answer to that, had seen it on Roger’s face under the porch light, had smashed in the window of Roger’s car because of it, but still it made no sense. Did Roger blame him in some way for the fuckups? Whitey wasn’t able to think his way through that one. Could have been killed, twice, and didn’t even know why. Someone owed him an explanation. And what about benefits, like his medical expenses, and danger pay? He realized that everything had changed the moment Roger stepped on his toe. Why hadn’t he done something then and there? He dwelled for a while on the memory of what had happened to an inmate down in Florida who’d just brushed against him in the chow line, spilling Whitey’s pudding. This was a democracy. No special treatment for anyone. So what did Roger deserve now?
But he was cold, hungry, weak, deep in the woods: all on the bad side. Was there anything on the good side, anything going for him? Only the fact that he knew where Roger lived. And the night. Night was his friend. Whitey fired up his truck.
He nosed his way back out of the deep woods, out of the darkness, silence, long shadows, the chains taking him safely to the first plowed country road. A plowed road, but no sign of life, nothing but whiteness outside and the red of the warning light in the cab. By the time he saw the glow of the first crummy village, the needle had sunk far below the empty mark, almost the width of his baby finger. The engine stuttered once, twice, and died-just as he rolled up to a one-pump station at the cross-roads. He got the feeling it was meant to be.
A kid appeared.
“Fill it,” Whitey said.
The kid didn’t move for a moment, staring at Whitey’s face in the glare of the pump lights.
“Hockey game,” Whitey said.
The kid nodded. “Sell Band-Aids inside.”
Whitey went in, bought Band-Aids, sandwiches, candy bars, a shake, said, “Hockey game,” to the woman at the cash before she could even ask; he was coming back.
“You guys,” she said.
He was in Maine, all right, could tell by the way they talked. He got back in the pickup, stuck the Band-Aids over his stitches, tried a chicken sandwich. That hurt too much to eat, so he just downed the shake-had to keep his strength up for what lay ahead-and headed south.
Night is my friend. Sounded like a line from a song, a good one, a Metallica song. Whitey tried to think of what could come next. End rhymed with friend, but what went in between? He couldn’t get from friend to end, soon gave up, tried the radio instead. Now a few stations came in, but unsteady and playing shit. He switched it off.
Whitey stopped in the last town before the turnpike, filled up again, bought two quarts of chocolate milk, drank them in the 7-Eleven parking lot, felt better right away. He worked his way through a candy bar, taking little bites, chewing carefully, then started on the chicken sandwich: yes, getting stronger-he was something else. A bus pulled in, BOSTON in the destination box, and a woman stepped down, followed by the driver. The driver went into the store; the woman got into a waiting pickup, almost as old as Whitey’s, put her arms around the man behind the wheel, and gave him a big kiss. Then she saw Whitey watching and sat back in her seat; they drove away.
Whitey hit the radio button again. Plenty of stations now. He turned the dial, heard bits of this and that: oldies, folk, jazz, commercials, “-nald ‘Whitey’ Truax,” “down to minus twent-”
His name? Had he heard his name on the radio? He twisted his way back up the dial, failed to find the station, or if he did, it was playing music now. His name on the radio? He thought ahead to the turnpike with its toll-booths, its speed traps; and his truck, all white with that REDEEMER shit on the side.
And got out fast. He walked across the parking lot to the bus, waited outside the closed door. After a minute or two, the driver came out of the 7-Eleven, scratching at instant tickets. “One,” Whitey said to him, getting out his money.
“All the way?”
“Huh?”
The driver gave him a look, took in the Band-Aids and his fucking hair. “Boston,” he said. “End of the line.”
“Yeah,” said Whitey.
Whitey sat at the back, the only passenger at first, one of only a few by the end. It was warm on the bus, and with the winter night gliding by outside and what he’d been through, Whitey should have fallen asleep right away. But he couldn’t sleep, not with the flashing blue lights he saw from time to time, not with his name out there on the radio, not with things so uneven between him and Roger. He was back on a bus, didn’t even have his truck- would never have it again. Would never have it again: he stopped thinking about the future right there, at least of any future beyond evening things up with Roger. What did he have? The night, and knowing where Roger lived. What did he need? A hat for one thing, to hide the hair he saw glowing back at him from his window at the back of the bus.
He bought one at the pushcart stand in South Station, red wool with Holy Cross written on the front. In the bathroom, he pulled it low over his ears and forehead, turned up the collar of his leather jacket, hunched down inside. He checked himself in the mirror: could have been anybody. Anybody nasty. Whitey walked out into the city.
And lost the night right away. The sky seemed to brighten almost at once, as though everything was speeding up, black rushing to turn blue, a cloudless icy blue with a cold wind whipping through the downtown streets and pain on the faces of all the well-dressed people walking fast to wherever. No one looked at anybody. Whitey walked fast, too, tall in his cowboy boots, trim in his leather jacket, anonymous in his wool hat. Daytime, but safe for now.
He was hungry, craved doughnuts, soft and sweet, hot chocolate, coffee with lots of sugar, but passed by every restaurant; couldn’t go in, not with his name out there on the radio. He came to the statue of George Washington; an icicle hung from the end of his saber. A saber would make a decent weapon, much better than what he had, which was nothing.
Whitey went through the Public Garden, following the path around the frozen pond. He crossed a street, climbed the hill past all the big brick houses with their fancy grillwork, doors, knockers, turned left on another street, climbed higher. And there he was, standing outside Roger’s door, a tall and massive door, black with gold numbers and fixtures. He noticed that Christmas wreaths hung from the doors of the neighboring houses but not from Roger’s. That didn’t help him with the next step. What was it? Whitey didn’t know.
The mailman was coming up the street, red envelopes in his hand. No way he could just stay there, waiting outside the door. Whitey kept going, rounded the next corner, came to an alley. An alley, he realized, that backed against Roger’s house, where Roger might keep his car, for example. Whitey walked down the alley.
He didn’t see Roger’s car in the alley, no cars at all, just garage doors lining both sides. No numbers on them either: how was he supposed to know which garage was Roger’s? He thought for a while, wondered about going back around to the street, counting the houses on the block, or maybe trying to identify them by their rooftops, then coming back and A garage door slid up, three or four garages down the alley from where he stood, on the right. A car backed out. The rear wheels hadn’t even appeared before Whitey recognized Roger’s four-by-four, the window replaced already. All neat and tidy. Whitey ducked behind a trash barrel.
Over the top of the barrel, he watched the car emerge, caught the profile of a woman in the passenger seat, and Roger beyond her at the wheel, checking his mirrors. The front wheels angled out, the car backed toward him a few feet, then straightened and drove forward, off down the alley.
Safe.
But the woman! Had he ever seen a woman like that? Yes, as a matter of fact, but he couldn’t think who at the moment. Could she possibly be Roger’s? What a thought. Then it hit him: she was a grown-up version of Sue Savard, but oh so much better. A perfect Sue Savard, the way Sue Savard would have looked with an actress playing her. Whitey was so knocked out, so distracted by these unusual thoughts, that he almost didn’t notice the garage door sliding back down, almost didn’t realize that Roger had triggered some sort of remote control from his car, almost didn’t grasp the significance of it all. He charged out from behind the trash can, flew toward that closing door, skidded the last few yards across icy bricks, jammed the toe of his cowboy boot-fucking toe stepped on by Roger-under it just in time. Yes: he was in; and got that old, old feeling.
