Cities of the Plain(11)

Troy was asleep in the front seat. Billy got the gauge out of the glovebox and walked back and they gauged the tire and then rolled it over to the truck and slid it onto the hub and tightened down the lugnuts with a wrench made from a socket welded onto a length of heavy iron pipe. Then they let down the jack and pulled it from under the truck and handed it to Billy.

He took the jack and tiretools and put the patchkit and the gauge in his shirtpocket and the flashlight in the back pocket of his jeans. Then they shook hands all the way around.

Adónde van? said Billy.

The man shrugged. He said that they were going to Sanderson Texas. He turned and looked off across the dark headlands to the east. The younger men stood about them.

Hay trabajo allá?

He shrugged again. Espero que sí, he said. He looked at Billy. Es vaquero?

Sí. Vaquero.

The man nodded. It was a vaquero’s country and other men’s troubles were alien to it and that was about all that could be said. They shook hands again and the Mexicans clambered aboard the truck and the truck cranked and coughed and started and lumbered slowly out onto the roadway. The men and boys in the bed of the truck stood and raised their hands. He could see them above the dark hump of the cab, against the deep burnt cobalt of the sky. The single taillight had a short in the wiring and it winked on and off like a signal until the truck had rounded the curve and vanished.

He put the jack and tools in the pickup and opened the door and nudged Troy awake.

Let’s go, cowboy.

Troy sat and stared out at the empty road. He looked back behind them.

Where’d they go?

They’re done gone.

What time is it do you reckon?

I dont know.

Are you done bein a Samaritan?

I’m done.

He leaned and opened the glovebox door and put the patchkit and the tiregauge and the flashlight in and shut the door and started the engine.

Where were they headed? Troy said.

Sanderson.

Sanderson?

Yeah.

Where were they comin from?

I dont know. They didnt say.

I bet they aint even goin to Sanderson, Troy said.

Where do you think they’re goin?

Hell, who knows.

Why would anybody lie about goin to Sanderson Texas?

I dont know.

They drove on. Rounding a curve with a steep bank to the right of the road there was a sudden white flare and a solid whump of a sound. The truck veered, the tires squealing. When they got stopped they were halfway off the road into the bar ditch.

What in the hell, said Troy. What in the hell.

A large owl lay cruciform across the driver’s windshield of the truck. The laminate of the glass was belled in softly to hold him and his wings were spread wide and he lay in the concentric rings and rays of the wrecked glass like an enormous moth in a web.

Billy shut off the engine. They sat looking at it. One of its feet shuddered and drew up into a claw and slowly relaxed again and it moved its head slightly as if to better see them and then it died.

Troy opened the door and got out. Billy sat looking at the owl. Then he turned off the headlights and got out too.

The owl was all soft and downy. Its head slumped and rolled. It was soft and warm to the touch and it felt loose inside its feathers. He lifted it free and carried it over to the fence and hung it from the wires and came back. He sat in the truck and turned the lights on to judge if he could drive with the windshield in that condition or whether he might have to kick it out completely. There was a clear place in the lower right corner and he thought he could see if he hunkered down and looked through the windshield there. Troy had walked up the road and was standing taking a leak.

He started the truck and pulled back onto the road. Troy had walked further up and was sitting in the roadside grass. He drove up and rolled down the window and looked at him.

What’s wrong with you? he said.

Nothin, Troy said.

Are you ready to go?

Yeah.

He rose and walked around in front of the truck and got in. Billy looked over at him.

Are you all right?

Yeah. I’m all right.

It was just a owl.

I know. It aint that.

Well what is it?

Troy didnt answer.

He pulled the shiftlever in the floor down into first and let the clutch out. They moved down the highway. He could see pretty well. He could lean over and see through the glass on the other side of the division bar. Are you all right? he said. What is it?

Troy sat looking out the window at the passing darkness. Just everthing, he said. Just ever goddamned thing. Hell. Dont pay no attention to me. I ought not to drink whiskey in the first place.

They drove on to Van Horn and stopped for gas and coffee and by then the country that Troy’d grown up in and that he thought he might go back to and where his dead brother was buried was all behind them and it was two oclock in the morning.