His Illegal Self

5

Inside the Ford were smells which the boy could not have named or untangled-long wisps of WD-40 and marijuana, floating threads of stuff associated with freaks who made their own repairs, dandelion chains of dust and molecules of automotive plastics which rose up in the moldy heat, 1961, 1964, 1967.

At Kenoza Lake he had gotten accustomed to moldy paper, books with yellow pages, the rotting leaves in late November, the smell of dairy cows across the lane. As he scrambled across the busted sunken boneless backseat of John the Rabbitoh’s wagon, he tried to like where he had come. His dad would maybe smell like this exactly, underground.

You OK, baby?

I’m cool, he said.

As the first fat raindrops splatted like jelly against the windshield, the mother pulled him close against her generous breast. She was all he had for now.

Trevor, said the snaggle-toothed passenger, not looking at the boy. His skin was smooth and taut but his edges were all raw and poor, like he had crawled along a drainpipe to arrive here.

Dial, said the mother.

Trevor was now offering drugs and the boy was certain that he was through the doorway which had been waiting for him all his life. His grandma had always fretted about it, being stolen back by revolutionaries. She never spoke directly to the subject, so he had to listen through the wall-his history in whispers, brushing, scratching on the windowpane.

The edge of the storm took the car like a kitten in its mouth. The driver stared into the rearview mirror. Where you heading? he asked the mother who was already dealing from the pack.

She answered, North, which made the boy certain it could not be true. He had three wild cards which were very good. He drew his finger across his throat to tell her he would win.

The lemmings are going south, said Trevor.

What’s with that? She matched the discard pile, red on red.

Cyclone, said Trevor. Going to wash Noosa Sound back into the sea. Bang! Bang! Those houses are going to be walking round the sand like crabs.

Beach, he thought. He was down to three cards already. The mother’s hand was getting all weighed down.

You’re American? Trevor asked her. What we call a cyclone, you call a hurricane.

Uno, cried the boy. Triumphant.

I can’t read or write, Trevor announced, frowning at the card. He asked the mother, How far north?

The mother hugged the boy to her and he hid from Trevor’s inquiring stare. I don’t like to plan, she said.

She did not deal another hand. Instead she held the boy as they traveled through the storm, whispering that she loved him, stroking his head.

When he woke the car had stopped. It was raining on his legs and the mother was not there. Three doors were open shaking violently in the wind. Outside was dark, and the storm came inside the car and lifted the Uno cards and slapped them around the windows.

Dial!

He was alone, illegal, “on the lamb.” The rain hurt his legs like needles.

Dial!

He pulled himself into the seat, his bare legs retracted, his back straight, his hands balled into fists. He was way too scared to cry but when the mother finally returned he shouted at her.

Where were you?

Shush, she said, reaching out for him, but he drew away from her bony cold hands. Behind her the bushes slashed and squabbled in the dark.

You left me!

The road is flooded.

Where is the driver? He was scared to hear himself, so loud, like someone else.

Dial was not scared. She paused and narrowed her eyes and pushed back her sodden hair which dripped across his face.

He’s coming back, she said evenly. We’re all coming back, OK?

OK, he said.

He watched silently as she dug down into her big lumpy khaki bag, deciding that he would not take candy, not even chocolate.

What will happen now, he asked, but he could already see she did not know, had nothing to offer, not even candy, only a big blue sweater which she wrapped around his legs.