The Orchard Keeper(10)

Say, wonder could I get one of them from ye … (leaning forward, already reaching) … I run out a while back and ain’t …

Sylder chuckled and straight-armed the pack at him. Sure, he said. Help yourself. He waited a few seconds, listening to the paper rustle, the man getting the cigarette. He could feel him hesitate, the eyes turn on him. Then the package came back.

Thanks, old buddy, the man said.

Sylder waited. The man didn’t say anything more. Waiting too. Sylder produced the matches with painful deliberation. Catching up his knee to the underside of the wheel he steered that way and with studied slowness fumbled a match from the box and struck it. Shielding the flame with his hands he lit the cigarette, then dropped the dying match over his elbow into the slipstream boring past the open windwing and took the wheel once more, exhaling luxuriously and repocketing the matches. He waited.

Say, old buddy, I wonder if I could get a … why thanks, thank ye.

The match scratched and popped. Sylder meditated in the windshield the face of the man cast in orange and black above the spurt of flame like the downlidded face of some copper ikon, a mask, not ambiguous or inscrutable but merely discountenanced of meaning, expression. In the flickery second in which Sylder’s glance went to the road and back the man’s eyes raised to regard him in the glass, so that when Sylder looked back they faced each other over the cup of light like enemy chieftains across a council fire for just that instant before the man’s lips pursed, carplike, still holding the cigarette, and sucked away the flame.

They smoked, the heat of the night air moving over them heavy as syrup. In the dark glass where the road poured down their cigarettes rose and fell like distant semaphores above the soft green dawn of the dashlights.


He stopped at Gainesville for gas which he didn’t need and went into the men’s room taking the keys with him. The man sat in the car. Inside, Sylder lit a cigarette, smoked it in long pulls and flipped the butt into the toilet. He splashed some cold water on his face and went out again, paid the sleepy-eyed attendant and got in the car. The man was sitting as he had left him. An unmistakable trace of fresh tobacco smoke hung on the wet air.


Dawn. Fields smoking where the mist shoaled, trees white as bone. The gray shrubbery hard-looking as metal in the morning wetness. Beads of water raced on the windscreen and he turned on the wipers, watched the arms descend in slow benediction, was mopping at the glass with the back of his hand when the right rear tire went out with a sudden hollow detonation and they flapped to a stop.

Later Sylder realized that the man had passed up one chance with the jack handle, had waited until he took the jack from under the car and handed it himself to the man to put in the trunk. And realized too that the man had only miscalculated by part of a second the length of time it would take him to bend and slam the hubcap back on the rim with the heel of his hand. So although he never saw it, had no warning, he had already made a half turn and started to rise when the jack crashed into his shoulder and slammed him into the side of the car. Something crashed alongside his head into the quarterpanel—he remembered that too, but couldn’t know until later that it was the base of the jack. He didn’t duck the second time either, but only slid down the door of the coupe when the man swung, sideways—he was watching him now—tearing a ragged hole in the metal. Then he was sitting on the ground, his head leaned back against the door, looking up, not yet outraged but only in wonder, at the figure above him, his arm trailing in the dirt like a shattered wing. But when the man jerked the shaft of the jack from the punctured door he reached up, slowly, he thought, and laid his hand on the jack and still slowly closed his fingers over it. The man looked down at him, and in the gradual suffusion of light gathered and held between the gloss of the car’s enamel and the paling road dust he saw terror carved and molded on that face like a physical deformity. They were like that for some few seconds, he sitting, the man standing, holding either end of the jack as if suspended in the act of passing it one to the other. Then Sylder stood, still in that somnambulant slow motion as if time itself were running down, and watched the man turn, seeming to labor not under water but in some more viscous fluid, torturous slow, and the jack itself falling down on an angle over the dying forces of gravity, leaving Sylder’s own hand and bouncing slowly in the road while his leaden arm rose in a stiff arc and his fingers cocked like a cat’s claws unsheathing and buried themselves in the cheesy neck-flesh of the man who fled from him without apparent headway as in a nightmare.

Whether he fell forward or whether the man pulled them over he did not know. They were lying in the road, the man with his face in the dirt and Sylder on top of him, motionless for the moment as resting lovers. Something in Sylder’s shoulder traveled obliquely down to his lungs with each breath to cut off the air. He still had one hand locked in the man’s neck and now he inched himself forward and whispered into his ear: