "You caught it straight off. I wouldn't never choose that method if I had other ways open to me."

"Right," I said, and then remembered. "Yes, but what I mean is, how can you say you're not lucky when it all went off so well?" He turned. I could feel him staring at me. He said, "Lucky? Is that what you call it? When some fool turns up armed and a camera flips on and you get this lady on your hands you never bargained for, it's lucky?"

"Well…"

"It's circumstances, working against me," said Jake. "Like I told Oliver: I surely don't plan it like this. Events get out of my control. But Oliver, oh, he could be such a smart-ass. Tour whole life is out of your control,' that's what Oliver said.

"Your whole life.' Smart-ass." I don't know what time it was when we stopped.

Around ten, maybe. We had been traveling through that deep, country dark that makes you feel too thin. The road was so raspy and patched, with so many curves, crossroads, stop signs-I kept nodding off to sleep, but every bump jarred my mind up to the surface again and I never really forgot where I was. So when we stopped I was awake in an instant, on guard. "What's wrong?" I said.

"Durn motor quit." He flicked on the inside light, which-made my eyes squinch up. "I knew from the start something like this was bound to happen," he told me.

"Maybe it's out of gas." He peered at the gas meter. He tapped it.

"Is that what it is?" I could tell it was; he wouldn't look at me. He got out of the car and said, "You steer, I'm going to push her to the side of the road."

"But I don't drive," I told him.

"What's that got to do with it? Just steer, is all I ask. Move over and steer." He slammed the door shut. I moved over. A second later I felt his weight against the back of the car, inching it forward, and I steered as best I could though it was hard to see much with the inside light on. I guided it a few feet down the road, wondering what I would do if the engine roared up and took off.

Freedom! I would leave him far behind, head for the nearest highway. Except that I really couldn't drive at all and had just the vaguest notion where the brake pedal was. So I steered to the right, finally, onto a strip of dirt so narrow that some kind of scratchy bushes tore at the side of the car. I heard Jake give a yell. The car stopped. When he came around and opened the door he said, "Now there was no call whatsoever to run her on into the woods."

"Well, I told you I couldn't drive." He sighed. He reached in to turn off the lights; then he said, "Okay, come on."

"What are we doing now?"

"Going to head for that service station we passed a. ways back."

"Maybe I could just sit here and wait for you,"

I said. "Ha." I climbed out of the car. My legs felt stiff, and it seemed my shoes had hardened into some shape that didn't fit me. Is it far?" I asked.

"Not too." We started walking-smack down the middle of the road, for there was no car in either direction. He had hold of my arm again in the same sore place as before. His hand felt small and wiry. "Listen," I said, "can't you let me walk on my own? Where would I run to, anyway?" He didn't answer. Nor did he let go of me.

The air had a damp smell, as if it might rain, and seemed warmer than what I was used to. At least, I wasn't shivering any more. From the little I could see, I guessed we were traveling through farm country. Once we passed a barn, and then a shed with the sleepy plucking of hens inside it. "Where on earth are we?"

I asked.

"How would I know? Virginia, somewheres."

"My feet hurt."

"It don't make sense that you can't drive a car," he said, as if that were to blame for all our troubles. "That's about the dumbest thing I ever heard of."

"What's dumb about it?" I asked him. "Some people drive, some people don't. It just so happens I'm one of them that don't."

"Only a whiffle-head would not know how to drive," said Jake. "That's how I look at it." He wiped his face on his sleeve. We walked on.

We rounded a curve that I had some hopes for, but on the other side there was only more darkness.

"I thought you said it wasn't far," I said.

"It ain't"

"I feel like my feet are dropping off."

"Just hold the phone, we'll get there by and by."

"My toes ache clear to my kneecaps."

"Will you quit that? Geeze, you'd think that guy could've filled his gas tank once in a while."

"Maybe he didn't know how long you'd be stealing it for," I said.

He said, "Watch yourself, lady." I decided to watch myself.

Around the next curve was the filling station, such as it was: one dimly lit sign, two pumps, and a lopsided shack. As soon as we saw it, Jake let go of my arm. "Now, pay attention," he said. "You're going to ask the guy for a can of gas. You got that?"

"Well, how come I always have to ask for things?" I said.

Something jabbed me in the small of the back: the gun. Oh, Lord, the gun, which I had thought we were through with, and in fact had let slip my mind as if it never existed. That prodding black nubbin in the hand of a victim of impulse.

I crossed the road and climbed the cinderblock steps, with Jake close behind me.

I opened the warped wooden door. For a moment all I saw was a pyramid of PennZoil tins, a faded calendar girl in a one-piece latex swimsuit, and stacks of looseleaf auto-parts catalogues. Then I found an old man in a wicker chair.

He was watching TV with the sound turned off. "Evening," he said, not looking around.

"Good evening."

"Something I can do for you folks?"

"Well, our car ran out of gas and I… we need a can of…"

"Fine, just fine," said the old man, and he went on watching TV. There was a commercial on, someone holding up a bottle and silently rejoicing. Then a news announcer appeared at a bare, artificial-looking desk, and the old man sighed and stood up. "A tin," he said.

"Tin." He went rummaging behind a stack of tires in one corner, but came up with nothing. "Wait a minute," he said, and went outside. As soon as he was gone, Jake pushed me further into the room and leaned over to torn up the sound on the TV."… with no end in sight," the announcer said, "though experts predict that by mid-summer there may well be a…" Jake switched channels. He traveled through & lady shampooing her hair, a man making a speech, a man playing golf.

He arrived at another news announcer, pale and snowy-. "Traffic on the Bay Bridge this summer is expected to reach an all-time high," this announcer said from a distance. Jake turned up the sound. The man grew louder but no clearer, and sadly shuffled his papers as if he realized it. A picture appeared of Jake and me, backing away from the camera. In spite of the snow, our faces seemed more distinct now. By next week you would be able to count our eyelashes, maybe even read our thoughts. But our stay was much briefer this time, cut off in midstep. We were replaced by my husband, a towering hatrack of a man, gaunt and cavernous and haunted-looking as always, sitting on our flowered sofa. I felt something tearing inside me. That bank robbery in Clarion," the announcer said, "is not yet solved, and police are concerned about a woman hostage who has been identified as Mrs. Charlotte Emory." My husband vanished. A picture teetered up of me alone, photographed by my father for my high school graduation: my fifties self with lacquered hairdo, cowgirl scarf, and cheeky black smile. Then Saul returned. The announcer said, "Our own "Gary Schneider talked with her husband this evening for "Views on News' cameras.*' Gary Schneider, who wasn't pictured, asked something I didn't catch. Saul stopped cracking his knuckles. He said, "Yes, naturally I'm worried, but I have faith shell be returned to us. The police believe that the bandit is still in this, area." His voice was hollow. He didn't seem to be thinking of what he was saying.

"Would you care to comment, sir," said Gary Schneider, "on that sidewalk witness who said they appeared to be running away together? Do you have any feeling that this may have been a voluntary action on her part?"

"That's ridiculous," said Saul, and he straightened slowly and took on a looming, ominous appearance that caused Gary Schneider to say, "Uh, well, I just-"

"Charlotte wouldn't do such a thing. She's a good woman, really, it's just that… and I know she would never leave me." Something clanked. Jake spun around.

The old man stood there with a gasoline can, shaking his head at the TV. "How long you been watching?" Jake asked-so mean you couldn't miss it, but the old man only smiled.

"Why, I was one of the first in this valley to purchase a set," he said.

"This here is my third; run dear through the other two. Matter of fact I been thinking of color but I'm scared of the cancer rays."

"Yeah, well," said Jake.

He paid him for the gas and the can. The old man said he would trust us for the can, but Jake said, "Might as well do like I'm used to," and handed over the money and took the can and nudged me out the door. When we left, the old man was already stooped before the TV trying to get his favorite channel back.

As soon as we were outside again, Jake said, "You told me you were leaving your husband."

"I was," I said.

"How come he said what he did, then? You lied."

"He lied," I said. "I don't know why he said that. Not only was I planning to leave him but I've left before, and he knows it Back in nineteen sixty. And I told him I would in sixty-eight also as well as a lot of other times, I couldn't say just when, exactly…"

"Oh, hell, I might have known," said Jake, "Now, what is that supposed to mean?" But he wouldn't answer. We walked on, our feet luffing softly on the scabby, highway. The air felt chillier and a fine cold spray had started up.

Oh, I certainly would have liked to give that Saul a piece of my mind. He was always doing things like that. Always saying, "I'm certain you won't leave me, Charlotte." I just wished he could see me now. I wished I could mail him a postcard: "Having wonderful time, moving on at last, love to all." From Florida, or the Bahamas, or the Riviera.

But then I stepped in some sort of pothole and cold water splashed to my knees, and my shoes started leaking as if they were no more than paper, and we rounded a curve and came upon the car: hulking in the dark, tilting off the side of the road like a lame man. When we reached it, Jake opened the door and snaked an arm inside to turn the lights on. The headlights flared up, but the ceiling light wavered and died. "Why!" I said (for up till now I hadn't taken a really good look). "Why, what is this?"

"Huh?" said Jake. He set the can down and unscrewed the cap of the gas tank. "Why, if s a-some kind of antique," I said.

"Sure. Fifty-three, would be my guess."

"But-" I said. I stepped back, peering at the toothy grille, the separate bumper like a child's orthodontic appliance.

The long, bulbous body was streaked with chrome in unexpected places. Over the headlights there were visors as coy as eyelashes, and the lights themselves had a peculiar color, I thought-dull orange, and cloudy. "It'll stick out a mile!" I said. "Everyone will notice. It will catch people's eyes like… for goodness sake," I said.

Gas burbled into the tank, on and on.

"This is just plain stupid," I said.

The can landed far away, in bushes or branches or something crackly, "Get in," Jake told me.

I got in. He climbed in after me and slammed the door. The motor started up with a cough, and when we pulled onto the road we bounced and swayed on our squeaky springs. I let my head loll back against the seat and closed my eyes.

"Well, there's one thing," I heard Jake say. "You're shed of that Frankenstein husband at least and that cruddy flowered sofa. Shed of that spooky little old lamp with the beads hanging off it. Oh, you couldn't keep me shut in no boring house. Ought to be glad you're out of it. Any day now, you're going to be thanking me. Is how I look at it." But that's the only lamp we have, I wanted to say. I've given the others away. Tve given the rugs away too and the curtains and most of the furniture. How much more can I get rid of? My head was growing heavy, though, and my eyes wouldn't open. I fell asleep.