Old Man Read online

  I wondered why he’d told me about the notes my mom left for him. Guilt? Didn’t stop him from taking off with the teenager. Maybe she was one of the ones he was screwing when he was out at night and Mom was at home writing notes to him.

  I was young when he left, so I don’t really remember how she was after that, you know, how she handled the breakup. Except I remember waking up a couple of times and she was sitting beside my bed watching me sleep. It wasn’t the times when I was sick or anything, so I was never sure why she was there. But thinking back on it, that might have been right around the time the old man took off.

  I watched more amazing Minnesota scenery rolling by and yawned a few hundred times. But I was careful not to say the word “boring.” Actually, I didn’t say much of anything.

  I got to thinking about the first job I’d ever had. I was eleven years old. One of the women Mom worked with lived just a few blocks from us. She was looking for a baby sitter for the summer for her five-year-old.

  I got the job. I’d get up at 7:00 a.m. every weekday and ride my bike over to their house. Then I’d look after the kid — his name was Asa — from eight until four thirty when the mom got home from work.

  She left lunch to be warmed up every day, usually soup or macaroni, stuff like that. The best was this soup she called red borscht. I’d never had it before. It’s a cabbage and beet soup — some other vegetables and potatoes in there too. Except it was purple, not red … purple soup. It looked gross but tasted awesome. Asa and me, we really got after it on red borscht days.

  The kid was okay. The best part was that even though he was five, he had a sleep every afternoon. I’d sit around and play his mom’s CDs — she had pretty good taste in music — until the kid woke up.

  We went for a lot of walks. Pretty much toured the whole neighbourhood. Like explorers. Sometimes we rode our bikes.

  One bad day kind of wrecked the whole summer for both of us. We were out walking. Actually, Asa was riding his bike, and I was walking along beside him. It was easy because Asa didn’t ride very fast. He had one of those little bikes, which made sense since he was a pretty small kid, even for five.

  We were on the sidewalk by a major street called Edmonton Trail. Asa was pedalling and talking, and I was off in whatever world eleven-year-olds go to when they get tired of listening to five-year-olds. We were by a playground. There were some kids playing on slides and swings and stuff. Suddenly, this little girl, maybe about Asa’s age, ran out onto the road to get a ball.

  I started to yell at her not to run out there, but I didn’t have time. She got hit by a car, a big boat of a car, I remember. The guy driving didn’t have a chance to miss her. It was the worst sound I ever heard. I could see what was going to happen, and everything slowed down. It was like I had time to think about what it would sound like when the car hit her.

  Except it didn’t sound like what I thought it would. It was awful, first the thump of the car hitting the kid, then the sound of the brakes on the car, squealing but not until after it had hit the little girl, then the bump of her hitting the pavement, I bet it was twenty metres down the road.

  It went on what felt like forever — that little girl rolling and rolling on the pavement. But then came the worst sound of all — it was the kid’s mother who came screaming from the park out onto the road. “Carla, oh, god, oh, my god, Carla, my baby!”

  She just kept yelling that. Over and over. She was bent over the little girl where she’d finally stopped rolling. I grabbed Asa, and we turned down the lane at the end of the park.

  He was pretty shook up. I was too. He told his mom about it that night. She said she’d heard about a little girl being hit by a car on the news on her way home from work. She said the newscast didn’t say if the girl was going to be okay or not. I always had the feeling she really did know but didn’t want to say in front of Asa.

  Asa didn’t want to go for any walks or bike rides for a couple of weeks after that. And we never went anywhere near Edmonton Trail again that summer.

  8

  We hadn’t had a pee stop in quite a while. I told the old man I needed to stop, and we pulled into a Conoco in Sauk Center, Minnesota. The old man told me it was pronounced like ‘go soak your head.’” The hilarity just keeps on coming.

  I saw a sign that said Sinclair Lewis House, and there was an arrow pointing off to the right. I figured Sinclair Lewis must be a big deal in Go-soak-your-head Centre, Minnesota. Like in the next town to ours there was an NHL guy born there, and there’s a big sign — Libbert, Alberta, home of whatever the guy’s name is. In Canada, if you’re a hockey star, you can get your name on the town sign.

  I asked the old man if he’d ever heard of Sinclair Lewis, but he just shook his head. Then there was another sign a little further on: Sinclair Lewis, 1930 Nobel Prize Winner for Literature. I didn’t figure that would get you a sign in my town. Unless you also happened to play for the Blackhawks or Penguins.

  We stayed in a Motel Six just outside of Minneapolis that night. The old man said it was cheaper than getting a place in the city. Great, we’re on the economy plan. I didn’t know how I felt about not having my own room. Sharing a room with my old man. Who, let’s face it, until ten or twelve hours ago, was pretty much a total stranger to me.

  What if he was a pervert or something? Or walked in his sleep? Or snored real loud? Sure, Mom had said he wasn’t an evil man — wasn’t that how she’d put it? But hell, she hadn’t seen him in forever. Maybe she didn’t know him as well as she thought she did.

  As soon as we checked in and dumped all our stuff in the room. we went out to an Italian restaurant. I had ravioli and meatballs. and the old man had something that had too many consonants for me to pronounce.

  We didn’t talk much at first. I noticed a couple of women, I’m guessing in their forties, looking over at us from another table. I doubted very much if it was me they were checking out. The old man didn’t seem to notice them, or if he did, he didn’t seem to care.

  After I’d polished off about half of the ravioli and a couple of meatballs, I looked over at him. “You got a girlfriend?”

  He was chewing, so it was a while before he could answer, but then all he did was shake his head, which he could have done while he was chewing. He looked at me with a look that I figured said he didn’t want to have this conversation. I set my fork down.

  “What happened to the teeth cleaner?”

  “She was a dental hygienist. Name was Cindy.”

  “Was?”

  “She went back to her husband after we’d been together for a couple of years.”

  “She was nineteen and had a husband?”

  “They were split up when we met.”

  “She was nineteen and had split from her husband. Sounds really nice.”

  “She was really nice. And she was almost twenty.”

  “That’s way better. And you and Mom?”

  “What about us?”

  “You weren’t split up at the time.”

  “No, we weren’t. Not until after.”

  “Sweet.”

  I have to give him credit. I was doing everything I could to really get to him, and so far he was keeping his cool. He didn’t like it, but he hadn’t blown up. Yet.

  When the cheque came, I found out he wasn’t kidding before when he said I could pay next time. Which was this time. I figure the chips and snacks he bought at the truck stop came to maybe eight bucks tops. The dinner at the Italian place was thirty-eight. The old man threw in a ten to pay for his beer, and I got the rest.

  He didn’t say anything on the way back to the hotel, or after we were back in our room. He took some stuff out of his suitcase and went for a shower. Ball game on TV — Seattle and Detroit, two teams I couldn’t care less about. I fell asleep before the seventh inning stretch. The old man poked me awake. I brushed my teeth and climbed into one of the two beds in our $49 room.

  Day one of my summer vacation was over. I wasn’t sure I could stand much
more of this kind of excitement. I think I fell asleep in about six seconds. Maybe that’s how the motel got its name.

  The next morning we were up early — 6:00 a.m., which to me is a ridiculous time of day to be doing anything but sleeping. We hurried down to the lobby for the free continental breakfast, which was coffee and a bagel for the old man, juice and a tired muffin for me. Tired as in been out in the open air way too long. Chewy.

  While we were sitting there the old man handed me a pill. “Take this.”

  “What is it?”

  “Malaria pill. You take one today and for the next few days, then for a couple of days when we get back.”

  “Who says I have to take it?”

  “Nobody. You take it so you won’t get malaria, not because somebody told you to take it.”

  “Think I’ll pass.”

  “Suit yourself.” He picked up the pill and dropped it in his jacket pocket.

  I ate some more muffin.

  “You ever know anybody that got malaria?”

  He nodded. “A few. Some of ’em are still alive.”

  Some people say something like that, you figure it’s for effect. They’re being dramatic. With the old man, he just threw it out there like he didn’t give a damn if you believed him or not.

  “So what happens?”

  “When you get malaria?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Comes from mosquito bites. You get sick. Fever. Vomiting. Major muscle pain, hot then cold, big-time headache. You go to the hospital. Sometimes you get over it. Sometimes you don’t. Let’s go.”

  “Maybe I’ll take the pill.”

  “You sure? I don’t want to trample on your human rights.”

  I took the pill. We threw our garbage in a container in the lobby, went back to the room to brush our teeth and load up our gear. When we had packed our stuff into the truck and were sitting in the front seat waiting for the diesel to warm up, I had a thought.

  “What do we do with the truck?”

  “We leave it here … in Minneapolis. Not far from the airport.”

  “You can do that?”

  “I know a guy. He’s got a place.”

  The place was a little piece of land with a small, kind of old house on it. A couple of other buildings too. Same vintage as the house. Looked like it could have been an okay place if somebody took better care of it, and if it wasn’t in the middle of an industrial area. Lots of equipment and high chain-link fences. Industrial plumbing supply outfit across the street. I thought about what industrial plumbing meant. Maybe you call these guys for the BSP — Big Shit Problems. Chase Sheet Metal on one side. Road Runner Courier Service on the other side.

  The guy the old man knew, the guy who lived in this little slice of heaven, was a piece of work too. Looked like Santa Claus after a three-day drunk. I figured him to be about the same age as the old man. He was a little taller, maybe heavier but not by a lot. The thing you noticed about the guy was the white hair and beard, a lot of hair and a lot of beard. A ball cap advertising Rent-A-Wreck was perched on top of the white hair. The Rent-A-Wreck place was probably another one of his neighbours.

  His face and eyes gave the impression that this was a man who hadn’t been looking after himself all that well. Crack cocaine instead of fruit and vegetables — that kind of look.

  The other thing about him, which I didn’t notice right away, was that most of his left arm was missing. His sleeve was folded up and pinned at about the elbow. When we got out of the truck, he threw the good arm around the old man and the two of them hugged. They hugged long enough that I finally turned away and looked out at the trees that surrounded the guy’s place on three sides.

  The trees were a good idea. Who wanted to look at a sheet metal place all the time?

  “Nathan.”

  I turned back, and the two of them had an arm around each other, and they were grinning, but it looked like there were tears in their eyes. I was wishing we could just ditch the truck and get out of there.

  “I want you to meet one good son of a bitch.” The old man was grinning and wiping his nose with his sleeve.

  The good son of a bitch stuck out a hand the size of a pillow. The good hand. The only hand. I reached out and took it. No, that’s not right. I didn’t take his hand; he took mine. It was like my hand had disappeared. I couldn’t see it anymore.

  At least the GSOB didn’t squeeze the crap out of it like some people do to show you how strong they are. His hand was knobby and warm. Hard too, like it had calluses. Nothing like a pillow.

  “I heard about you.” He was still grinning, and his eyes were still shining.

  Him knowing about me, that surprised me. I didn’t figure the old man told a lot of people about his kid.

  “Great … uh … good to meet you,” was the best I could do.

  “Nathan, this is Tal Ledbetter. Tal, my son, Nathan.”

  Tal nodded his head like crazy. Tal. What’s that short for … Talbert? Talisman? No, that’s a book. Tallas? I didn’t bother to ask.

  He let go of my hand. “Let’s get you boys a beer.” He started for what looked like a shop that was off to the left of the house. The old man followed him, looking back at me and jerking his head for me to follow. I followed. But first I looked at my watch. Eight thirty in the morning. Seemed early for beer but what do I know — maybe that’s what good sons of bitches do.

  Not a lot more was said until three lawn chairs were arranged on the cement pad out front of the shop. Tal Ledbetter handed the old man a beer and me a Dr Pepper. Awright. How’d he know that? Probably just luck. All he had in the fridge.

  He twisted the top off another beer and sat across from me and the old man. Looked at the old man like he was memorizing him.

  “By damn, you’re looking good, man. Old but good.”

  “You think I look old? You passed by a mirror lately?” They both laughed like they were the two funniest guys on the planet. I sipped my Dr Pepper and looked around at the place.

  It was hard to get hold of. I mean I didn’t know what happened there. Sure there was a shop, but the big double doors were open and except for a John Deere tractor that looked about the same age as Tal and the old man, the fridge Tal had got the drinks from, and a ride-on lawn mower, there wasn’t much in there. I didn’t see the tools you expect to see in a shop, you know, all arranged on the walls, hanging on metal hooks.

  In fact, what was on the walls were paintings — some of people, some of countryside, a couple of horses. And there was one big one, really big, of a bald eagle sitting on the seat of a very large motorcycle — maybe a Harley. All of the paintings had this weird sort of off-kilter feel to them. The people ones were mostly women, and the people in the paintings were all at an angle so you wanted to tilt your head when you looked at them. The countryside paintings — every one of them had a big space, a white space, like there was a hole in the painting, or he’d forgotten to finish it. The space was in a different place in each of the paintings, but they all had it. The eagle on the motorcycle was the most normal painting in the place. And it wasn’t all that normal, since it was an eagle on a motorcycle. No helmet. Not a safety conscious eagle.

  If Tal was the artist, I didn’t think he was very good. I decided not to mention that to him.

  “I can’t believe you’re going back,” Tal was saying to the old man.

  “A lot of guys are. They’ve got tours.”

  “I heard about that. Don’t believe I’ll ever go on one.”

  “Okay if I walk around?” I was looking at the old man, but actually, it was Tal I was asking.

  “Sure, kid, make yourself at home.”

  Kid. There it was.

  I picked up my Dr Pepper and wandered off toward the house. One storey, maybe two, three rooms. Big enough for one person, or maybe a couple, but only if they didn’t own much. Tal didn’t look like he owned much. I wondered if there was a Mrs. Tal.

  I circled around the house to where a lot of places have a b
ackyard. This one had a back swamp. There was a fence around the outside but not chain-link. Wooden like you see around animal corrals. And inside the fence was a body of water too small to be a lake or even a slough but too big to be a swimming pool. It wasn’t encased in concrete; it just sat there — this huge hole dug out of the ground and filled with water.

  I remember reading, I think it was in a magazine or the newspaper, about water that looked “brackish.” I didn’t know what the word meant then and I still don’t, but if I was looking for a word to describe that water, I’d go with brackish. But that wasn’t all. There was a fair amount of grass around the outside of the water and also inside the fence.

  And two cows. Not like a herd. And not milk cows, not the kind you see in pictures on milk containers. I figured these had to be beef cows. Who has two cows?

  I climbed up on the fence and watched the cows eat grass for a while. I figured it was better than listening to two old guys telling each other how great they looked. Besides, I needed some time to think about a few things.

  I was finding some things out about the old man, even if he wasn’t very good at telling me stuff about himself. Or maybe I wasn’t all that good at asking.

  So what was this for? What was this about, this trip to Vietnam with a man who hadn’t been part of my life for most of it, then suddenly shows up with malaria pills and two tickets to Saigon?

  I finished the Dr Pepper, watched the cows for a few more minutes, and climbed down off the fence so I could throw a few rocks into the swamp. Then I walked back around to the front yard. I figured Tal and the old man had had enough time to visit. If we were going, we should get going.

  When I got back to where they were sitting, they were on their second beer and laughing like two junior high girls. Looked pretty stupid on a couple of old guys, even stupider than it does on junior high girls.

  Tal looked up and said, “What do you think of my moat?”

  “Moat?”

  “Well, that’s what I call it.”

  “It won’t be very effective keeping your enemies out. Isn’t a moat supposed to go around the whole place?”