Only the Rain(52)

He turned back the way he had come, taking long strides at first, then breaking into a run. I drove out to the end of the lane and there was Bubby’s pickup parked along the shoulder. Donnie hopped into the passenger side, and within seconds the pickup was squealing away.

“Better follow them,” Pops said.



Following Donnie and the truck wasn’t so much a follow as a chase. The moment the other pickup’s driver saw my headlights turn their way, they floored it.

Pops sat up close to the windshield, still holding tight to the revolver. “This is no time to drive like your grandmother, son. Keep up.”

The driver turned off the main road at the first left. After that we flew down black asphalt single lanes, squealing and sliding through turn after turn. Sometimes we lost sight of their taillights, then picked them up again and tried to close the distance. We were maybe four miles out in the country when the driver took a left turn too sharp, fishtailed and overcorrected. I saw the taillights turn over in a circle and a half before they both blinked out in pink puffs of glowing smoke.

“Pull over here,” Pops said. We were maybe fifty feet back from the upside-down pickup truck. “Keep your headlights on. But if you see a vehicle coming up behind or toward you, kill the lights and lay down on the seat.”

He sprung open the door and climbed out, taking the revolver with him. I watched him walking that fast short-legged walk of his, but there was something not right about it, something a little lopsided, almost as if he had to shove himself forward with every other step.

He went to the driver’s side first, knelt down in the gravel and looked inside and then put his hand in. Then pulled it out again and walked around to the other side, which was in the grass over top of the drainage ditch.

He didn’t even go the whole way up to the window, but stood there about three feet from it looking at something in the grass. Then he looked back at me. I thought about climbing out and calling to him, but before I could, here he comes back my way.

He comes right up to the window. “If I ask you to do something for me, Rusty, will you do it? One last thing, no questions asked?”

“Pops, what are you—?”

“Russell. One last thing. Last thing I will ever ask of you.”

“There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. You know that.”

“And there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you. And do it gladly.”

“I know.”

“I want you to lay down on the seat now and not look up till I come back.”

“Pops, no. I’m not going to do that.”

“Goddamn it, son. One last thing, that’s all I’m asking of you.”

“Who was driving the truck?”

“Shelley.”

“She’s dead?”

He nodded.

“What about Donnie?”

“Whyn’t you cut your lights, all right? Then wait here till I get back. Is that too much to ask?”

“Tell me why, Pops.”

“Damn it, Russell. Do you love your children?”

“You know I do.”

“You want to be able to look at their faces and not see anything except those beautiful smiles? Not see all the shit that’s taking up all the space in your memory right now? Do you want that or not?”

“Of course I want that.”

“Then cut your lights, son.”

So I did.

Pops reached in and patted me on the shoulder. “I’ll be right back. You lay down now and sit tight.”

I leaned down on the seat with my face to the beat-up old leather. It was still warm from where Pops had been sitting. I laid there tense and waiting for a gunshot, but all I heard was the rain on the roof and hood.

Then his footsteps crunching back over the gravel. And then the side door popping open. “Sit up and start driving,” he said.

He climbs in breathing hard, and I can see him wincing when he twists around to pull the door shut.

“Where’s the revolver?” I asked.

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Pops, you can’t leave it there.”

“It’s unregistered, son. Now get us the hell out of here.”



On our way back through town, about ten minutes from his apartment, he had me pull to the curb about a block from a 7-Eleven. “I’ll walk home from here,” he said.

“It’s still raining pretty good.”

“I get a hot chocolate and a Slim Jim here every night. One for me and one for Margie at the front desk. Rain or no rain, it makes no difference to me.”

“Yeah but at close to midnight? Without a hat or an umbrella or anything?”

“Anytime between ten and four. Old men don’t sleep much. Don’t pay much attention to the weather either. I expect you’ll find that out yourself someday.”

He reached for the door handle then, but I reached out too and put my hand on his arm. “Why were you walking like that?” I said.

“Like what?”

“Back at the wreck. And even before it. Like you’re hurt or something.”

“I don’t know, Rusty. Arthritis, sciatica, Parkinson’s—take your pick.”

“Yeah but you didn’t walk like that till tonight. It’s even worse than when we left the plant.”