I was drowning, but not in water. In darkness.
His granddaughter is asleep on her cot.
The Boy’s is empty.
The Old Man lay back down, breathing slowly, willing his racing heart to settle.
The Boy is still disturbed by what he’s had to do within the casino. Maybe he is forever damaged just like his weak side. Maybe I should just leave him here.
Stop. It’s the middle of the night and it’s dark, my friend. The worst time to try to make plans or important decisions.
And the Old Man thought of how his friend Santiago had followed the fish all through the night, all alone, being pulled deeper and deeper into the gulf.
Chapter 31
Night fell across the western horizon, and atop the Dam the first ribs of meat were handed out to those who had waited throughout that long, hot, dusty afternoon.
The ribs were meaty and full of juice.
The Old Man ate one sitting next to his granddaughter, surrounded by the people of the Dam, telling them of Tucson. Telling them about a city that was lost and now found. Telling them of lemon trees and salvage.
“We were trying to open the roads and keep the lines of communication up between the settlements,” said one of them after the Old Man had finished telling all there was to tell of Tucson. “Maybe we could still do that with Tucson.”
Everybody quietly agreed this might be a good idea.
Despite the lack of vehicles.
The Army of Crazy in Vegas.
The rumors of the East.
The tragedy of the three still hangs over them.
What could I offer that would make it better for them?
Nothing, my friend. Nothing.
“Poppa, where is he?” she said referencing the Boy.
The Old Man looked down into her big brown eyes.
Has she already fallen for him? I thought she was still too young for that.
Who can know the heart, my friend?
I thought I did.
And…
You were wrong.
I’m almost convinced now that we must leave the Boy. He’s wounded. Damaged and what if he fails when we need him most. Or what if he turns on us.
If you were to ask yourself, my friend, can you trust him? What would your answer be?
I don’t know.
“He’s missing everything, Poppa!” she said looking up from her plate. Worried.
“I’ll go look for him. I’ll find him. Watch my plate.”
“Okay, Poppa.”
The Old Man found the Boy near the tank down in the garage. Securing their gear. He had rearranged the drums into a better configuration for drawing fuel.
When he saw the Old Man watching him, he stopped.
“It will be better this way,” he seemed to apologize.
The Old Man walked across the silent and dark garage.
Tell him he’ll have to stay behind. That he can’t go on with you.
You mean, tell him I don’t trust him.
“It will be better that way,” said the Old Man. “You’ve done good. Thank you.”
The Boy smiled.
In the days since he has been with us I don’t think I’ve actually seen him smile. Inside of him there is still something that wants to though. Something that “done” things and a life on the road hasn’t managed to burn up yet.
“Come. There’s meat. Good ribs from a steer. There might even be one left for you.”
The Boy hopped down from the tank awkwardly and limped toward the Old Man, the memory of his smile refusing to let go.
Sometimes he is so able and strong, you forget half his body is withered.
They turned and the Old Man patted the Boy once more on the shoulder, feeling the powerful warmth of his strong right side, remembering the sudden smile.
And he thought, ‘I won’t leave you.’ And, ‘Maybe you just need to be salvaged.’
THE OLD MAN did not sleep much.
Maybe I slept a little.
But not enough to be of measure, to count. To be worth it.
He was up before anyone.
Close to dawn.
He went to the tank.
The tank and drums were full of the home-brewed fuel.
Also, we have all the water we can carry.
They would have rice and beans, cooked already, and flour tortillas they could heat on the warmth of the engine.
There are over two hundred and fifty miles to Flagstaff. They tell me there might be fuel there. So maybe…
I am tired of worrying about fuel. It will either be there or it won’t. But I am tired of worrying about it. I am anxious to be on the road and to be done with this errand.
You are not worried, my friend?
I am that too.
AT DAWN, the Big Man and the others arrived. In time the storage cases full of rice, beans, and tortillas were loaded on board the tank. The Boy came carrying their things. The Old Man’s granddaughter, fresh from the showers, wrapped in her shiny green bomber jacket against the cold that lay deep within the Dam, carried just her sleeping bag.
The Old Man started the APU and fired the main engine. Smoke erupted across the garage and the people raced to raise the big door.
The Big Man climbed up on the turret as the Old Man throttled the engine back and forth, hoping the cause of the thick smoke was just moisture in the fuel.
“Never mind that,” yelled the Big Man over the whispering roar of the engine. “Our home brew is a little watery, burns rough, but it works!” He smiled broadly. “Tell Reynolds at Kingman that Conklin sent you and to give ya any fuel, if he’s got it. Reynolds is good people.”
The Old Man shook the Big Man’s hand and made ready to go.
Once everyone was clear, he pivoted the tank toward the entrance and gassed it until they were out in the morning sun followed by a cloud of blue smoke.
The right tread may or may not be going bad and we make more smoke than we should. So there is that to worry about.
You complain too much, my friend.
Yes, I know.
