which the local citizens had lobbied long and hard. If that hadn’t worked out they’d probably have tried to get a nuclear power station, or have the state pen moved there. It was that kind of place. It was also the end of the road, where Highway 2 meets the Pacific.
I stopped at Dairy Queen on the outskirts of town and ordered a cheeseburger and rings to keep my indigestion up to speed. At the table across from mine, a couple of economy-size women in muumuus and elaborate perms were loudly discussing a friend’s colostomy in graphic detail. On the other side of the divider, next to me, a trio of teen tarts were rehashing their Saturday night live.
“So he goes, ‘No fucking way!’ and I say, ‘Way!’ And it’s like I’m getting weirded out, OK? And I’m going, uh- oh! You know? So I tell him, ‘I’m outta here,’ ’cos I’m getting like majorly,
It was then that I remembered Sam. For the first time since leaving home, I had to make a decision. I could go north, or south, or I could turn back, but I had to decide. My week on the road had been interesting, but it had also been enough, at least for now. I couldn’t face the prospect of any more meals in truck stops where everyone was either on the move or wished they were, or any more nights in motels where I woke at three in the morning with images of David and Rachael swarming in the darkness all around me, and got up and sat on the tweed- upholstered sofa and watched CNN until it grew light outside.
Now darkness had fallen again, and Dairy Queen was filled with happy families who thought of themselves as unhappy, who squabbled and whined and bitched and left in tears, little knowing their luck, their incredible, unearned good fortune at simply being able to go home together. It was not their happiness that I envied so much as their unhappiness. I too wanted the luxury of carping and complaint, the safe thrill of sniping at sitting targets, of taking your distance from the place where “they have to take you in.” But I had no home to go to. The only person I knew for a thousand miles in any direction was Sam. In retrospect, it was inevitable that I would call him.
A man I didn’t know answered. Sam wasn’t there, he said. He’d try to contact him and have him call me back. I was at a pay phone outside Dairy Queen. It had started to rain, a fine persistent enveloping drizzle which furred my clothes and skin. I gave the guy the number, went back inside and had another cup of coffee. It was another forty minutes before the phone outside started to ring. It was Sam. He sounded preoccupied, and not particularly pleased to hear from me, as if I represented a problem of some kind.
“So where are you at?” he demanded.
“Everett. You know it?”
“Yeah. You’re pretty close.”
There was a pause.
“Want to come tonight?” he said.
“Well, is that OK? I mean I don’t have any other plans, but I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”
“It’s OK,” Sam said flatly. “I just got to think.”
Another pause.
“You got wheels?” he asked.
“Sure.”
“What are you driving?”
“An old Chevy. Kind of a blue-green color. It’s got Minnesota plates and a big antenna on the back.”
“OK. Here’s what you do. Take 1–5 north to Highway 20, then turn off for Anacortes. Go into town and park on Main Street, across from the clock. Aim to be there in about an hour and a half. It’s less than fifty miles, so you can take it easy. I’ll send someone to meet you.”
“Hey, are you sure this is not a problem?” I said, slightly disconcerted by his abrupt tone. “I mean I didn’t let you know I was coming or anything, and …”
“I knew you were coming, Phil.”
I smiled at this hint of the old familiar bullshit.
“You did? That’s interesting. I didn’t know myself until a week ago.”
“I don’t mean I knew you were coming today,” Sam replied a little sharply. “It could have been any time, next month, even a year from now. But I knew you’d come in the end.”
I smiled secretly.
“You’ll really like it here,” he went on, seemingly making an effort to sound a little more enthusiastic. “You’ve got your own room and everything. I’ve been looking forward to this for a long time, Phil. Believe me, it’ll be just great.”
“Sounds good,” I replied unconvincingly.
Traffic was heavy on the concrete ribbon of the interstate. Headlights slashed through the curtain of rain, passing trucks plucked and tugged at my old Chevy. I was glad to reach the exit.
Anacortes turned out to be a sprawl of modern homes and shopping malls surrounding the original town center. It was right on the water, and must have been a fishing port at one time, but its Main Street looked almost identical to many of those I had passed through on my way to the coast: a core of sturdy two-story brick business buildings with a scattering of big wooden houses. I had no problem finding the clock that Sam had mentioned, one of those models with Roman numerals and a double face standing on a wrought-iron pillar which jewelers used to put up outside their stores as an advertisement.
I sat there for over half an hour, getting colder and colder and wondering how reliable Sam and his friends were. There was hardly anyone around. By now it was after nine o’clock, and the citizens of Anacortes were presumably hunkered down in front of the TV or tucked in with a cup of cocoa. So when the headlights appeared behind me, I noticed them at once. The only vehicle which had passed me so far was a cruiser with a cop in a Smokey the Bear hat who had given me the beady eye, as if I were casing the jeweler’s premises across the street.
A VW van pulled up alongside me. I could just make out the silhouette of a man sitting in the driver’s seat. He seemed to be looking in my direction. The van was covered in garish magic-bus artwork, amateurish swirls of color depicting naked bodies in various poses surrounded by stars and flames. There was a brief peep from the VW’s reedy horn, then it revved up and proceeded down Main Street. I restarted my motor and followed.
We drove in tandem out of town along the highway I had come in on, then turned off down a narrow road winding through dense woods. The rain had ceased by now, and the clouds were breaking up, allowing glimpses of the almost full moon. After several miles, the VW slowed down and signaled left. A battered mailbox with a number crudely painted in white was nailed to a post at the entrance.
We turned on to a dirt road which zigzagged steeply downhill. It was pitted with potholes filled with water and ruts formed by the runoff. The Chevy scraped painfully several times, and I had visions of losing my muffler. After about five minutes the ground leveled out, the woods dropped back, and we emerged onto a patch of level grassland. Up ahead was an isolated house. As we approached, an external light high on the eaves came on, the door opened and a figure appeared in silhouette. I assumed at first that it was Sam, but as my headlights passed the doorway I saw that it was a man I didn’t know.
The VW drew up beside one of the barns. I parked behind it and got out, savoring the odors of pine sap and salt water. I could hear the ocean somewhere close by. Sea gulls circled invisibly overhead, screeching intermittently. A light breeze stirred the tall, seemingly impenetrable barrier of conifers all around.
The man who had emerged from the house walked over to the VW and spoke briefly to the driver, then they both came over to where I was standing. The driver was in his late thirties, short and chunky, with a soft beer gut. His face was chubby and battered, and he had a droopy mustache and long hair pulled back in a ponytail. The other man was taller and sparer, with the kind of leanness which looks like the result of malnutrition or bad genes, not diet and exercise.
“I’m Rick,” the driver said. “This is Lenny.”
“Phil,” I replied. “Good to meet you.”
“We’ve got some stuff to unload,” Rick remarked, jerking his thumb at the VW. “You want to give us a hand, it’ll go quicker.”
“Sure thing.”
When I looked more closely at the kitschy designs painted on the VW van, they reminded me of something I had seen before, although I couldn’t place it-an album cover, maybe. Rick opened the side door, lifted out a large package and walked off with it. Lenny did the same, and then it was my turn. The inside of the van was filled with shrink-wrapped multipacks and rows of institutional-size drums and jars. There were packs of canned spaghetti and
