out of the truck onto the spongy leaf-covered track. Grey light and birdsong filled the bush around me and gold sunlight tinged the treetops along the edge of the meadow. It was already hot, the air sodden with moisture.
Pushing fallen branches aside, I made my way to the front of the truck. A monstrous dead oak had crashed down in the storm, crushing dozens of smaller trees as it fell, and its topmost branches had grazed the Toyota’s hood and fender. The hood was creased across the middle, the fender was crumpled and one headlight smashed.
“Man-oh-man,” I muttered. The massive trunk of the oak, half a metre in diameter, had broken off about two metres above the ground. Had I parked a few metres farther into the bush the tree would havestruck the truck’s cap, crushing both it and me into the muddy ground.
“Welcome to Mississippi, Zack,” I said out loud.
Chapter 5
I wished I could have lit a bonfire to cheer myself up, but even an experienced woodsman would have been challenged to coax a flame from the drenched wood scattered around me. I sat down on the rear bumper of the truck. There had been times in my life—like the time I had given in to the nagging of a girl I had been going out with in grade nine and tried marijuana—when I had shaken my head in disgust and asked myself, Zack, what the hell are you doing? This was one of those times.
I had lied to my parents and grandparents, taken the family wheels without permission, almost gotten myself arrested and my head broken, smashed up the truck—and for what? To find a grandfather my mother wouldn’t talk to for reasons I didn’t know. It began to look like living in Fergus had ruined my brain after all.
I sipped some lukewarm coffee left over from the day before and dabbed the cut in my forehead—it had begun to bleed again when I cracked it against the truck wall during the storm—while I thought about my options. It didn’t take long. I had only two choices. I could continue my goofy quest or I couldpoint the truck north and go home. Maybe, I thought, I could get back in time to get the truck repaired before my parents returned and pretend nothing had happened. That idea died with the first mosquito of the morning as it tried to bore a hole in my forearm. I hadn’t really thought about the net result of leaving home, but I had known I’d really be in for it, regardless of the condition of the truck. They would find out. That was clear.
And besides, if I slunk back to Fergus I would have nothing to justify my lies and mistakes. My only hope was the remote possibility that no matter what punishment was eventually laid on me I could tell myself it was worth it because I had met my grandfather and seen where I had come from. To go home now would mean wasting Pawpine’s gold.
I headed south. Confident? Happy? Not on your life. As I shifted up through the gears I recalled a phrase from a novel, “It’s gone south.” The expression meant it’s screwed up.
Under different conditions I would have enjoyed the drive down the Trace. It was a sunny day, the air was fresh after the storm, the scenery was pretty and there were so few cars and campers on the road I could pretend it was mine.
But the closer I got to Natchez, the more real it all became and the deeper my nervousness grew. The Trace ended east of town at Highway 61, the samehighway Mom had sung about in her most famous tune, and when I turned onto that road I did something I’ve done all my life, something I had practised to perfection—I procrastinated.
On the edge of town was a strip of discount motels and fast-food restaurants. It was eight o’clock and I had driven all day. It wouldn’t look good, I rationalized, to arrive late in the evening at my grandfather’s house, dirty and underfed.
So I hit one of the greasy spoons on the strip and took away two jumbo hamburgers, a large order of fries, a fruit pie and a “maxi-jug” of ginger ale, then drove into a run-down motel
Pushing fallen branches aside, I made my way to the front of the truck. A monstrous dead oak had crashed down in the storm, crushing dozens of smaller trees as it fell, and its topmost branches had grazed the Toyota’s hood and fender. The hood was creased across the middle, the fender was crumpled and one headlight smashed.
“Man-oh-man,” I muttered. The massive trunk of the oak, half a metre in diameter, had broken off about two metres above the ground. Had I parked a few metres farther into the bush the tree would havestruck the truck’s cap, crushing both it and me into the muddy ground.
“Welcome to Mississippi, Zack,” I said out loud.
Chapter 5
I wished I could have lit a bonfire to cheer myself up, but even an experienced woodsman would have been challenged to coax a flame from the drenched wood scattered around me. I sat down on the rear bumper of the truck. There had been times in my life—like the time I had given in to the nagging of a girl I had been going out with in grade nine and tried marijuana—when I had shaken my head in disgust and asked myself, Zack, what the hell are you doing? This was one of those times.
I had lied to my parents and grandparents, taken the family wheels without permission, almost gotten myself arrested and my head broken, smashed up the truck—and for what? To find a grandfather my mother wouldn’t talk to for reasons I didn’t know. It began to look like living in Fergus had ruined my brain after all.
I sipped some lukewarm coffee left over from the day before and dabbed the cut in my forehead—it had begun to bleed again when I cracked it against the truck wall during the storm—while I thought about my options. It didn’t take long. I had only two choices. I could continue my goofy quest or I couldpoint the truck north and go home. Maybe, I thought, I could get back in time to get the truck repaired before my parents returned and pretend nothing had happened. That idea died with the first mosquito of the morning as it tried to bore a hole in my forearm. I hadn’t really thought about the net result of leaving home, but I had known I’d really be in for it, regardless of the condition of the truck. They would find out. That was clear.
And besides, if I slunk back to Fergus I would have nothing to justify my lies and mistakes. My only hope was the remote possibility that no matter what punishment was eventually laid on me I could tell myself it was worth it because I had met my grandfather and seen where I had come from. To go home now would mean wasting Pawpine’s gold.
I headed south. Confident? Happy? Not on your life. As I shifted up through the gears I recalled a phrase from a novel, “It’s gone south.” The expression meant it’s screwed up.
Under different conditions I would have enjoyed the drive down the Trace. It was a sunny day, the air was fresh after the storm, the scenery was pretty and there were so few cars and campers on the road I could pretend it was mine.
But the closer I got to Natchez, the more real it all became and the deeper my nervousness grew. The Trace ended east of town at Highway 61, the samehighway Mom had sung about in her most famous tune, and when I turned onto that road I did something I’ve done all my life, something I had practised to perfection—I procrastinated.
On the edge of town was a strip of discount motels and fast-food restaurants. It was eight o’clock and I had driven all day. It wouldn’t look good, I rationalized, to arrive late in the evening at my grandfather’s house, dirty and underfed.
So I hit one of the greasy spoons on the strip and took away two jumbo hamburgers, a large order of fries, a fruit pie and a “maxi-jug” of ginger ale, then drove into a run-down motel
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