Driftless. David Rhodes
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in South Dakota and continued all the way into Wisconsin, where the old man began to anticipate returning to his brother and their farm more eagerly.
“It’s not that far now,” he said. “Only about twenty miles past the next town. My brother should be waiting up for us. The coffeepot will be on and we can have a real meal.”
The trailer rattled loudly after running over a large pothole in the pavement, and the old man stopped at the deserted intersection and went back to check on his young bull. It was dark, and after looking at the tires, he inspected the interior of the trailer with his flashlight.
July got out and stretched.
When the old man climbed back behind the wheel, July stood in the road and drew the large canvas duffel bag from under the seat. He pulled the strap over his shoulder.
“Thanks again for the ride.”
“My place is just a little ways ahead. Look, my offer for a place to sleep is good.”
“Thanks, but, well, no thanks.”
“At least let me drive you into Grange. I don’t feel right leaving you here in the middle of the night.”
The young man looked away. He was uncomfortable with not complying with the older man’s wishes yet remained determined to be on his own. “Where does that road go?” he asked, nodding north.
“To Words—nothing up there but a handful of houses. Look, my brother will be waiting for me. Our place is only a little ways from here. You can spend the night, and in the morning—”
“I wonder why they put so many stop signs here?” asked the young man, neither expecting nor waiting for an answer. “I really appreciate the ride.”
Smiling, he closed the door.
“Wait,” said the old man. “The sandwiches—there are a couple left. You paid for them.” And he handed a greasy, lumpy paper sack through the open window.
July tucked it under his arm. “Well, thanks again, and goodnight.”
He stood in the middle of the road and watched the glowing taillights move beyond his sight. The clanking and banging sounds of the trailer faded and disappeared. A grinning yellow moon dissolved all the stars around it and threw a greenish-blue glow over the countryside.
July set his pack down and took out a denim jacket, replacing it with the paper sack.
“Okay,” he said, “which way now?” He hadn’t thought further ahead than this unknown intersection.
He stood in the middle of the road wondering which way to go, waiting for some inspiration—a beckoning or sign. After receiving none, he decided a town called Words was good enough.
His boots made clumping sounds against the road’s hard surface, which continued north in a meandering manner up and down hills. Moonlit fields of standing corn, hay, and soybeans merged with evergreen and hardwood, marshland and streams. Crickets, frogs, owls, and other nocturnal creatures called out to him as he passed. Of particular notice were the unidentifiable cries—the raw sounds of nature that refused to be firmly associated with mammal, fowl, or insect.
Set off from the road, an occasional yard light burned near a barn. The houses themselves remained dark, their occupants sleeping.
It had been some time since he’d been in the Midwest, and July attempted to picture himself in the central part of the United States once again. He’d been born just southwest of Wisconsin, in Iowa, so this seemed like a homecoming of sorts, or as much of one as his habitual homelessness could imagine.
In the distance a firefly of light appeared, disappeared, and reappeared at a different location. Once it was out of the hills, it advanced more earnestly, then disappeared for a longer time, only to float up into view a mile away. The single light rounded a corner and divided into two parts, accompanied by a harsh, rushing sound. Then the headlights grew brighter, bigger, and louder, like an instinct merging into consciousness.
July stepped off the road, behind a stand of honeysuck le. He’d become accustomed to his own company again and did not wish to share it with anyone or explain where he was going when he didn’t know himself.
After he had been walking for another half-hour, the faint yellow glow of a town in the near distance cautioned him to wait for morning before going further. He began looking for a place to pass the night.
Beyond the Words Cemetery a collection of old-growth trees ran downhill away from the road. He walked between several dozen gravestones, climbed the woven wire fence, picked his way through mulberry and hazelnut bushes, and found a small hollow of land covered with long grass, sheltered by an overhanging maple. In places, the moonlight fell through the branches and spotted the ground. The thick underbrush he hoped would announce the movement of any large intruders, and the rising slope of the cemetery blocked the view from the road. A short distance further down the hill, the rhythmic burbles of a stream could be heard.
July unrolled his sleeping bag. He folded his denim jacket for use as a pillow and ate one of the sandwiches from the paper sack. Then he drank from the water bottle, took off his boots, put his socks inside them, lay down, and zipped himself inside. He loosened the money belt that contained his savings from the past five or six years. Somewhere in the distance a barred owl loosed its mocking cry, “Who-cooks-for-you, who-cooks-for-you-aaaaallllll.” The light from an occasional star found its way through the tree above him, blinking on and off with the shuttered movement of leaves in the wind.
Closing his eyes, he tried to place the experiences of the past several days in a reasonable perspective: the drive from Wyoming, the wandering conversation with the old man, the walk down the mostly deserted road. The dark foliage above him seemed to draw nearer and a spirit of fatigue invaded his senses, disrupting his review of recent events. Blocking it out, he focused his attention and struggled for several long minutes to keep the images in his mind from sliding through the cellar door of nonsensical stories, and fell asleep.
Hours later, he woke up with sudden, blunt finality. He knew why four stop signs had been placed on a remote intersection: there had been an accident. Some time ago, people had died at the crossing and two extra stop signs had been put there. They were erected as memorials.
And so it was: the dead forever change the living. Even those unknown to the dead are required to stop.
The sky was still mostly dark, but morning stirred beneath the horizon and birds rustled about in their lofts in the trees and bushes, conversing through murmured chirping.
Climbing from the sleeping bag, he put on his socks and boots, unfolded his jacket, and siphoned his arms through the sleeves.
Why had he come here, he wondered, and walked down the hill. At the stream, he sat on the bank and stared into the dark water.
The air—warm and thick—filled with noises, and mingled with burbling water, rustling birds, and the dry ruckus of squirrels came the distant sounds of humans. Doors slammed, vehicles started, and an occasional, indecipherable, barking voice could be heard. A heavy truck moved along the road beyond the cemetery.
Why had he come here?
Not everything has a reason, he told himself. His arrival amounted to a whim of circumstance, a living accident. In the same random manner he had arrived in Chicago, Sioux Falls, Cheyenne, San Francisco, Moose Jaw, and many other places. There was no reason.
At least this is what he’d been telling himself for years, but he could no longer quite believe it. He now suspected that somewhere between his actions and what he knew about them—in that vast chasm of burgeoning silence—grew a nameless need, pushing him from one place to the next.
Something shiny near the water’s edge caught his attention and he investigated.
A rusty flashlight, half covered in dead grass and dried mud. Most of the chrome had been chipped or worn off, the cylinder dented in several places.
He wondered to whom it belonged. Had it been intentionally discarded