mature, thick at the bottom. I didn't know how long it took to grow a tree that big. A hundred years? More? And the poor son of a bitch that cleared the fields to begin with, built those walls, wrestled his living from that hard ground, he was long gone, dead, forgotten, nameless, while the fucking rocks endured. Didn't seem fair.
A truck came around the curve in front of me, a pale green GMC pickup truck with oversized tires, looked like a '74 or '75, two teenagers in it. The kid driving it was going way too fast and using most of the road, so both he and I were very busy for a couple of seconds. It was a good thing the Subaru was on the small sidethere was room for it in the ditch. The GMC's horn bleated at me, and I jerked the Subaru back on the road, none the worse for wear, it appeared. I looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see the pickup round the corner behind me and vanish from sight.
Stupid kids.
It was hard to stay mad at them for too long, though, because I wasn't that far removed from being a stupid kid myself.
A few miles farther on, I slowed down, began looking for a place to turn around. That's when I saw the guy. He was huge, bigger than me, bigger than Rosario even. He had straight black hair, sloping shoulders, sleepy eyes. It was hard to tell his age, I would have guessed early twenties. He was carrying a bicycle under one meaty arm. The front wheel of the bike was badly bent, some of the spokes were broken off, and the rubber tire hung loose from the metal rim. I pulled over to the side of the road, intending to ask directions, and the guy looked down at the ground, not at me. I rolled the window down. "Hey, buddy. How you doing?"
He glanced at me, just a quick flick of his eyes, then he looked back at the ground and shrugged his shoulders. I wished that Nicky were with me, I was no good at this shit. Nicky would crack this guy open in a second, he'd hop out of the car . I shut off the Subaru and got out, held out my hand. "Hi, my name is Manny."
He looked at my hand for a second or so before reaching out slowly with his big mitt. "Manny?" His voice rumbled deep in his throat.
"That's me. What's your name?"
"Franklin." He was still looking at my hand, or maybe the tattoos on my forearm, not my face.
"Is that your bicycle, Franklin?"
He looked at the bike, nodded slowly.
"What happened to it?"
He glanced back over his shoulder then, back in the direction he'd come from. "Pickup truck," he said, looking back at the ground again. "Scared me off the road."
"Well, that's a hell of a thing."
"Don't cuss," Franklin said. "Cussing isn't nice."
"You're right, Franklin, I apologize. So what happened when you went off the road? You hit a rock?"
"Tree."
"That's too bad. Messed your bike up, but you can fix that. Did you get hurt?"
"Just my ahm."
"Let me see. Can I see your arm, Franklin?"
He set his bike down, leaned it against his leg, held his other arm up for my inspection. His denim sleeve was shredded, and he had some road rash on his hairy forearm, it was scratched up pretty good, with blood seeping through in places.
"That doesn't look too bad, Franklin. Just a little scrape. Let's put your bike in the back of my truck here, and I'll give you a ride home."
It took him a long time to answer, like he had to think of the words one by one, line them up in a row before he spoke. "My dad says I'm not supposed to take rides from anybody."
"Well, your dad sounds pretty smart. How about if we call him up? Do you know his phone number?" Franklin shook his head. "How about your number at home?" Same response. "Well, this is kind of an emergency, Franklin. I'm sure your dad would think it was all right." He looked doubtful. "I'll drive, okay, but you can tell me which way to go. How about that?"
He looked down at the bike,
A truck came around the curve in front of me, a pale green GMC pickup truck with oversized tires, looked like a '74 or '75, two teenagers in it. The kid driving it was going way too fast and using most of the road, so both he and I were very busy for a couple of seconds. It was a good thing the Subaru was on the small sidethere was room for it in the ditch. The GMC's horn bleated at me, and I jerked the Subaru back on the road, none the worse for wear, it appeared. I looked in the rearview mirror just in time to see the pickup round the corner behind me and vanish from sight.
Stupid kids.
It was hard to stay mad at them for too long, though, because I wasn't that far removed from being a stupid kid myself.
A few miles farther on, I slowed down, began looking for a place to turn around. That's when I saw the guy. He was huge, bigger than me, bigger than Rosario even. He had straight black hair, sloping shoulders, sleepy eyes. It was hard to tell his age, I would have guessed early twenties. He was carrying a bicycle under one meaty arm. The front wheel of the bike was badly bent, some of the spokes were broken off, and the rubber tire hung loose from the metal rim. I pulled over to the side of the road, intending to ask directions, and the guy looked down at the ground, not at me. I rolled the window down. "Hey, buddy. How you doing?"
He glanced at me, just a quick flick of his eyes, then he looked back at the ground and shrugged his shoulders. I wished that Nicky were with me, I was no good at this shit. Nicky would crack this guy open in a second, he'd hop out of the car . I shut off the Subaru and got out, held out my hand. "Hi, my name is Manny."
He looked at my hand for a second or so before reaching out slowly with his big mitt. "Manny?" His voice rumbled deep in his throat.
"That's me. What's your name?"
"Franklin." He was still looking at my hand, or maybe the tattoos on my forearm, not my face.
"Is that your bicycle, Franklin?"
He looked at the bike, nodded slowly.
"What happened to it?"
He glanced back over his shoulder then, back in the direction he'd come from. "Pickup truck," he said, looking back at the ground again. "Scared me off the road."
"Well, that's a hell of a thing."
"Don't cuss," Franklin said. "Cussing isn't nice."
"You're right, Franklin, I apologize. So what happened when you went off the road? You hit a rock?"
"Tree."
"That's too bad. Messed your bike up, but you can fix that. Did you get hurt?"
"Just my ahm."
"Let me see. Can I see your arm, Franklin?"
He set his bike down, leaned it against his leg, held his other arm up for my inspection. His denim sleeve was shredded, and he had some road rash on his hairy forearm, it was scratched up pretty good, with blood seeping through in places.
"That doesn't look too bad, Franklin. Just a little scrape. Let's put your bike in the back of my truck here, and I'll give you a ride home."
It took him a long time to answer, like he had to think of the words one by one, line them up in a row before he spoke. "My dad says I'm not supposed to take rides from anybody."
"Well, your dad sounds pretty smart. How about if we call him up? Do you know his phone number?" Franklin shook his head. "How about your number at home?" Same response. "Well, this is kind of an emergency, Franklin. I'm sure your dad would think it was all right." He looked doubtful. "I'll drive, okay, but you can tell me which way to go. How about that?"
He looked down at the bike,
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