short story

The car boiled over in the heat of the mountain pass. Jimi rushed out to remove the radiator cap and Mike swished a clear bottle of mineral water and followed. Steam shot past Jimi's hand and soaked the rag he held and the cap fell and clinked twice against the pavement. The sky had baked itself clear and the noon didn't cast any shadows. When the engine finished whining, the car looked deflated, immovable. Some buzzards called and swirled over the red plains far below; cows flecked the broad space and clustered near the panes of the river. There were few trees anywhere. Mike poured water into the radiator and over the engine and the car sizzled like dowsed coals. The sky was so blue that the yellow haze of distant cities seamed pronounced. Mike took a gulp from the bottle and offered it to Jimi, but he refused with an open palm and pointed to the engine.

"We're going to need all that water to get to the top, Mike," Jimi said, and then he let his weight fall to earth and balanced on his haunches. A crow landed near the yellow divider and tilted its head and studied them for food; it skipped around, pecked at the asphalt, and then continued to cock its head toward the two.

Mike blocked the glare from his eyes and strained to look at the fields below. "You know, Jim, I can almost see the Ranger's lodge from here." The crow pranced further up the pass until its legs mingled with the black top's mirage; the heat waves made the crow appear to sway. "You know, Jim?" Jimi crouched and broke apart clumps of dirt in his hands, the dust didn't settle but swept out in puffs into the valley; he beaned a clod at the crow, but it landed short, puffed into dust and left a rusty mark on the blacktop. The crow called and took easy flight until it rested close enough to the car to fascinate itself with its reflection in the bumper.

Jimi sighed, rose, and then wiped his palms against his jeans. Hand prints showed clearly on each thigh. Mike closed the hood and both men hopped into the car, slamming doors and startling the bird. It glided briefly out over the ravine and settled in a dry shrub. The crow cawed and ruffled its plumage, its eyes indistinguishable at the distance.

The engine coughed and took and the grinding note of first gear pulled Mike and Jimi away. As the car took off up the mountain, the crow landed next to the bottle of water that sat on the road and looked at the valley through its refraction.

And When she saw him embracing himself for warmth, she moved quickly to heat the water for some tea. The sky was fibrous and giving like burlap and she could smell the decay that settled near Abington only when blood was spilled, and the blood came from this bleached slave, a man with a bull neck, but with the limbs of a gazelle. She knew him as Moose as only the moose shared his build. His lips were full and agitated and they worked together like he was saying something she couldn't hear ‹ and she wanted to hear something besides the sucking of his balloon cheeks.

She made him drink a little from the bowl, then he fell asleep. As she sat next to him, sipping from her cup, she traced the thick dry burn-scabs, as pasty and puffy as Elmer's glue, that appeared to drip down his back and sides, following their furrows until her blunt finger came upon the heavy lashes across the spine. When she touched the deep grooves, bathed in brown medical ointment, he shuddered and rolled onto his stomach and tossed away the light quilt to expose a body that looked to her like marbled steak: an expanse of tight black skin cut by white fatty striations. The air must have cooled him because he finally started to mutter under his breath something both unidentifiable and distinctly human.

The car boiled over in the heat of the mountain pass. Jimi rushed out to remove the radiator cap and Mike swished a clear bottle of mineral water and followed. Steam shot past Jimi's hand and soaked the rag he held and the cap fell and clinked twice against the pavement. The sky had baked itself into clarity and the noon cast no shadows. When the engine finished whining, the car looked deflated, immovable. Some buzzards called and swirled over the red plains far below; cows flecked the broad space and clustered near the panes of the river. There were few trees anywhere. Mike poured water into the radiator and over the engine and the car sizzled like dowsed coals. The sky was so blue that the yellow haze of distant cities seamed pronounced. Mike took a gulp from the bottle and offered it to Jimi, but he refused with an open palm and pointed to the engine.

"We're going to need all that water to get to the top, Mike," Jimi said, and then he let his weight fall to earth and balanced on his haunches. A crow landed near the yellow divider and tilted its head and studied them for food; it skipped around, pecked at the asphalt, and then continued to cock its head toward the two.

Mike blocked the glare from his eyes and strained to look at the fields below. "You know, Jim, I can almost see the Ranger's lodge from here." The crow pranced further up the pass until its legs mingled with the black top's mirage; the heat waves made the crow appear to sway. "You know, Jim?" Jimi crouched and broke apart clumps of dirt in his hands, the dust didn't settle but swept out in puffs into the valley; he beaned a clod at the crow, but it landed short, puffed into dust and left a rusty mark on the blacktop. The crow called and took easy flight until it rested close enough to the car to fascinate itself with its reflection in the bumper.

Jimi sighed, rose, and then wiped his palms against his jeans. Hand prints showed clearly on each thigh. Mike closed the hood and both men hopped into the car, slamming doors and startling the bird. It glided briefly out over the ravine and settled in a dry shrub. The crow cawed and ruffled its plumage, its eyes indistinguishable at the distance.

The engine coughed and took and the grinding note of first gear pulled Mike and Jimi away. As the car took off up the mountain, the crow landed next to the bottle of water that sat on the road and looked at the valley through its refraction.

The windows were frosted and the room laid large and heavy. In all its width and depth, the walls were close and scarred, shreds of paper flittering in the wash of central heating. Against the walls, tarp covered working tables. In the middle of the concrete floor sat an old Myron Stout and me. Even under the down of blasting heaters, he clutched a red plaid blanket over his knees. Mr. Stout only required that I speak softly and keep away visitors; he touched me sometimes, but only to remember . Today I was reading from Camus' L'Étranger. I read and read, acting out parts by making my voice gruff like too many cigarettes.