have to face his past. There was no other reason to continue.
Suddenly, standing on this heat-baked ribbon of highway in Iowa, with the smell of the big river almost to his nostrils; with the dry, brittle, motionless, chest-high fields of corn around him, he knew that he didn't want to go on, that it wasn't time to face his past yet.
He would return to California.
He would hitch a ride to Cedar Rapids, call Marcie from the airport, get the first connecting flight to Los Angeles, and be back in L.A. by tomorrow.
The Great Walk, for now, was over.
A constriction lifted from his heart. The sun was lowering, but he felt it rising within him, bringing peace to the region of his heart. When he thumbed a ride and got into a glossy, huge Peterbilt that stopped for him, he leaned back and immediately slept, until the driver pushed him gently awake on the shoulder.
"Buddy, time for you to get out."
James blinked awake into the sun at the horizon. It was nearly twilight.
"We in Cedar Rapids?"
"I can get you there tomorrow, if you want. I been hauling six nights straight, got to get off the pills 'fore I run her off the road."
"Where are we?" For the first time James looked at the driver's face: a burned-out mess, the reddest eyes he had ever seen. Cap pushed back, beard stubble, a heavy-set man with a kind but tired face.
The driver blinked awake. "Wish I could sleep you here, but there's only room for one. I noticed some lights ahead. Sorry, I've really got to crash. Meet me in the morning."
As James climbed down, the driver was already slumping over, pulling a blanket over himself as he lay across the front seats.
James stretched. The sun had dropped below the horizon. The night was summer warm, dotted with pinhole stars, a humid breeze. The ever-present corn had begun to rustle, grumbling in the dark. He heard a low, mechanical rumble. A glow of light sat like a beetle in the darkness ahead.
A mile's walk and he reached it. A carnival, its last night here, according to the roadside banner, ennui already setting in. Red and white signs, lots of exclamation points, a few desultory customers padding the beaten dirt paths among faded-paint rides. Orange metal fencing around them. Turning teacups, gray, with a blue stripe around the top, a Ferris wheel whose apex dipped up into the night, a merry-go-round with a few squealing children, hot-looking parents waiting, bored for it to end. The calliope missed a few bars of Schubert's "Marche Militaire ," an intermittent hollow chunk where a tinkly note should be.
James bought a cola, syrupy warm, at a dull-red kiosk, thought on a whim of trying to win a Kewpie doll for Marcie. The bottles he had to knock over were dented, battleship colored; the balls rubbed with dirt, old, soft around the seams. All but one bottle fell from its base. On his second try he cleared them all, was handed a small doll, orange, spiky hair, wide-awake eyes, frightening grin. It had flat pieces of red felt for hands and feet. One side seam was torn, showing cheap padding, walnut-shell pieces.
He was suddenly depressed. He was about to put the doll in a nearby metal oil-drum trash container, saw an empty-handed little girl staring at him, and handed it to her.
"Look, Daddy!" she cried, running to her father a few paces away. The father stood mopping his hairline with a tired handkerchief "Look what I won! What about my cotton candy?"
The father looked down at her, nodded tired thanks to James, drew the little girl away toward a nearby booth where an aluminum pan churned pink, threadlike sugar around long, fragile white paper cones.
At eleven, the small crowd dispersed. James followed them to a square, dusty parking lot cornered with long poles topped by red pennants. Strings of red and white Christmas lights sagged between the poles. Some of the bulbs were out; one white one blinked annoyingly, on and off.
James stopped a man who was just helping his wife into their station wagon. A little boy was
Suddenly, standing on this heat-baked ribbon of highway in Iowa, with the smell of the big river almost to his nostrils; with the dry, brittle, motionless, chest-high fields of corn around him, he knew that he didn't want to go on, that it wasn't time to face his past yet.
He would return to California.
He would hitch a ride to Cedar Rapids, call Marcie from the airport, get the first connecting flight to Los Angeles, and be back in L.A. by tomorrow.
The Great Walk, for now, was over.
A constriction lifted from his heart. The sun was lowering, but he felt it rising within him, bringing peace to the region of his heart. When he thumbed a ride and got into a glossy, huge Peterbilt that stopped for him, he leaned back and immediately slept, until the driver pushed him gently awake on the shoulder.
"Buddy, time for you to get out."
James blinked awake into the sun at the horizon. It was nearly twilight.
"We in Cedar Rapids?"
"I can get you there tomorrow, if you want. I been hauling six nights straight, got to get off the pills 'fore I run her off the road."
"Where are we?" For the first time James looked at the driver's face: a burned-out mess, the reddest eyes he had ever seen. Cap pushed back, beard stubble, a heavy-set man with a kind but tired face.
The driver blinked awake. "Wish I could sleep you here, but there's only room for one. I noticed some lights ahead. Sorry, I've really got to crash. Meet me in the morning."
As James climbed down, the driver was already slumping over, pulling a blanket over himself as he lay across the front seats.
James stretched. The sun had dropped below the horizon. The night was summer warm, dotted with pinhole stars, a humid breeze. The ever-present corn had begun to rustle, grumbling in the dark. He heard a low, mechanical rumble. A glow of light sat like a beetle in the darkness ahead.
A mile's walk and he reached it. A carnival, its last night here, according to the roadside banner, ennui already setting in. Red and white signs, lots of exclamation points, a few desultory customers padding the beaten dirt paths among faded-paint rides. Orange metal fencing around them. Turning teacups, gray, with a blue stripe around the top, a Ferris wheel whose apex dipped up into the night, a merry-go-round with a few squealing children, hot-looking parents waiting, bored for it to end. The calliope missed a few bars of Schubert's "Marche Militaire ," an intermittent hollow chunk where a tinkly note should be.
James bought a cola, syrupy warm, at a dull-red kiosk, thought on a whim of trying to win a Kewpie doll for Marcie. The bottles he had to knock over were dented, battleship colored; the balls rubbed with dirt, old, soft around the seams. All but one bottle fell from its base. On his second try he cleared them all, was handed a small doll, orange, spiky hair, wide-awake eyes, frightening grin. It had flat pieces of red felt for hands and feet. One side seam was torn, showing cheap padding, walnut-shell pieces.
He was suddenly depressed. He was about to put the doll in a nearby metal oil-drum trash container, saw an empty-handed little girl staring at him, and handed it to her.
"Look, Daddy!" she cried, running to her father a few paces away. The father stood mopping his hairline with a tired handkerchief "Look what I won! What about my cotton candy?"
The father looked down at her, nodded tired thanks to James, drew the little girl away toward a nearby booth where an aluminum pan churned pink, threadlike sugar around long, fragile white paper cones.
At eleven, the small crowd dispersed. James followed them to a square, dusty parking lot cornered with long poles topped by red pennants. Strings of red and white Christmas lights sagged between the poles. Some of the bulbs were out; one white one blinked annoyingly, on and off.
James stopped a man who was just helping his wife into their station wagon. A little boy was
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