their branches were touched by moonlight and stood out like silver against the night sky. Obadiah looked into Delandra Hummer’s face. “Don’t be too sure,” he said.
Delandra took a drink of beer. “Come on,” she said. “Who would it be? There’s nobody interested in this thing but you, me, a carload of niggers, and this fool I’m going to sell it to.”
When Obadiah looked away he felt her teeth on his neck. “It’s wired,” she whispered. “Wait and see.” And then her fingers were at his fly. When he looked at her she laughed. He tried crawling on top of her there in the front seat but got his feet tangled up in the wheel. They wound up stretched out on top of the case in back of the seats. “This glass is really thick,” Delandra said. “Just do it slow and deep.” Obadiah could feel her fingers back up under his shirt and her breath on his neck. He felt something give a bit beneath him. The movement was accompanied by the sound of cracking glass. He buried his face in her hair.
He didn’t open his eyes until he’d come and when he did he found that a corner of the canvas tarp had been pulled back beneath them and that by the moonlight slicing in through the rear window above their heads he could see something beneath the glass—what looked to be the dull gleam of two yellow eyes staring up at him. When he saw it he kicked something with his foot and the trunk lid sprang up suddenly behind them. Delandra screamed and Obadiah fought to get his pants back up over his ass before someone’s headlights could find it. He somehow wound up outside on all fours, crawling along a sandy shoulder—feeling that he was about to be sick once more while Delandra Hummer said something about roadside affairs and opened up on the Joshuas with the handgun she kept in the glove box.
Obadiah continued to crawl through the night. He couldn’t decide if he was ill, insane, or just very drunk. What he knew for certain was that he was moving much too slowly and something was gaining ground—the enormity, perhaps, of what he had done. He had broken his parents’ hearts. That was the worst part, he thought, about the kind of break he had made. It was not simply the wrestling with yourself, it was the people you hurt, the people who had given you love and yet were bound to see any wandering from the path as being somehow a rejection of that love. It occurred to him that this was not fair on their part, but there it was. Perhaps, he thought, this was after all the darkness outside—a dead spot in the soul, without equilibrium or pride, punctuated by gunshots and the dull gleam of monstrous eyes. Living on Bug House time. God have mercy.
Part of the trouble, it occurred to him, with the way he had been raised, was the odd blend of innocence and cynicism it fostered. The Friends had no problem with something like Vietnam. They’d known the score for some time now. The world, brother, was in the grasp of the Wicked One, and he guessed maybe he could not quite stop believing in that. His faith in a counterfeit world was quite strong. He accepted its imminent demise and believed it was earned. He had no quarrel with man’s fall. It was somehow redemption and the straight and narrow he had stopped believing in. It didn’t leave a lot to fall back on. He supposed he was not the first to contemplate this abyss—though that thought did little to comfort him now. He clutched at a handful of sand, hoping to calm the dry heaves which had taken him. He imagined once more the pink, sweating face of Bug I louse leering at him from an immense sky—the skin stretched tight from the scarring, the government-issue bridgework which allowed the mouth to sag in inappropriate places, the eyes glassy, red rimmed, a trifle wild. It was, he saw suddenly, the face that ordered the world. Not God or the devil. It was Bug House himself, the pudgy little son of a bitch. It was a kind of epiphany and he likened himself to Saul of Tarsus struck
Delandra took a drink of beer. “Come on,” she said. “Who would it be? There’s nobody interested in this thing but you, me, a carload of niggers, and this fool I’m going to sell it to.”
When Obadiah looked away he felt her teeth on his neck. “It’s wired,” she whispered. “Wait and see.” And then her fingers were at his fly. When he looked at her she laughed. He tried crawling on top of her there in the front seat but got his feet tangled up in the wheel. They wound up stretched out on top of the case in back of the seats. “This glass is really thick,” Delandra said. “Just do it slow and deep.” Obadiah could feel her fingers back up under his shirt and her breath on his neck. He felt something give a bit beneath him. The movement was accompanied by the sound of cracking glass. He buried his face in her hair.
He didn’t open his eyes until he’d come and when he did he found that a corner of the canvas tarp had been pulled back beneath them and that by the moonlight slicing in through the rear window above their heads he could see something beneath the glass—what looked to be the dull gleam of two yellow eyes staring up at him. When he saw it he kicked something with his foot and the trunk lid sprang up suddenly behind them. Delandra screamed and Obadiah fought to get his pants back up over his ass before someone’s headlights could find it. He somehow wound up outside on all fours, crawling along a sandy shoulder—feeling that he was about to be sick once more while Delandra Hummer said something about roadside affairs and opened up on the Joshuas with the handgun she kept in the glove box.
Obadiah continued to crawl through the night. He couldn’t decide if he was ill, insane, or just very drunk. What he knew for certain was that he was moving much too slowly and something was gaining ground—the enormity, perhaps, of what he had done. He had broken his parents’ hearts. That was the worst part, he thought, about the kind of break he had made. It was not simply the wrestling with yourself, it was the people you hurt, the people who had given you love and yet were bound to see any wandering from the path as being somehow a rejection of that love. It occurred to him that this was not fair on their part, but there it was. Perhaps, he thought, this was after all the darkness outside—a dead spot in the soul, without equilibrium or pride, punctuated by gunshots and the dull gleam of monstrous eyes. Living on Bug House time. God have mercy.
Part of the trouble, it occurred to him, with the way he had been raised, was the odd blend of innocence and cynicism it fostered. The Friends had no problem with something like Vietnam. They’d known the score for some time now. The world, brother, was in the grasp of the Wicked One, and he guessed maybe he could not quite stop believing in that. His faith in a counterfeit world was quite strong. He accepted its imminent demise and believed it was earned. He had no quarrel with man’s fall. It was somehow redemption and the straight and narrow he had stopped believing in. It didn’t leave a lot to fall back on. He supposed he was not the first to contemplate this abyss—though that thought did little to comfort him now. He clutched at a handful of sand, hoping to calm the dry heaves which had taken him. He imagined once more the pink, sweating face of Bug I louse leering at him from an immense sky—the skin stretched tight from the scarring, the government-issue bridgework which allowed the mouth to sag in inappropriate places, the eyes glassy, red rimmed, a trifle wild. It was, he saw suddenly, the face that ordered the world. Not God or the devil. It was Bug House himself, the pudgy little son of a bitch. It was a kind of epiphany and he likened himself to Saul of Tarsus struck
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